EPISODE 18
WHISPERSCOURGE

The night had passed like a whisper—silent, still, and heavy with the weight of expectation. Not even the wind dared disturb the darkened halls of the palace as the second day of the Crown Accession Rite dawned with a pale, frost-kissed light.

In her private chamber, Sterlla stirred.

Her eyelashes fluttered against her cheeks before her eyes opened fully, the strange calm of morning brushing against her thoughts. With regal grace, she sat up in her bed, the silk sheets slipping from her shoulders. A delicate yawn escaped her lips—one she stifled with the back of her hand, a motion unconsciously elegant.

Barefoot, she stepped upon the cold marble floor. Her sapphire-blue nightgown whispered behind her like water, pooling around her feet as she crossed the chamber and entered the adjoining bathhouse. The scent of jasmine steam greeted her. No words were spoken. The servants bowed in silence and withdrew, leaving their future ruler to her solitude.

Outside the palace walls, Wemont stirred awake.

The hunting grounds—vast and ancient—had been prepared since before dawn. Spanning a valley carved between jagged cliffs and veiled by a dark forest, it was both sacred and feared. Shadows moved within the trees. Cages groaned. The beasts were waiting.

Over eight hundred thousand citizens, the living soul of the empire, filled the stone-carved seating built into the cliffs that flanked the valley arena. Their voices rose like a sea of murmurs, excitement and apprehension twining in the cold air. The Xiones Demon Army, clad in obsidian armor, stood sentinel on both sides—stoic, menacing, and unmoving. Their presence alone was a silent warning: this was not a spectacle. This was a reckoning.

And then the six contestants emerged—one by one.

Clad in the ceremonial hunting garb of their bloodlines, they stood upon a grand circular plaza of ironstone, positioned just before the imperial throne, which loomed high on a marble dais. The wind caught the edges of their cloaks, and each held their weapons at their side, solemn and silent.

Sterlla, in a striking ensemble of deep blue and black, the colors of House Xiones, her cloak embroidered with runes of the Dragon’s Curse, stood tall. A silver circlet rested above her brow, her gaze unreadable.

Simore followed, garbed in the same royal palette—flames embossed along his chestplate, his expression calm and prepared.

Sigel, ever composed, let her soft locks fall over the high collar of her blue and black hunting coat. Her gloves shimmered faintly with pink light, but her expression bore the calmness of a woman used to admiration.

Then came Lionella Zywan—radiant in gold and silver, the lion crest of her house braided into the shoulders of her armor. She winked at the crowd, but her face betrayed the nerves beneath the dazzle.

Behind her strode Orion Feifer, his hunting robes of regal purple rich and imperial. He nodded once to the crowd, dark eyes searching for the throne before locking on it like a predator sizing up his kill.

Last came Frina Vinford, resplendent and sharp-edged in blood red, forest green, and coal black. Her expression was ice, her chin raised. Her hand fan was absent today—replaced by a whip-like blade coiled at her side.

Above them, the shadow of the imperial throne darkened the stone.

Serox Xiones, the Emperor, entered—his cloak trailing like liquid night, crown glinting beneath the early sun. He ascended to the throne of bone and basalt. Moments later, Empress Seradole arrived, serene and beautiful, her steps light but powerful. She sat upon the Queen’s throne beside him—draped in pale grey, her face a still sculpture of wisdom.

They looked to one another. Nodded.

Then Serox lifted his hand—slowly, deliberately.

“May the challenge begin.”

The wind paused.

The crowd rose to its feet in a roaring storm of applause and battle chants. Shouts of Long live Serox Xiones! tore through the air, followed by names of the contestants, each called out like blessings—or curses. The stone beneath their feet trembled.

Beside the throne, Commander Linone stepped forward.

He was clad in the dark navy armor of command, a long scroll held tightly in his hand. His voice, when it came, echoed through the enchanted pillars and across the cliffs with unshakable strength.

“The Hunting Challenge shall span from the second day of the Crown Accession Rite to the fifth. Each contestant,” he paused, eyes scanning the six standing below him, “shall be assigned a beast. Each day, a new beast shall await. Victory is expected.”

He unrolled the scroll further.

“Those who succeed in all four days shall ascend to the next trial. Those who do not shall be disqualified. The crown is no token of beauty nor words—it is a weight. A leader must stand beside their people, not behind them.”

The crowd fell hushed again.

Linone bowed, hands clasping the scroll behind his back as he stepped back beside Serox, his sharp eyes flicking briefly—only briefly—toward Sterlla. But she did not glance back. Her eyes were locked forward. Composed. Cold.

The horn blared again, long and thunderous.

Its sound was the call to war.

