The cobblestone roads of Wintermere met the carriage wheels with a steady rhythm, cutting through the quiet afternoon. Sunlight poured through the glass panes, casting fractured light across the interior. Inside, the air was still—too still.

Adeline sat beside Lucien, her posture composed yet withdrawn. They had chosen to sit side by side, not across from one another—a decision made more for appearances than comfort. To any watching eyes, they were a united front. But within the confines of the cabin, an invisible wall stood between them.

She hadn't spoken a word since they had stepped into the carriage.

Lucien noticed.

Her gaze was distant, fixed on the passing landscape. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers intertwined—too tightly. Something weighed on her mind, that much was clear.

Lucien turned his attention to her, his thoughts far from the scenery beyond the window.

He had felt it—the shift in her demeanor after he had given her the letters.

One had been about the bridge, that much he knew. The other... he hadn't dared to open. The seal was unfamiliar, worn at the edges, as though it had traveled a long way. He could have asked about it. He could have read it himself—he had every right, after all.

But he hadn't.

He valued privacy. Even in a marriage of political convenience, there were lines he chose not to cross unless necessary. If the letter was personal—something from her past—it wasn't his place to pry.

Nevertheless... the change in her was undeniable.

He considered the possibilities. Perhaps it was a family matter. News from home? Something personal from her house?

But the timing gnawed at him.

Her sudden silence. The flicker of guilt and reluctance in her eyes when she looked away.

His thoughts turned, briefly, to the idea of her having a lover. It wasn't unthinkable. Their union wasn't born of affection—it was a calculated alliance, forced on him by the emperor. He had no claim on her heart, nor had he ever demanded it. 

If she had someone... it would be understandable. Given the nature of their union, he couldn't fault her for it.

He exhaled slowly, hiding the thought behind a calm facade.

Even if it were true, he wouldn't interfere. Not unless it posed a threat—something that might bring instability to his House or Wintermere. In that case, he would have no choice but to act.

If the time ever came when people expected him to consummate the marriage for an heir, it would only bring more harm than good—especially to her. And even then, he knew deep down it would never come to that. If his suspicions were correct now, there would be no need to worry about succession. He still had Clara as his heir. She was more than enough. 

If this were Veridonia, many would question her succession as the next Duchess of Wintermere—simply because she was born a woman. But Lucien knew the Emperor would let it slide; after all, the founder of House Valenhart had been a woman, too.

Even so, something in him resisted the idea.

Adeline wasn't careless. She wouldn't let sentiment endanger the responsibilities she now carried. He had seen her show genuine kindness to Clara, and the fact that he was saved by her from being corrupted, instead of taking advantage of letting him die there to get away from this union.

If there was something behind her silence, it probably wasn't betrayal. Not unless he proved it.

A sudden jolt broke the stillness and his thoughts.

Adeline's balance shifted, and before either of them could react, she lurched into him—her shoulder and the side of her body pressing briefly against his. One of her hands instinctively caught his arm, her fingers curling lightly into the fabric of his sleeve for support.

The warmth of her touch sent a ripple through his stoic silence.

But the moment passed quickly. She straightened at once, flustered.

"I—I'm sorry," she murmured, barely glancing at him.

Lucien shook his head lightly. "Don't worry about it," he replied.

Still, he didn't move away.

The silence returned, but it no longer felt quite so cold. Something about the accidental closeness had shifted the air between them, if only slightly.

Lucien looked ahead. The bridge would soon come into view.

Then, he spoke, his voice cutting through the quiet.

"Since you'll be inspecting the renovations on the bridge... there's something I'd like to discuss with you."

Adeline turned slightly, curiosity flickering in her eyes. "W-what is it, Your Grace?"

Lucien's gaze lingered on her, though his thoughts drifted elsewhere. His lips parted—then paused, the words lingering unspoken on the edge of his breath.

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Someone's dream stirred with echoes of the past. The battlefield was eerily quiet. Snow drifted gently from the skies, blanketing the fallen mages and warriors alike. Crimson blood seeped into the white, painting the ground with sorrow. The metallic scent of death lingered heavily in the cold air.

Amidst the stillness, a man clad in regal armor and fur lined cloak lay motionless. His silver breastplate, once gleaming with glory, was now marred by a deep, fatal wound. Blood oozed steadily from his chest in a slow, solemn rhythm—his life slipping away with each drop.

