Newfear

Isabel felt as if time had frozen, as if the air around her had become heavy, suffocating her. Her chest rose and fell slowly, but her breaths never truly reached her lungs, as if her body had forgotten how to breathe.

Something deep inside her collapsed silently, without sound, without tears... only a deadly void expanding within her, dragging with it every sense of life. Variss's words echoed in her mind, but she couldn't comprehend them... she couldn't accept them.

Her eyes remained fixed on him, searching his features for a trick, a lie, anything that would negate what he had said. But his gaze, that heavy gaze carrying all the pain he couldn't put into words, was enough to tear apart the last shred of hope left inside her.

She felt as though her heart had fallen into a bottomless abyss. The sounds around her faded, the palace vanished, the cold night disappeared… and all that remained was silence... a heavy silence that filled her completely, almost suffocating her.

Isabel: "No. No, this is not possible."

Her body took a step back, feeling as if the ground beneath her had turned soft and unstable.

Isabel: "You're lying…"

She whispered the words, but deep down, she knew they were false. Variss never lied.

Isabel: "You…"

Silence. Her hand reached toward her chest, clutching her dress tightly as if trying to hold onto something... anything... to keep herself from collapsing.

But the truth was merciless.

In a fraction of a second, every memory she had shared with her father came rushing back like a flood… His laughter, his stern gaze, the way he used to pat her head when she was a child, the harsh lessons she learned from him, his wars, his victories, his promises... promises he had never broken.

But now, none of it remained.

He was gone.

Isabel: "…Father…"

Her body collapsed.

She fell to her knees, her breath uneven, her voice coming out as if she were suffocating. At first, she did not cry; she merely stared at the ground, as if unable to see anything anymore.

Then… the tears came.

They weren't loud, nor were they sobs. They were silent, heavy tears.

Hot droplets slipped down her cheeks, falling onto the cold ground, while her chest rose and fell as if the very air had suddenly become an enemy too difficult to fight.

Variss did not move. He did not try to comfort her, nor did he offer meaningless words of condolence.

He knew.

Nothing would ease this loss.

So he remained standing there, silent, while Isabel Windsword knelt in the darkness, bearing alone the weight of losing the greatest man she had ever known.

And in the distance, the bells tolled.

Slow, heavy… Bells of victory, and bells of mourning, at the same time.

Above, in the shadows of the high balcony, Talia watched.

She stood there without a word, her icy eyes fixed on the scene below. Isabel kneeling, Variss standing, the bells ringing.

She did not need to hear the words. She did not need an explanation.

She understood.

There was no mistaking the way Isabel's body had fallen, the weight that had bowed her shoulders, the silence that consumed her as if she had been pulled into an abyss with no end.

She had lost her father.

Talia watched for a few moments, her gaze unblinking, refusing to allow herself to feel anything.

Then, slowly, she looked away… but with difficulty.

She said nothing, she thought nothing. She simply turned and left, leaving behind a scene that would not be easily forgotten.

Draxul – At the Camp

With a pale sunrise, amid the ashes of battle, Aqua woke up with a strange heaviness in his chest.

He opened his eyes slowly, blinking several times as his vision adjusted to the dim morning light seeping through the opening of the tent. His body felt stiff, as if every wound he had received in battle had doubled in pain during his sleep.

With a muffled groan, he pushed himself upright and then stood slowly, overcoming the slight dizziness that swept over him. He took sluggish steps out of the tent, only to be met with an unfamiliar silence.

It wasn't the quiet that followed victory... it was something else. A strange stillness, as if the very earth was holding its breath.

He glanced around, searching for movement, for any sign of the usual life within the camp. He spotted a knight nearby, occupied with inspecting his weapon, and approached him with a dry voice still heavy with exhaustion.

Aqua: "Have you seen Raymond Vanheim?"

The knight lifted his head for a moment before answering indifferently.

"Yes. He took a black horse from the stables and left immediately."

Aqua remained silent for a moment, processing the answer. Then, as if something came to mind, he asked again.

Aqua: "And what about Marchioness Atris?"

The knight responded without looking up from his weapon.

"She left about an hour ago with Sir Darian."

