The Uninvited Guest

"Where is he… that guy…" Marquis muttered, sinking into a couch in a nearly immaculate mansion.

The parlor alone rivaled a full-sized home—vaulted ceilings stretched high above, their elaborate plasterwork framing a massive chandelier. 

Marquis looked oddly out of place here. Clad in a set of casual sweatpants with bold blue stripes running vertically from armpits to ankles and horizontally from shoulder to wrist he didn't exactly match the room's baroque grandeur.

He held a phone in one hand, scrolling listlessly. The screen's glow cast pale light on his features, briefly overtaken by the chandelier's golden brilliance dancing over his clothes.

After a moment, he stood. His footsteps echoed softly across the polished floor as he crossed to the door in front of him. His hand hovered for a second before gripping the knob.

"I don't have time to go there," he muttered under his breath, disappearing through it.

The scene changed.

Sunlight bathed a vast grassland in golden hues. Tall blades swayed gently as if sighing in the wind. It evoked the tranquility of Anna's place—but tension stirred beneath its beauty.

Adad sat cross-legged on the ground, gripping his dreadlocks in frustration. "C'mon, Dad. You're not really going to seize all my games, are you? That guy Henri—or whatever—he dealt with Ryuji."

His voice cracked with irritation, caught between defiance and disbelief.

From the looming shadow of a ziggurat behind him, Ashur emerged.

Crimson robes flowed from his shoulders—rich and heavy, catching the dying light like blood pooling in sunlight. Every step he took deepened his presence, his silence more commanding than words.

"You ruined our reputation," Ashur said finally. His voice was low but powerful, like a distant storm that hadn't yet passed.

Adad looked up. The contrast was stunning—his father's red against the black-and-gold fabric of his own clothes, caught in the shifting hues of dusk. A sacred tree loomed behind him, its ancient branches reaching up as if trying to touch the heavens.

"I mean, yeah," Adad muttered, trying for nonchalance, "but who wouldn't want to fight Ryuji? He's been nuts since school. Especially after that fight…"

Ashur stepped closer, sunlight flickering over the beadwork on his sandals. He gently took a handful of Adad's dreads, tugging lightly.

"Boy, can't you hold it in for once?"

"Ow! Okay, okay, I will," Adad replied, swatting at his father's hand—half protest, half submission.

Elsewhere, time seemed to tumble forward again.

"Papa! My friends aren't online!" Aymara's voice pierced the calm like a bird in flight. She darted toward Luca, her small form practically bouncing with urgency.

Luca, mid-call, raised a finger. "Okay, sweetie—wait a minute." He fumbled with his phone, already stepping away. "Xalatl! Could you hold her for a sec? Sorry, love. I'll be back soon, I promise."

The home was a masterpiece of Renaissance revival. Archways curved gracefully between rooms, their ceilings kissed with frescoes of myth and memory. Gilded tapestries hung in quiet pride along the walls.

"But—" Aymara began, that edge of pre-tantrum insistence in her voice.

Xalatl appeared, calm as always, bowing with gentle amusement. "Sorry, [madam], I was also busy… but would you like to visit Floor 760? The mall?"

"I'm not a kid anymore," Aymara huffed, arms crossed. But after a pause, she softened. "But sure…"

Xalatl smiled and took her hand with care. "Alright—this way." He led her to a cozy corner, where miniature tea sets and toys sat waiting like old friends.

Elsewhere again, but not far.

"Leontis," Mei-Ling's voice was quiet but firm. She stood before a mirror, adjusting a headdress woven with pearls and jade. Candlelight shimmered against it, casting her in a dreamlike glow.

She touched up her makeup with practiced care, though her expression betrayed an inner tremor—something unresolved.

"Yes," Leontis replied from just behind her.

The room was built from rich, dark woods, with paper screens delicately painted in calligraphy and landscapes. Soft lanterns swung gently above, their golden glow dancing across lacquered furniture inlaid with mother-of-pearl.

"I can't fight. So you'll do it," Mei-Ling said, voice tightening. "Also... I'm planning on going to Solmara."

"What for?" Leontis replied, his eyes reflecting faint gold in the mirror, his tone steady.

He had removed his gauntlets. His arms, muscular and scarred, rested at his sides—a silent history written in flesh.

"Mom knows the king there, but if we don't go to Solmara, we'll go to the Sky district," she sighed, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a cloth. "But they could've picked someone better."

Leontis said nothing.

There was a beat.

"Alright," he answered at last, his eyes closing briefly, his voice a soft promise between warriors.