SL: Chamberlain Elora Vesalius

Valeryon woke to the sharp sound of knuckles rapping against the door.

Her eyelids fluttered open, the dim light bleeding through gauzy curtains needling her retinas. She squinted, blinking rapidly to dispel the sting as involuntary tears traced hot paths down her feverish cheeks.

A trembling hand dragged across her face, wiping away moisture and the crusted remnants of sleep.

Her tongue darted out to moisten cracked lips, but it was a futile effort—her mouth was too dry, and her lips remained parched.

Hunger gnawed at her insides, a ravenous beast clawing at her stomach walls. Her stomach twisted and churned, convulsing against its emptiness.

The clinging dampness of her nightgown only added to her discomfort, the fabric soaked with cold sweat. Beads of it trickled down her neck to mingle with the slickness staining the sheets beneath her. The rancid stench of unwashed skin and stale sweat curled in the air, thick and nauseating.

She let out a ragged breath, trembling fingers gripping the sweat-soaked sheets as she began trying to sit up. The soft chime of bells accompanied her every movement as she tried to push herself up.

She froze, her breath caught, when searing pain lanced through her ankles.

She fell back against the mattress, eyes squeezed shut as she endured the wave of agony.

When the pain finally ebbed, Valeryon gritted her teeth and tried again.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Steadying herself, she gripped the sheets again, taking her time with it this time.

Sweat dripped from her brow and burned her eyes as she finally pushed herself upright. She swiped the moisture away with an shaky hand as her gaze focused on the source of her greatest pain.

The anklets—exquisite cuffs of gold encrusted with diamonds and lined with tiny, transparent bells—glistened faintly in the morning light. Beneath the intricate filigree her skin was raw and inflamed, torn where spikes attached to the cuffs pierced her flesh. Fresh blood oozed from the wounds in rivulets that mingled with the crusted remnants already staining her feet and further stained the sheets by adding to the dark smears.

Taking a shaky breath, Valeryon called on her magic, a faint green glow enveloping her ankles. The action coaxed the torn flesh and skin to knit together. The embedded spikes prevented full healing, but she was able to remove the worst of the damage, leaving behind only a dull ache. The glow briefly to her lips, soothing their cracked, bloodied surface before she let the magic dissipate.

Cupping her hands, Valeryon conjured a small sphere of water. The urge to gulp it down was overwhelming, but experience tempered her desperation. She sipped slowly, the cool liquid soothed her parched throat. When the immediate burn of thirst subsided, she used the remaining water to rinse her face, savouring the fleeting reprieve of the coolness against her fevered skin. A flick of her wrist vaporised the remaining droplets.

Feeling marginally better, she sighed and leaned back against the headboard. Her fingers brushed the Celestial Receiver embedded in her wrist. A translucent screen flickered to life before her eyes. Her gaze swept across the Mission page, pausing when she found what she was looking for.

Main Mission II: Die of Old Age

Mission Status: Ongoing

She closed her eyes briefly, her head tipping back against the wood. Thank the stars.

Unfortunately, the relief was fleeting. A new concern gnawed at her thoughts: How long had she been unconscious?

Hours?

Days?

The gnawing ache of hunger, the stiffness in her joints, and the rancid odour clinging to her skin suggested far longer.

Her gaze fell to her hands, which she flexed experimentally.

They appeared thinner than she remembered, the skin stretched taut over her knuckles, tendons sharply pronounced.

A cursory inspection of her body revealed the same trend. However, much to her relief, while her frame was leaner, she was not emaciated. Years of hard work had padded her frame with enough fat reserves to keep her from wasting away completely this time.

Her bloodline's healing magic, for all its remarkable capabilities, had its…limitations.

In its passive state, Valeryon's regenerative ability worked in harmony with the body's natural processes rather than defying them outright. Without Valeryon's active intervention, passive regenerative magic could not create energy or matter from nothing. Instead, it optimised the body's existing biological functions, accelerating repair mechanisms to mend injuries.

This acceleration came at a cost.

Rapid regeneration demanded an extraordinary intake of calories and nutrients to fuel the heightened biological activity it induced. In the absence of sufficient sustenance to meet its energy requirements, especially during unconsciousness, the body would begin cannibalising itself, consuming fat and muscle tissue to to extract the energy required.

It was a brutal cycle, akin to a starving beast devouring its own flesh to survive.

In the Trial Grounds, hunger had been just as lethal as the Death Challenges, if not more so.

Time and again, she had revived as little more than a skeletal husk, her fat reserves depleted by the agonising cycle of death and resurrection. Each time her magic worked to heal her, it consumed every scrap of stored energy, leaving her fragile, vulnerable—and sometimes dead before she could even make an attempt to recover.

It was a cruel irony: her body's attempts to save her often drove her closer to the brink of death.