Aqua exhaled softly, furrowing his brows slightly. He wasn't sure if he should feel relieved or something else entirely... something he couldn't quite name.

He paused for a moment, thinking… Then, without another word, he turned to leave as well.

Several Hours Later… In a Remote Location

Kingdom of Arcadia – A Distant Region, Inside a Warehouse

On a night thick with tension, as Arcadia stood on the brink of collapse, nine members of the council gathered in secret inside a remote warehouse. The air was heavy, thick with fear, suspicion, and unspoken betrayals.

Duke Lucas Nightover, one of the oldest members of the council, stood at the head of the table, exuding an aura of quiet authority. His voice was calm yet commanding, cutting through the silence with a power that was not immediately visible but undeniable nonetheless.

Lucas: "This kingdom has endured because of our unity. But now, we are tearing each other apart from the inside. If this continues, Arcadia will be nothing more than a fading memory in the pages of history."

He had barely finished speaking before a sharp response cut through the air like a drawn sword.

Duke Blatir Vanheim, known for his sharp personality, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. With a voice laced with sarcasm, he spoke.

Blatir: "Words will not fix what has already been broken, Duke Lucas… There is a traitor among us."

A moment of tense silence followed before it was broken by a cold voice from across the table.

Viscountess Silvia Blackmirth, the youngest and most enigmatic member of the council, leaned forward slightly.

Silvia: "If we are searching for solutions, we don't have time for petty arguments. And... Lord Hartley, you seem uncomfortable with this meeting… Do you have something to say?"

All eyes turned to the man seated in the center.

Count 'Julian Hartley', a man in his mid-forties with disheveled brown hair and a thick mustache, carried an unspoken weight in his dark eyes. He lifted his gaze to Silvia, then shifted it to the others.

Julian: "Yes, I'm glad you asked…"

He paused for a moment before locking eyes with her.

Julian: "Why is she here?"

The council members exchanged glances, some sighing as if they had anticipated this question. Before anyone could respond, a quiet voice spoke from the far end of the table.

Marquees 'Leon Cipher', a man in his thirties with sharp yet refined features, had remained silent until now. His apricot-colored hair fell smoothly over his forehead, and his hazel eyes, slightly narrowed, held a gaze that was both calm and piercing, brimming with intelligence and mystery. His fair skin reflected the dim light of the chamber.

Raising his gray eyes, he spoke in a low voice.

Leon: "Lady Silvia is here on behalf of Duke Satheron, who is… unwell. By the way, how is your father, my lady?"

Silvia, unbothered by the question, replied coolly.

Silvia: "He is well. He asked me to deliver his apologies for not attending and sends his regards."

But Julian was not convinced. His eyes burned with anger.

Julian: "If your father is ill, he could have sent a letter. He didn't have to send you! We seven gathered here because we do not trust the new members… So why did you all allow this girl to sit at this damned table?!"

Despite the tension, Lucas's voice remained steady but firm.

Lucas: "Calm yourself, Lord Hartley. Lady Silvia has proven herself more than once. Besides, you were part of the selection process for new council members. Her father trusts her enough to send her in his stead."

But Julian did not calm down. He stood abruptly, slamming his fist on the table. The glasses in front of him trembled as all eyes turned toward him.

Julian: "I was... I was the one responsible for fixing this mess. But now, anyone can come and go because of all of you! I was lenient with you, and said nothing when the Marchioness 'Atris Starkov' entered. That's because I knew her beforehand."

But now, you've crossed every line... and allowed a psychopathic killer to participate in discussions about the kingdom's fate!

His voice rose, filled with anger, echoing through the hall. Meanwhile, Silvia raised an eyebrow coolly and sarcastically, indifferent to what was being said.

Julian: "My father was the one who established this council; he knew every inch of it, even reading the intentions of those sitting on these chairs. He did all that to ensure the council would be the kingdom's shield, preserving its stability and unity... not a battleground for conflicting interests!"

Silence filled the room for a moment, the atmosphere tense, but from the other side of the table, the provoking response came.

Blatir, who had been sitting composedly, tilted his head slightly, a cold smile forming on his lips, as if watching a chess piece move in the direction he expected.