Servants and soldiers moved like clockwork, clearing the central plaza. The forest gates—six, in six directions—rumbled as enchantments lifted from them. Each path led into one quadrant of the cursed hunting woods, territories each seeded with a monstrous beast born of old magic and war.

The challenge had begun.

And so, the six contestants dispersed. With weapons drawn and hands steady, they walked toward their paths of death and destiny. Before entering, some practiced their aim—arrows loosed at moving targets conjured by the mages, blades sharpened and tested on armored mannequins.

The citizens watched, speaking in hushed excitement. Some whispered prayers. Others placed bets. And many, many simply stared—waiting to see which of the six would emerge triumphant.

And which would not return.

The air outside the hunting arena crackled—not with magic, but with anticipation.

The second horn had already blared. The contestants continued practicing at their designated stations, weapons in hand, each one focused and composed under the eyes of thousands.

At the far edge of the observation plateau—where the nobles mingled with high-ranking guards and well-dressed commoners—a group had gathered beneath the marble archways, where shadow met light. Gossip always found its way into silence, and now, it bloomed.

“Who do you think will come out victorious?” a well-dressed woman asked, fanning herself slowly, her golden rings clinking with each movement.

“Crown Prince Simore, of course.” A man next to her nodded decisively. “His aim is unmatched.”

At that very moment, Simore, poised and elegant, loosed an arrow that cut through the wind. It struck the center of the distant target—so perfect, it barely quivered.

A wave of impressed murmurs swept through the crowd like the wind itself.

Another noble leaned in. “But what of Crown Prince Orion? His swordwork is feral. I've seen him train. He’s a storm.”

As if on cue, Orion, not far from the others, stepped forward. With an almost disdainful flick of his wrist, he slashed his blade through a moving target. It shattered in two, falling to either side of him.

Silence, then another murmur. This one cautious.

“Crown Princess Sterlla is a formidable opponent as well.”

Sterlla, hair tied back tightly, stood like a specter in blue and black. Her bow arched elegantly in her hands. She raised it, released, and struck the heart of the bullseye. But more than precision—there was intent behind her strike. The shadows in her eyes didn’t blink.

“Sigel too,” another chimed in, her voice more careful now. “There’s... something about her. The petals that fall when she strikes. It’s like she’s born of magic.”

Sigel smiled at her target like it was an admirer. With a flick, she conjured pink energy into her palm and released it with serene grace—an arrow of blossoms striking its mark. The crowd gasped.

“And Frina…” a lower voice now. “She looks like she won’t lose.”

They turned to watch Frina Vinford, who was adjusting the grip of her blade. Her strikes were swift, precise. Brutal. Each movement from her was a calculated execution. No grace—just death.

The moment was tense. Admiration hovered in the air.

And then, the air soured.

A man, clearly emboldened by the gossip's rhythm, leaned in and whispered loudly enough for a few others to hear. His voice was bitter, coarse with disdain.

“Hah! Why are they even letting Crown Princess Sterlla stand as a contender? Covered in another man’s coat, for god’s sake. Have some decency.”

Another woman laughed dryly. “If lust had a face, it would be hers.”

Mouths began to curl, and eyes narrowed with hunger—not for the crown, but for scandal.

“She seemed so regal. Perfect, even. And yet—turns out even the pristine crack at the touch of flesh,” one woman hissed, her voice thick with venom. “Another filthy secret.”

“And the way she was in Commander Linone’s arms—as if she belonged there,” another man growled. “Disgraceful.”

“She definitely seduced him,” spat a woman with folded arms. “Commander Linone is far too honorable to ever be involved willingly.”

“I mean, why her?” someone sneered. “Commander Linone or even Second-in-Command Adena—they should’ve stood in her place. They’ve earned the people's respect. Not... scandal.”

And just then, the tension crystallized.

Because standing just a few paces behind them—unseen by those too comfortable with their cruelty—was Adena.

Her armor glinted under the light, polished to a mirror finish. Her arms were folded behind her, her eyes—glittering black and unyielding—trained directly on the crowd. She hadn’t moved. She hadn’t spoken.

But she had heard everything.

The people facing her froze mid-sentence, color draining from their cheeks. Their mouths hung open but made no sound. A few began to step subtly to the side, trying to slide into the crowd and disappear.

But one girl—young, smug—kept talking.

“Haha, what’s wrong? Are we afraid or something now?” She laughed, twirling a strand of hair, eyes mocking. “We’re allowed to voice opinions, aren’t we? Or are we back to silencing the people?”

She didn’t notice her companion’s eyes widen in horror. One of them mouthed at her, “Turn around.”

The girl rolled her eyes and tilted her head in annoyance. “What is it now?” she muttered.