It was to counter this outcome, that Valeryons had learned to eat voraciously, as building fat reserves was extremely difficult due to her body's naturally high metabolism.

Even as Crown Princess in this world, an identity for the most part sheltered from most immediate dangers to her life, Valeryon adhered to this practice because in her mind, survival remained rooted in a simple, unyielding rule: consume or be consumed.

And as seen by today's outcome, her caution had clearly paid off.

A second knock, sharper than the first, echoed through the room, startling Valeryon. She had been so lost in thought that she had forgotten what had initially woken her.

Grimacing, Valeryon straightened up. The anklet's bells chimed again, cruel and melodic, as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Her bare feet met the soft carpeted floor, yet with her current condition the soft fibres might as well have been shards of glass.

Pain flared anew as blood seeped from reopened wounds, staining the pristine material beneath her. Jaw clenched, she braced herself against the agony and pushed to stand.

A wave of dizziness crashing over her the moment she straightened.

The room tilted precariously, her vision swimming in and out of focus. Stumbling, she caught the bedpost, her fingers tightening around the smooth, cool wood as she steadied herself. Her gaze fell on the veil and circlet resting on the bedside table.

Her hands trembled as she reached for the iridescent black fabric, draping it carefully over her head and secured it with the circlet. The fabric's familiar weight settled over her shoulders, offering a small semblance of solace.

Inhale.

Exhale.

She continued.

Every step toward the door became a gruelling battle of will, her breath hitching with each strained movement. Her legs trembled beneath her, threatening to give way, and the edges of her vision began to darken, but she pressed on, dragging herself forward, one step at a time.

At last, her fingers found the cold, unyielding metal of the door handle. She gripped it tightly, her knuckles blanching as she leaned her weight into the frame, momentarily easing the pressure on her ankles. After a moment, she took a step back. Then, with a sharp tug, the door creaked open.

On the other side stood Ophelia, flanked by a row of Shrouded.

Being an Immortal Remnant, Ophelia appeared unchanged—except perhaps, upon a closer look, her marble surface seemed a touch brighter and more polished than before.

In contrast, the Shrouded's chosen attire for the day was quite resplendent, in stark contrast to their previous somber garb. Black robes lined with exquisite gold embroidery, and intricate veils of golden lace, scattered with tiny diamonds which made the fabric shimmer like dew-laden spiderwebs under the morning light.

However more than their attire, what drew Valeryon's attention was what they carried. Each attendant bore a velvet cushion laden with an array of items: bottles of perfumed oils, polished grooming tools, flowing garments of iridescent fabric, gleaming jewellery, and exquisitely crafted shoes.

A sigh escaped her.

Well, that confirmed the length of time she had been unconscious for.

Ophelia stepped forward and bowed, her right hand pressed over her chest. "Your Highness, forgive the intrusion. It pains me to disturb your rest, but time is of the essence. Preparations must commence immediately if the ceremony is to proceed as scheduled." Her tone was steady, but beneath the calm veneer was an unmistakable urgency.

The persistent ache coursing through her body dulled her thoughts, rendering speech an insurmountable effort. So rather than forcing herself to speak, Valeryon nodded and stepped aside, granting them entry.

As they made their way in, two of the Shrouded broke away from the rest and gently took Valeryon's arms, perceptive of her weakened state.

With their assistance, Valeryon made her way to the adjoining bathing chamber. As always, the tub awaited her, brimming with steaming water. Delicate tendrils of steam curled upward, carrying the soothing scent of lavender. Normally, such a sight would soothe her, but drenched in sweat and overheated as she was, Valeryon craved the sharp chill of ice instead.

One of the Shrouded holding her carefully removed her circlet and the veil. Then the other began attending to her garments, easing the sweat-soaked fabric from her frame.

Stripped bare, Valeryon allowed herself to be guided into the bath.

As she sank in, the water's heat wrapped around her body like a balm, seeping into her aching muscles and dulling the constant discomfort that plagued her. Even the sharp bite of the metal digging into her flesh was momentarily eased by the warmth.

When the Shrouded approached with cloths in hand, Valeryon felt her muscles tense. They worked methodically, scrubbing away the layers of sweat and grime with gentle consideration. Particular care was given to her feet and ankles, where blood—both fresh and crusted—had collected around the gold cuffs. Their deft fingers cleaned the raw, tender flesh without aggravating it further.

Once her skin was cleansed, an attendant activated a rune to drain the tub's water, then dried her with soft towels. A vial of oil was brought out, the aroma of bergamot and cedar spilling into the air as the liquid was warmed between an attendant'a palms. Starting at her shoulders, they began a slow massage, starting at her shoulders and working downward. The skilled pressure unraveled knots of tension Valeryon hadn't even realised were there, drawing an involuntary sigh from her lips.