Blatir: Really? Is this the same person who allowed a spy from house Volmar to enter here once?

Julian suddenly froze, as if those words had awakened something inside him.

Blatir, in a cold tone: Hmm... I suppose I don't need to tell you what happened after that act...

That was the last straw.

Julian quickly turned, drawing his sword from its sheath, pointing it directly at Blatir, who was seated opposite him. But the latter didn't even flinch, continuing to stare at him with the same cold smile.

Lucas, rising and trying to calm the situation: "Lord Hartley! Lower your sword!"

But Julian did not lower his sword. He glared at Blatir with eyes burning with anger, then spoke sharply.

Julian: "If you say one more word about this topic... I'll cut out your tongue and let the blood drown your mouth. And it won't stop there. I'll rip your black heart from your chest, and let it beat in my hand while I watch you fall to your knees. Do you understand now?"

The atmosphere in the room was charged, as though every word from his mouth was a blade slicing through the air, heavy with threat and murderous intent.

His fingers tightened around the hilt of the sword. Silence dominated for a long moment, then suddenly, without warning, Julian lowered the sword and returned it to its sheath. He took a deep breath, then spoke in a quieter voice, though it still carried an edge.

Julian: "Your gray eyes... just like ashes. They reflect the emptiness of your soul. The blood you spill cannot fill that void."

Blatir, did not answer, he just continued staring at him, then, before the silence could linger any longer, Julian turned and walked toward the door. His steps were steady, yet carried an unspoken weight.

When the door closed behind him, silence returned to the room.

But everyone knew...

This meeting was only the beginning of the storm.

The attendees sighed, while Viscountess Silvia showed no reaction, and Marquess Leon maintained a cold smile.

Lucas: "Can't you find another place to unload your psychological issues?... We don't need more problems here!"

Blattier: "Watch your words, Duke Nightover... I kept my composure earlier, but I can't guarantee I'll do so until the end of this meeting."

Lucas, sighing deeply, then added: "We haven't heard from you yet... Do you have anything to say, your Majesty... King Irvin..."

Behind them, where King Irvin stood, he seemed uninterested in the events around him. He was staring at the books before him with eyes devoid of pride, as if the world around him mattered little. Holding an old book in his hands, he tilted his head slightly and spoke in a quiet yet decisive voice, as though he wanted only his ears to hear what he said.

Ervin: "We must decide now. Either we expose this traitor and regain trust... or we hand over the power entirely to one capable of leading."

Baron 'Kimri Akimont' suddenly rose, as though the ground trembled beneath his feet. He was a man in his late forties, with dull black hair and brown eyes behind medical glasses that added sharpness to his anxious gaze. His face was pale, and his hands trembled as if the shock of the words he had just heard had robbed him of his balance. He raised his hand in a desperate gesture, as if trying to seize certainty from the void, then looked towards the king with a trembling gaze.

Kimri: "Y-your Majesty! What do these words mean?! Are you saying that you... will abandon the throne?!!"

At that moment, Sir Darian Castro sighed audibly, as if he found the baron's reaction pitiful. He turned his gaze to Kimri and smiled a cold smile, half mocking, half disdainful, as if the baron's collapse before him were just a poorly staged play unworthy of attention.

Darian: "Why all this exaggeration, Lord Akimont? Is your concern for your place on the council what troubles you now?"

Kimri, exploding with a sharp tone: "Don't be ridiculous! You, who serve your king as a member of his guard! How dare you be so cold about this matter!"

Darian, replying with calm words but laced with sarcasm: "What sane mind would not realize this decision should have been made long ago? Don't you see his condition? The king must rest, and step down from his position."

The last words echoed through the air, while Irvin silently observed the situation, as if feeling the weight of time upon him. He sighed slowly, then raised his eyes to the assembly, his voice carrying a sense of awe, as though each word he spoke bore an unimaginable weight.

Irvin: "Basically, I have little left... My reign will end in a few months... I've already discussed this with Duke Nightover."

All eyes suddenly shifted to Lucas, who had been standing silently at the edge of the room, leaning heavily on the table. Blatir Vanheim's sharp, knife-like eyes were fixed on him, but he showed no reaction, remaining still as though nothing mattered.