She turned.

And froze.

Adena’s face was unreadable.

Then, slowly, she stepped forward, the tip of her boots tapping against the polished stone with controlled rhythm. Her presence silenced not only the gossips—but those around them as well. People turned their heads. Whispers stopped.

“Continue,” Adena said, her voice as calm as a razor sliding into silk.
“Your conversations were... quite interesting.”

The girl’s mouth trembled. The man beside her stammered, “N-No… no, we were just speculating. N-nothing serious. We—we know Crown Princess Sterlla meant nothing inappropriate. She was injured. The commander was simply offering aid.”

“Y-yes,” added another woman hastily. “It was all misunderstanding. Words spoken without knowledge. We apologize—”

A new voice cut her off. Cool, elegant, and lethal.

“Oh? Aren’t you the same woman who referred to the Crown Princess without her honorifics? You dropped the title. So casual. How... bold.”

The voice was not Adena’s.

It came from behind her.

The crowd parted.

Renan Kalis
Only Daughter of the Kalis Family
Holder of the light of metal - the power of weaponry
21 years old
Head Commander of the Feifer Army

“Commander Renan?”

The voice was barely above a whisper—one of the women, recognizing the terrifying figure approaching from the crowd’s edge.

A slow, razor-sharp smile curled onto Renan’s lips. Her boots clicked softly against the marble as she strode forward, her presence commanding immediate submission. Power emanated from her like a scent—icy, regal, and ancient. She stepped beside Adena, who remained quiet now, lips sealed in disbelief.

Renan didn’t address anyone at first. She merely lifted her hand, slow and deliberate.

From her palm, a faint glow began to shimmer—a soft, icy blue light, like moonlight reflecting on a frozen lake. The wind around them stilled. Then, as if summoned from the depths of an oath, a blade materialized, swirling into form with glinting frost. Smooth metal, elegant and lethal. The weapon gleamed with divine clarity—not forged, but willed into existence.

The crowd gasped. Some stumbled backward.

And then—

She moved.

A whoosh of speed—a blur—and she was in front of the woman, her blade resting at the soft flesh of the noble’s throat.

The woman didn’t even scream. She couldn’t. The cold steel pressed against her skin, and her knees buckled.

“Renan!”

A voice—shouted, commanding, desperate.

Orion.

He was still in his hunting uniform, sweat on his brow, the bow tossed aside behind him as he sprinted from the training line. The moment he saw her blade raised, he broke into a run, boots hammering against stone.

“Renan, put your sword down.”

He reached them. His chest heaved as he stood by her side. His voice wasn’t just a command—it was a plea.

Renan didn’t move. Not yet. Her eyes slid to the side, just enough to meet his. They were cold. Calculated. But not without fire.

“Are you sure?” she asked, her voice silken, dangerous. “This noblewoman—this delicate creature—loves to be addressed by her titles. Countess of whatever land her family paid their way into. And yet, when it comes to the royal bloodline, she speaks names without weight. ‘Sterlla,’ she says. As if the Crown Princess is some tavern girl.”

Her hand tightened around the hilt, but she didn’t press forward. The blade hovered—threat, not action. Yet the line between the two was razor-thin.

“Should I let her go, Crown Prince Orion?” she asked again, her tone sharper now. “When she spills venom to the crowd, spins rumours like silk, smears valor with disgust and filth—should I let her go?”

The Countess whimpered.

“Please...” she breathed. “I didn’t mean—”

“Silence,” Renan hissed. “Your tongue has already spoken too much.”

Then, Orion did the unthinkable.

He reached out and grasped the blade’s tip.

Gasps broke from the onlookers. Linone tensed. Even Adena, who had seen death many times, took a step forward in alarm.

“Orion—” Renan’s eyes widened.

But he pressed gently down on the metal. The sword, reacting to his will, flickered—a burst of light—and then vanished, dissolving into frost that fell to the stone.

There was a tense silence. A pause in time itself.

Renan’s breath hitched, and suddenly, all the fire in her faded.

“Are you insane?” she whispered harshly, grabbing Orion’s hand. Her eyes swept over his palm. A small cut bloomed where the sword had sliced his skin—just enough to draw blood.

Her voice dropped into something near panic.

“That could’ve hurt you.”

There was no sarcasm in her voice. No restraint. Just fear. Raw, real, and sudden.

She cradled his hand gently, her eyes locking onto the wound like it might disappear if she stared long enough.

Orion smiled faintly—tired, heavy—but there was affection in his eyes. “You were about to kill someone in front of the royal army, Renan. You know I can’t let you do that.”

“She was being disrespectful, Crown Prince Orion!”