Valeryon allowed the Shrouded to guide her into her rarely used dressing chamber. The circular room was lined with seamless floor-to-ceiling mirrors, reflecting her from every angle. At its centre stood a small raised platform, its cushioned surface soft under her bare feet as she stepped onto it with the Shrouded's assistance.

Her gaze briefly lingered on her reflection, drawn to the shadow of regrowth across her scalp. It was a novel sight but evoked no strong feelings—neither attachment nor aversion. Her hair would grow back soon enough.

One of the Shrouded approached, bearing a deep crimson velvet cushion with a pair of golden court shoes atop it. Kneeling, the attendant lifted Valeryon's feet one by one to slip the shoes on. The motion was seamless, the touch delicate, ensuring no strain or discomfort. The shoes themselves were mercifully practical, with modest heels and cushioned insoles. So at least she would not be burdened by painful footwear on what was certain to be a gruelling day.

Next came the ceremonial gown. Crafted from iridescent azure brocade silk, the gown featured a high collar and sheer, wrist-length translucent sleeves adorned with a gradient of pearls. The beads were sparse at the shoulders, growing denser toward the cuffs. The A-line skirt lined with voluminous folds similarly adorned with pearls that grew more concentrated towards the hem.

According to her intent, the fabric moulded to her body's current measurements when Valeryon slipped into the gown. A Shrouded deftly fastened the delicate row of pearlescent buttons down her back, from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine. A narrow gold belt, adorned with intricate gold beadwork, was then wrapped around her waist, cinching the gown to provide a touch of added definition.

The attendants then began to adorn her with carefully chosen accessories. They draped a series of golden chains around her neck, each beaded and of varying lengths, cascading in graceful arcs that shimmered as they caught the light. Translucent ivory gloves were slid over her hands, followed by a selection of slender gold rings. These rings were connected by fine gold chains that ran up her fingers to gold cuffs at her wrists, which secured the sleeves of her gown.

The ceremonial jewellery prominently featured the crests of the Twelve Vassal Houses, displayed on her rings and necklace pendants: ten on her hands and two on her necklaces. Understandably, the crests worn on the neck were considered to hold a position of honour.

Predictably, the Vesalius crest, representing the royal family's steadfast guardians and aides, claimed one spot. The second, however, much to Valeryon's surprise, depicted the crescent moon and howling wolf silhouette of the Lunarys crest.She had assumed the Sachar family—longstanding royal educators and close companions to heirs—would hold this honour.

So she had looked into it.

In her research she discovered that the current configuration of crest reflected the preferences of the Founder, Valeryon the First.

These positions, however, were not fixed. Once Valeryon ascended the throne, she would have the authority to revise the crests based on her own relationships with the Houses. Until then, the jewellery would adhere to the Founder's precedent by default.

Her musings were interrupted as a veil was draped over her head, obscuring her features completely in the reflection. It was secured in place with a crown of asphodels, each flower intricately carved from diamond.

The final touch to her ensemble was a cape, fastened at her shoulders with gold brooches. Its back displayed the Valeryon sigil: a phoenix in flight clutching a blooming asphodel branch, emblazoned in radiant gold thread.

Their work complete, the Shrouded bowed deeply. Then, like wraiths, they dissolved into the periphery of the room.

Left alone on the elevated platform, Valeryon felt the ceremonial attire weigh heavily upon her frail frame. Her legs wavered, the faint trembling betraying the fragility of her body.

Before Valeryon could embarrass herself, Ophelia, who had been silently supervising the situation, intervened. The Immortal Remnant's cool, marble-carved hands steadied Valeryon as she guided her down from the platform, offering much-needed relief.

Pain stabbed through her with every step, her vision wavering as beads of sweat gathered on her brow. Nausea churned within her, but Valeryon gritted her teeth and forced herself upright. She could not falter—not now, not when the day had barely begun.

Ophelia stayed close, her presence allowing Valeryon preserve an illusion of dignity without the risk of her falling flat on her face as they left the chambers. At some point, the Shrouded had rejoined them along the way, their distinct gait unmistakable. Their synchronised footsteps created a rhythm on the polished marble floors, blending with the faint rustle of Valeryon's cape, stirred by a passing breeze. Above, soaring arches entwined with enchanted flowering vines released a delicate fragrance. While usually a source of tranquility, the demands of the occasion left no room for such indulgences today.

Their procession diverged from the grand corridor, slipping into a lesser-used passageway. The air grew cooler and path narrowed, illuminated only by sporadic sconces that cast flickering light upon the stone walls. This route carved through the mountain's heart, bypassed the sprawling, labyrinthine halls which they would have otherwise had to navigate. At the passage's end loomed a weathered door. Its iron hinges groaned with the weight of years as Ophelia pushed it open, flooding the corridor with bright sunlight.