At that moment, all eyes turned to Leon, who was seated at the far end of the table, speaking in a tone blending surprise and concern.

Leon: "Excuse me, Your Majesty... Am I to understand from your words that you've already decided who will take your place in rule?"

A dreadful silence filled the space, as if time itself had stopped for a moment. Breaths were held, and eyes were fixed on the king, who stood before them as though a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders. Hearts raced, as if every passing second carried with it additional confusion. The air was thick with tension, and no one dared to move.

Irvin: "Yes... Lucas Nightover."

In an instant, silence spread across the room. Eyes questioned one another, as if they couldn't believe what they had just heard. Lucas, who had been standing silent, looked stunned and shocked. Then, as if a heavy burden had fallen upon him, he quickly nodded his head and bent down, walking with hurried steps toward the front and kneeling before King Irvin.

Irvin, standing firm, began to take the next step toward relinquishing his authority, raising his right hand slowly to grasp the hilt of his black sword. The room watched each movement with caution, as if time itself had frozen to witness this decisive moment.

Irvin drew the sword slowly from its sheath, the blade gleaming in the light, adding a sense of grandeur and reverence to the moment. Then, in complete silence, the ceremony of surrendering authority began.

Irvin, in a commanding voice that cut through the silence of the room: "By the power vested in me... I declare that Duke 'Lucas Nightover" will ascend to the throne of Arcadia. From this day forth, he will bear the title 'King Lucas Nightover, the first of his name, King of Arcadia and Protector of its lands, and Lord of Frostnov."

As the words echoed, Lucas rose slowly, standing firm, his eyes fixed forward as if the moment had completely become his.

Irvin: "Sir Darian."

Sir Darian, whose broad smile never left his face, stood quickly and approached the new king.

Darian: "Wise decision, Your Majesty. How may I assist you?"

Irvin: "Do not honor me... Honor your king."

Irvin motioned toward Lucas, and Sir Darian understood, kneeling swiftly and forcefully before him, pledging his loyalty and congratulations.

Darian: "I am Sir Darian Castro. I pledge my loyalty, and I salute King Lucas Nightover, the first of his name, King of Arcadia, Protector of its lands, and Lord of Frotsnov."

Lucas, with a reassuring smile: "Rise, Sir Darian."

Sir Darian rose. His calm smile widened with each passing moment, as everyone watched in silence.

Irvin: "The coronation ceremony will take place in three days."

Darian: "C-coronation ceremony? Are we finally going to do it?!"

Irvin, showing a hint of sadness: "Yes... at least I want the people to remember me for one positive thing during my reign..."

Lucas, in a sincere tone: "Don't say that, Your Majesty... I've pledged my loyalty to four kings in my life... and you were the most deserving of the throne."

Irvin: ... "Thank you, Your Majesty."

Darian: "But... if we are to hold a coronation ceremony before the people, then why have you relinquished your authority now?

Irvin: "...In anticipation of any circumstance."

Baron Kimri quickly rose to his feet and began clapping enthusiastically, congratulating the new king. Soon, the rest of the attendees followed, offering their heartfelt blessings. Then, all bowed in reverence before him. Yet, in that moment, there was one person who remained still. Duke Blatir Vanheim stood motionless in place, his eyes vacant, as if drowning in an abyss of fury and confusion.

Blatir paid no attention to anyone. Instead, he slowly made his way toward the exit, his steps hesitant and heavy with reluctance. At that moment, Leon Cypher cast a fleeting glance at Blatir before curling his lips into a faint smile.

Dreamcrown – Blackwood Library

In the heart of one of Dreamcrown's dark towers lay the cold and silent Blackwood Library, a place that embodied the depth of knowledge hidden behind its towering walls. The library's thick stone walls, as if whispering secrets of bygone ages, were lined with towering, shadowed shelves of aged oak, brimming with heavy tomes from various eras. Many of these books lay haphazardly in stacks, some with torn or neglected pages, while others remained locked behind rusted keys, their solutions possibly lost forever. Yet, within this chaotic sea of knowledge, the truth remained elusive... buried between the lines.