A woman knelt beside him, her long black hair cascading like a veil of night. Her golden eyes, wide with panic, shimmered with unshed tears. She cradled his head gently in her hands.

"Mulzart?... Mulzart!" she said, her voice cracking as tears finally escaped. "I'm here... I can heal you. Please, stay with me. I'm sorry—I should've been here sooner."

Mulzart stirred faintly, though his eyes did not fully find hers. A faint smile tugged at his lips, even as pain dulled his expression.

"Not addressing me as King... that sounds like you, Alysanne," he murmured, teasing lightly, as if death were just another passing moment.

Then his voice deepened, heavy with finality. "It's too late. The blade of the Dark Lords... it carries a curse beyond even your power. Not even the strongest healing magic can undo what it has done."

Alysanne shook her head, refusing to accept his words. Her eyes glowed softly as she placed a hand over his wound, a golden sigil blooming beneath her fingertips.

"This will work," she muttered, half to herself. "It has to... I can save you..."

The light pulsed... but the wound remained. The sigil flickered.

"Why isn't it working?" she whispered, voice trembling. "Why?!"

She tried again. The golden light surged—but still, she failed. Again. And again.

"Why?!" she cried, anguish raw in her throat, her tears falling freely now.

Mulzart's hand slowly rose, weak but steady. He rested it over hers, gently stilling her frantic attempts.

"That's enough, Alysanne..." he murmured. "I have no regrets. None. Fighting by your side... was more than I ever hoped for. But death... is the price we pay in this war. And now, I'm just one more."

She choked back a sob, her voice muffled. "But what about your promise? You said we'd see the world with peace. You promised."

"I would have loved that," he said, softer now, fading. "But that vision... is no longer mine to see. So I ask you, Alysanne... one final favor."

She reluctantly nodded, brushing away her tears with trembling fingers.

"After the war... build a grove. A place of peace, as I once dreamed. Enchanted. Beautiful. A home to honor the memory of those who lost to cruelty—a thing I could not achieve in this life now."

For a moment, only the wind and the distant cries of the dying filled the silence.

"I... I understand," she said softly, steadying her voice. "You have my word."

Mulzart smiled, the last flicker of warmth lighting his eyes. "Meeting you was no accident... my friend. And if one day, we meet again in the land of the gods... let's share a cup of your favorite tea."

Then, with a final breath, the King of Eldren fell still.

Alysanne did not move at first. She simply held him, her glow dimming. Slowly, she laid him down and rose to her feet. Her cloak billowed as the wind rose around her. The golden light shimmered faintly from her skin—her power awakening. Not yet unleashed.

But no longer dormant.

════~❄~❖~❄~════

Clara's eyes flew open with a gasp, her chest rising and falling as if she'd been pulled from the depths of her nap. She bolted upright, her small frame trembling slightly as the haunting images of fallen mages and warriors clung to her mind like shadows.

"Mu... Mulzart?" she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Beside her, Ivy stirred, her massive, mossy-furred body coiling protectively around Clara like living armor. Her head nestled against Clara's side, amber eyes glowing faintly in the dim light as a low, worried growl rumbled from her throat.

Clara placed a hand on the guardian's head, her fingers gently threading through the soft green fur. "I... I'm fine, Ivy," she whispered, forcing a small, crooked smile. "No need to worry."

But Ivy didn't look away. Those deep, intelligent eyes saw right through her.

Clara sighed, the facade slipping from her expression. She brushed a few strands of hair from her forehead. "I suppose you see right through me, huh?"

She sat up more fully, wincing from the stiffness in her limbs. Her gaze drifted to the surrounding greenery before settling again on Ivy with weary fondness. The simple act of stroking Ivy's snout brought her a quiet sense of peace.

Then—a familiar voice broke the silence.

"My young lady?"

Clara turned quickly, startled, only to see a tall figure approaching with measured steps.

"Uncle Quentin?" she asked, blinking. "What is it?"

Quentin bowed slightly in greeting. There was warmth in his eyes, but also a hint of concern. "The healer who's been assigned to care for you has arrived," he said gently. "I've come to escort you to her."

Clara hesitated, her fingers pausing atop Ivy's head. She nodded slowly.

"...Alright," she murmured.

She rose to her feet, still a little unsteady, but determined. She gave Ivy a gentle wave. "I'll be back later," she whispered.

Ivy huffed softly, curling back into a resting position, her amber eyes still darted towards her.