Renan’s voice cracked through the tense silence like a blade on stone. Her breath trembled as it left her lips, panic still flooding her gaze. She clutched Orion’s hand tightly, the place where her sword had nicked his skin now glowing faintly beneath the soft wash of her icy-blue magic.

She couldn’t take her eyes off him—not yet.

But Orion, calm as ever, let out a low chuckle, gentle but threaded with authority. He looked at her, then at the noblewoman who still knelt trembling before them.

“Haha... And what are you so worried about, Renan? I am fine. This?”

He lifted his hand slightly, turning it toward her—the small wound, barely a line of crimson, looked even more insignificant bathed in her healing light.

“Just a scratch,” he said, his voice smooth, almost warm. “As for our dear noblewoman here... She simply didn’t know better. Isn’t that right?”

He turned his eyes on the woman, and although his lips curved into a smile, there was nothing kind about it.

It was a royal smile—measured, cold, and sharp as polished glass. A smile that said: You owe your life to me.

The woman trembled. Her heart beat loud in her ears.

“Y-yes, Your Highness,” she stammered, bowing so low her head almost kissed the dirt. “I-I am but a misguided soul. I shall never twist my words again. Ever. Please... have mercy.”

Her voice cracked under the weight of shame and fear. Behind her, the others who had joined in the gossip dropped to their knees as well, hands pressed together in frantic apology.

Orion gave them a small, cordial nod. “Good.”

And with that, they scattered like frightened vermin. Some were half-tripping over their gowns in their haste to escape the storm they’d summoned.

Around the grounds, murmurs began to rise.

“Served them right for staining Crown Princess Sterlla’s honour...”

“If not for Crown Prince Orion, Commander Renan would’ve painted the stones with their blood...”

A few still wore sneers, secretly bitter about the sight of Sterlla in Linone’s arms that night—the night before the crown accession rite had begun. But many more knew better. They had seen her wounds. Seen the blood that had soaked her garments. And they remembered—she had fought. She had won.

Linone was not scandal, he was support. A pillar for a warrior too wounded to walk alone.

But some chose scandal over truth.

Frina stood at a distance, arms folded, eyes glinting with amusement and disdain.

“Drama,” she muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes.

Her gaze slid sideways until it found Sigel, standing among the others. Her posture was rigid, her lips pressed in a firm, hateful line. Her stare was pinned on Renan—not Orion, not the noblewoman, but Renan. Cold, unblinking hatred.

Frina’s lips curled into a knowing smirk.

"As expected..."

And without another word, she began walking toward Sigel, her steps smooth and confident, the golden buckles on her boots catching the sunlight with each stride.

Meanwhile, Sterlla had paid no attention to any of it.

She stood apart from the chattering crowd, her long black-and-blue hunting attire shifting in the wind, her hands steady as she loosed arrow after arrow onto her mark. Each hit was precise. Mechanical. The world around her—gossip, royalty, politics—meant nothing. Not here. Not now.

This was her war. And her only opponent was failure.

From not far off, Simore watched his sister silently. His hand gripped his own bow, ready to resume his practice, but his attention lingered on her.

He wanted to speak. To say something—anything—to ease her heart, to protect her, to remind her that she wasn’t alone. But he saw the steel in her posture, the relentless will in her eyes.

He exhaled, smiled faintly, and turned back to his mark.

Back with Renan, the moment hadn’t ended.

She still cradled Orion’s hand, her brows furrowed. Her healing magic glowed softer now, but her worry remained fierce.

“It is a scratch, Renan—” Orion began again, gently.

“But I still care,” she cut in, softly. Her voice faltered. “Crown Prince—no. I still care, Orion.”

For a moment, her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. The sunlight caught the edge of her lashes, and the faintest tremble passed through her fingers.

Orion's smile faded into something gentler. Deeper.

His mind wandered—east, back to the cursed forestlands near the edge of his homeland. He remembered the pain, the fever, the blood he had lost in that poisoned glade. He had thought death would take him then.

But Renan had come.

She had ridden through beasts and storms, carried him herself, and never let go.

Ever since, every scratch, every bruise, became her silent war to fight. Even when he no longer feared them, she did.

She always had.

From the sidelines, Adena watched all of it—her eyes narrowed, unreadable. Her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

Her gaze fell on Orion, on the way he looked at Renan. That smile.

Had she ever seen him smile like that at anyone else?

A knot twisted in her chest. Unseen. Unheard.

Her boots shifted on the stone, her jaw tightening slightly. And without a word, she turned and walked away—her cloak swaying behind her like the last echo of a sigh.

The sun had begun to shift in the sky.

Soon, the horn would sound again.

And the hunt would begin.