The air was cold, almost detached from the outside world. Dim candlelight flickered, casting restless shadows on the walls, shifting with each cold draft that seeped through the high, partially open windows. The chill of the night air carried the scent of damp earth and clay from the adjacent town. In the distant horizon, the towering royal palace stood over the city, where soldiers could be seen training in the courtyard... a scene that suggested a deceptive tranquility before the storm.

At the center of the room, atop an aged wooden table, lay a map of the old Kingdom of Arcadia... scarred by internal wars and deep divisions. The edges of the map had begun to fade with time, yet every detail, despite its wear, hinted at a history that might soon repeat itself. The atmosphere seemed frozen in time... everything still, except for the restless minds within.

Viscount 'Cassius Morlan' a middle-aged man with a thick beard and black hair streaked with silver strands. He wore fine clothing, yet in a manner that exuded dignity rather than ostentation. Seated in an ancient wooden chair, his fingers interlocked before him, his sharp blue eyes gazing into the distance as if piercing the horizon of the future. His face bore no trace of emotion, yet it was laden with wisdom. His gaze was cautious and cold... like a man who measured every step with precision... but in his heart, ambition burned for a power that refused to be constrained.

Sir 'Elliot Valeros' one of the noble knights of Arcadia. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his face stern and rigid, carrying the weight of a burdened past. His features, marked by sincerity and resolve, lent his presence a heavy air, even in silence. He stood beside the library's old window, his eyes fixed on the palace training grounds. His short black hair was laced with the ghost of tension, while the veins in his hands pulsed with an unspoken restraint. A knight still bearing the dust of war in his heart, clinging to his noble mask, yet constantly struggling to remain standing on the edge of an abyss.

Baroness 'Ilara Kilatris' a woman in her late thirties, possessing an unsettling allure. Her radiant beauty did not mask the sharp intellect lurking beneath. Her contemplative green eyes missed nothing in her surroundings, while her poised figure always leaned slightly... as if in a perpetual state of readiness. Her long black hair cascaded lightly over her shoulders. Tonight, she held a glass of dark red wine, swirling it slowly between her fingers, though her focus seemed elsewhere, far beyond the present setting. Within each word and glance, there lay an abyss of intricate thought and meticulous strategy. Enshrouded in mystery, she remained ever at the center of the political game.

Ilara, softly twirling the glass in her hand: "Do you see those soldiers, Sir Elliot? An endless cycle of training, an inescapable preparation. But... what reward awaits them? Only blood? Only wars that never cease?"

Elliot, standing before the window, his voice low but sharp: "War neither nourishes nor sustains. But in this world, it is the only means to survive. That is, if survival alone is your goal."

Cassius, still seated, observing them quietly: "But, Sir Elliot, have you ever questioned what 'survival' truly means? Is it merely the ability to stand? Or is it something greater? What if we need more than just soldiers? What if we require voices... power beyond the battlefield?"

Elliot, turning toward them with restrained anger: "Are you saying we must fight others merely to exist? I am a noble knight… We have dedicated our lives to serving the king. And now, all we seek is a life without being trampled upon."

Elliot's sharp gaze burned with inner turmoil as he took a step toward the table.

Elliot: "Tell me, Lord Cassius… Do you truly believe that a kingdom built on betrayal can endure? Can thrones founded on lies withstand the ceaseless winds? How can a land that thrives on betraying its neighbors ever live in peace?"

Cassius, his gaze narrowing slightly, returned his focus to the map, his voice cold but piercing: "And you, Sir Elliot… do you believe that a kingdom built on honor alone can withstand the passage of time? Can it endure the relentless march of days?

Honor does not feed the hungry, nor does it fill the mouths of the deprived. Honor may elevate you in an instant, but it will not grant you sustenance the next day. The world does not care for honor... it consumes it. And if you are not prepared to trade betrayal for survival, then one day, consequences will descend upon you like beasts upon their prey."

Elliot, his eyes narrowing, sorrow creeping into his voice: "But does that mean we must live without morals? Must we sell our souls in the market of hypocrisy just to survive? Do you not see the destruction this path brings in the long run?!"