Clara walked quietly by Quentin's side as they returned to the manor. The corridors were calm, sunlight spilling through tall windows and casting gentle shadows across the polished floor.

As they stepped into the grand hallway leading to the sitting room, a graceful figure stood waiting.

The woman was poised, her robes pristine white with silver embroidery—the mark of the Celestrian Order. Silvery-blonde hair framed her serene features, and her hazel eyes glowed warmly in the golden light. She stood with a soft smile curving her lips. When they approached, she turned and bowed low with practiced elegance.

"Young Lady Clara," she greeted, her voice refined and warm. "It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Catherine Rosvynne, a healer of the Celestrian Order."

Quentin paused, recognition dawning on his face. His eyes widened slightly. "Ah... you're Catherine Rosvynne? One of the Holy Maidens of the Celestrian Order?"

He offered a respectful bow in turn. "Pardon me. I hadn't expected someone of your standing to come in person, when I sent word earlier."

Catherine gave a serene chuckle. "When the Duke himself requests someone to tend to his niece... How could I not? "

Quentin nodded with a sigh of relief, he then turned to Clara with a kind smile. "My young lady, I'll be leaving you now in her care. I'll be just in your uncle's office—please don't hesitate to call on me if you need anything."

Clara gave a small nod as Quentin strode quietly down the hallway. Once the door closed behind him, the room grew still.

She turned toward the holy maiden before her.

Catherine's smile softened. It was not one of mere politeness—but a smile that reached her eyes, as if to say, You are safe here.

Her gaze lingered on Clara for a moment, scanning her gently. Then she nodded in understanding—as though she'd already guessed Clara's condition.

"It's never easy to show others our pain," she said, her voice gentle and motherly. "But I promise—I'm only here to help."

Clara's eyes widened slightly in surprise.

How did she know?

She hesitated, her fingers tightening at the edge of her cloak.

"You don't need to be afraid," Catherine added softly. "May I?"

After a long moment, Clara nodded and slowly pulled back her cloak, revealing the pale, circular scar near her shoulder.

Catherine's breath hitched—just slightly.

The burn had been deep—so severe that not even time had softened its angry texture. It was the kind of wound born not from accident, but from cruelty. Catherine's heart clenched.

"Oh, dear child..." she whispered. Her voice trembled—but only for a second before her calm returned. She knelt before Clara, placing a hand gently on her shoulder.

"I'm going to make it better now. You'll feel warmth, but no pain."

Clara watched, still and wide-eyed, as Catherine raised her hand. A soft light bloomed in her palm—Lumina (Light). The glow danced and flickered like morning sun across water—pure and warm.

She hovered her hand over the scar, murmuring words that Clara didn't understand. Her eyes closed in quiet focus. The magic pulsed—slow and rhythmic, like a heartbeat.

The light shimmered, growing brighter. Clara's skin tingled, not unpleasantly. Then... the glow enveloped the scar. Within seconds, the damaged skin began to change—the angry ridges smoothed, the discoloration faded, and the wound that had lingered for years simply vanished.

A minute later, it was gone.

Catherine opened her eyes and lowered her hand, the glow fading as she offered a soft smile.

"It's done," she said quietly.

Clara stared at her shoulder in disbelief. The scar—something she'd lived with for years—was gone. Her skin was whole again.

"...Thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Catherine reached up to gently cup her cheek. "No child should carry pain like that alone," she said kindly. "If you don't mind me asking—why didn't you tell your uncle?"

Clara blinked rapidly. "I... I didn't tell him because..."

Catherine didn't press. She only waited, her silence full of patience and grace.

Clara swallowed, looking down.

"...Because I thought maybe I deserved it."

Tears welled in her eyes. She clenched her hands at her sides, trembling.

"I broke a vase once. It wasn't even valuable, but Grandpa Gerard got so angry. He said I was careless... and he—he burned me. Made me stay close to the candle, and I was too scared to move."

Her voice shook with the memory. "I didn't want to make Uncle worry. He's always been kind to me. I didn't want to be a burden... or for him to see me differently."

Catherine's brows knit slightly, but her voice remained soft.

"Young lady," she said gently. "There is nothing you could have done to deserve that. What was done to you was wrong. And your uncle... he would never see you as a burden. Only as someone worth protecting."

Clara sniffled and gave a shaky nod, her shoulders trembling as emotion broke free. Catherine said nothing more—only pulled her close, wrapping her in a quiet, warm embrace.

There were no more spells, no more words—just the simple, healing power of being seen.