Cassius, running his hand slowly over the map, exhaling deeply as if breathing in the weight of years of conflict: "Destruction does not begin with battle… but when we deceive ourselves into believing that honor alone is enough. Honor without pragmatism is nothing but an empty word. Had we clung blindly to it without considering reality, we would have nothing left today. You must understand, Sir Elliot, in a world like this, honor is merely a card to be played by those who wield true power. Had we relied on it alone, our souls would have been devoured long ago. Do not let yourself drown in the quagmire of ideals while the storm approaches."

Cassius finally met Elliot's gaze, his voice heavier now, yet laced with a subtle sorrow.

Cassius: "Honor is not a sword to wield in battle; it is a burden that weighs you down until you fall. If you believe that clinging to it will protect you, then prepare to see that sword break in your hand as the waves consume you."

Elliot, looking down, as if his words had shaken the last remnants of his certainty, then slowly raising his head: "Perhaps you are right. But that does not mean we should lose ourselves entirely to this path. I believe honor is what makes us different from them.... those who trade principles as though they were cheap commodities."

Ilara, exhaling slowly before setting down her glass: "Honor is not what sets us apart... it is what makes us vulnerable. And when all fall, the first to perish will be those who cling to what they cannot live by."

Elliot, his voice firm as he turned to them: "Betrayal breeds enemies within before they ever come from without!"

Cassius, sighing as he leaned back in his chair: "And honor breeds fools who die before they even realize they are at war."

Elliot, his eyes dimly burning with suppressed rage: "So, this is your logic? That we must lie, deceive, and become monsters to avoid being devoured?"

Cassius, looking at him at last, his voice calm yet carrying the weight of centuries of knowledge: "No. It is about understanding that the world does not operate by our rules, nor does it care for our values as much as we like to believe.

The sea does not stop simply because you think the next wave is unfair."

Elliot, his voice sharper: "Then what kind of world do you want? A world without loyalty, without justice, without law?"

Cassius, smirking: "Law? Have you ever seen a law that protects the weak unless it was written by the strong? Don't fool yourself, Elliot.

The law is just another weapon. The only difference is that it is wrapped in ink instead of blood."

Elliot stares at them, as if seeing for the first time the depth of the chasm between them. He takes a deep breath, then speaks again, his voice quieter now, tinged with sorrow.

Elliot: "Perhaps you are right… But if this is the world, then tell me… why do we fight? What is the purpose of all this if we are merely players in a dirty game?"

Cassius rises slowly, walking to the window beside Ethan. He looks down at the soldiers training outside before speaking softly.

Cassius: "Because fighting is not always about winning, Sir Elliot. Sometimes, it is about choosing how you lose… and at what cost."

Ilara, with a faint smile, watching him intently: "Let's take you as an example, Sir Elliot. A noble knight, loyal to the Queen, dedicating your entire life to those ideals… But look at yourself now. You are merely scavenging for the scraps of life, while others continue to climb over our backs."

A moment of silence. Elliot averts his gaze, unable to find a response. Ilara lifts her glass again, sipping quietly, her eyes carrying a shadow of triumph. Cassius sits back down, resting his hand over the map, tracing the kingdom's borders with his fingers as if calculating the number of sacrifices yet to come.

Outside, the world roars with noise. Inside, silence reigns.

And in the end, the kingdom will not follow the path its men choose, but the one carved by their weakness… or by their enemies' swords.

Cassius rises slowly, walking to the window beside Elliot, watching the soldiers train. Then, he speaks.

Cassius: "Let's take you as a second example … Sir Elliot."

Elliot eyes him warily but does not answer. Cassius clasps his hands behind his back, his voice calm yet sharp as a blade.

Cassius: "You are a knight who has spent his life wielding his sword for the honor of the king and the crown. You were told that loyalty is rewarded, that courage is respected, that chivalry is the essence of a good man. And yet, here you are… a noble knight, struggling to find his next meal."

Elliot looks away, but Cassius does not stop. His voice grows quieter, but the weight of his words deepens.

Cassius: "How many lords you fought for turned their backs on you once their wars were over? How many castles you defended have now closed their gates to you? How many kings you swore allegiance to abandoned your men without a moment's hesitation?"

Elliot clenches his fists, but Cassius only smiles slowly, looking at him the way a man looks at an inevitable truth.

Cassius: "You are not a noble man, Elliot. You are a believer. And that is far worse."

Elliot, his voice quiet but laced with suppressed anger: "Do you think I do not see it? That I live in some illusion?"

Cassius, shrugging indifferently: "Perhaps you don't live in an illusion, but you still believe that things should be as you wish, rather than as they are."

Ilara chuckles, raising her glass again, speaking with mock amusement.

Ilara: "And that, dear Sir, is the fastest road to the grave."

Elliot looks at them both, seeing in their eyes a cold realism that disgusts him… yet stirs something deep within. He breathes slowly, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, but he does not draw it.

He looks at Cassius, then at Ilara, and finally at the soldiers outside, where history is always written in blood, never in words.

Ilara studies him coldly before placing a paper on the table, pushing it toward him with her fingertips.

Ilara: "If you are looking for a way out, here it is… The real question is whether you have the courage to take it."

Elliot picks up the paper cautiously, scanning the first few lines. His expression shifts. He stares at the name written on it... then suddenly slams his fist onto the table, his voice igniting with suppressed rage.

Elliot: "Nithor Rakalion?! Have you both lost your minds?! That man has never left a battlefield without drenching it in our blood! I saw him with my own eyes slaughter our men like a butcher culling livestock! How can you expect me to sit with him, let alone work with him?!"

Cassius, his voice calm but carrying the weight of undeniable truth: "Tell me, Sir Elliot… do you know any man in this kingdom who can infiltrate the palace, execute an assassination flawlessly, and vanish as if he never existed? A man who knows every dark corner, every hidden passage, every weak spot?

Other than Nkthor Rakalion?"

Cassius pauses for a moment, then leans forward, placing his hands on the table. His tone is cold as steel.

Cassius: "How many times must I tell you, Sir Elliot? Yesterday's enemy may be the hand that lifts you tomorrow. And the hand you trust today may be the blade that ends you at dawn. Nithor is not just a killer... he is a man who knows how to survive. And right now, we need someone who knows how to survive."

Ilara leans back in her chair, swirling her glass between her fingers, studying Elliot before offering him a half-smile.

Ilara: "You are a noble knight, Sir Elliot. But you are also a man who suffers… I have seen you walking the alleyways, checking on the poor who once stood under the king's banner. You tell them to be patient, that things will get better… But you know as well as we do that nothing will change unless we do something about it."

Elliot looks away, his fingers pressing against the table… Images flash in his mind—starving children, widowed women, streets that grow darker each night. His breath slows as if drowning in a sea of thoughts he does not wish to face.

Elliot: "The King… I swore loyalty to him."

Cassius chuckles lowly, as if hearing something amusing.

Cassius: "The King? And where is your King now? Sitting in his palace, drinking his wine, while you sit here wondering how to feed yourself tomorrow? Loyalty does not feed the hungry, Elliot. Loyalty alone does not create justice... it is the men who understand how this land is ruled who do."

Ilara steps closer, speaking in a low but piercing voice: "Will you die for an honor that does not recognize you? Or will you fight for a chance to restore balance to this world…?"

Elliot closes his eyes for a long moment… then exhales slowly, as if shedding a heavy cloak of blind idealism. When he opens them again, something is different... something more resolute.

Elliot: "If what you're saying is true… then we won't succeed with just our numbers alone. We need a man inside the palace, someone who can pull the strings from within."

Cassius and Ilara exchange glances… a faint smile forming on both their lips, as if they had arrived at this conclusion from the very start.

Ilara, her voice steady, like someone revealing a trump card that had been hidden all along: "Fortunately, we already have a man inside the palace."

At that moment, the sound of steady footsteps approaches. The door to the room opens slowly, revealing a man standing at the entrance... calm, composed… A man dressed in a dark coat, his eyes scanning the room with sharp intent, as if he had already heard everything before stepping inside.

Marquess Leon Cypher, his voice quiet yet carrying an undeniable weight, as though his very presence commands silence in the room.

Leon: "It seems I arrived just when your conversation became… interesting."