Momentarily dazzled by the brilliance, Valeryon blinked as her vision adjusted.

Before her stretched a vast stone platform carved into the mountainside, its railings entwined with ivy and punctuated by golden-hued lanterns framing a breathtaking panorama.

The capital city of Vinora sprawled below like a living painting, nestled amid lush forests and coastal waters. Its skyline, dominated by elegant spires and domed rooftops, stood in sharp contrast to the bustling streets and vibrant market squares teeming with life. Even from her elevated vantage point, Valeryon could still hear the faint hum of the city below.

At the city's heart lay Vinora Plaza, the crown jewel of the capital. Cobblestone paths crisscrossed the lively square, where Eternal Rosette blooms adorned every corner in vibrant pink cascades. Their luminescent petals glowed in the sunlight, embodying Fiore's sovereignty over the Archipelago, which, despite its autonomy, had become a subordinate region rather than an independent nation.

Nearby, the Junior Academy gleamed under the sun. Its honeycomb-patterned glass dome scattered prisms of light across its surroundings. Relative to the more period-appropriate traditional architecture that surrounded it, its contemporary design stood out.

Valeryon had yet to visit many of the city's prominent landmarks, aside from the plaza and the academy. While she looked forward to experiencing their grandeur up close one day, she lacked the motivation and courage to venture out without good cause. With the threat against her still unresolved, and the investigation still ongoing, it felt foolish to risk her life just to increase her exploration percentage on the Map tab, which had barely risen from the minuscule 0.0015% it had last sat at. The possibility of failing a Main Mission in favour of increasing a statistic with no clear outcome or reward made the idea even less appealing.

So for now, she could only enjoy the view she could get from here.

Dominating the southern skyline, Vinora's renowned sports stadium loomed. Its arched entryways were adorned with banners in a kaleidoscope of colours heralding an upcoming game. During professional matches, the energy within the stadium became electric, the roar of the crowd so powerful Valeryon could sometimes feel its vibrations from within the castle itself. When not hosting competitions, the stadium served as a recreational hub for the public. Its grounds were open free of charge, with a small fee for equipment rentals, making it a welcoming space for all. Popular pastimes like One-Touch Ball and Majesty's Court drew the youth of the Archipelago in droves to congregate and enjoy.

Further along, the Sachar Public Library loomed like a fortress, its central tower soaring above the landscape. At its peak sat an oxidised copper dome, aged to a soft green patina, a testament to the structure's enduring presence. Renowned throughout the Archipelago and beyond, the library housed one of the most extensive collections of magical and non-magical texts in the known world, drawing seekers of wisdom from far and wide. Its imposing stone facade was adorned with intricate carvings of mythical creatures and ancient glyphs, their glowing forms alive with magic visible even from the terrace. Despite the passage of time, the glyphs retained their magical potency, their power undiminished by millennia. Yet their meanings remained an enigma; much of the knowledge of glyphic magic had been closely guarded by ancient experts and was lost during the turbulent eras that followed. While many believed that texts containing this knowledge might still exist, none had yet been uncovered. Modern runic magic, while widely practiced, was understood to be a derivative of glyphic magic, simplified and adapted over generations to meet the needs of contemporary mages.

Near Vinora Plaza, the Archipelago's main post office stood out with its whimsical design, resembling a parcel with iridescent glass wings extending outward. These wings housed offices offering some of the best views in Vinora. All incoming and outgoing mail was inspected here for threats. To ensure safety, each delivery was stamped with a glowing red seal, indicating the contents were safe to open. Though some protested this measure as an invasion of privacy when King Varic first implemented it, it had since thwarted numerous threats to the monarchy and the Archipelago, proving its necessity. The system also protected citizens from harassing, harmful or cursed post sent due to personal or petty grudges, enabling authorities to intervene early, inform recipients, and assist in legal actions if needed.

Beside the post office stood the controversial Arthas Bank. The controversy stemming from its existence being one of the contributing factors which led to the blood feud between the Asztalos and the Valeryon lineages. The building shimmered with unapologetic opulence. Its façade of polished obsidian glinted in the sunlight, veins of gold accentuating its monolithic form. The arched doorways sparkled with gemstones, among the first ever mined from Varic. The Arthas Bank's vaults were legendary, rumoured to be among the most secure in the world. Beneath the polished obsidian floors, hidden deep within the bowels of the structure, lay an intricate system of vaults designed to protect the vast wealth stored inside. The vaults were said to be impenetrable, built with reinforced alloy, capable of withstanding the most determined of assaults. Wards was woven into their very structure by the best Abjurers in the world, making them resistant to magic that could otherwise bypass physical security.

Beyond the city's boundary, the ocean stretched endlessly, a shimmering expanse of azure waves. The water danced with sunlight, the surface alive with a myriad of sparkling reflections. The horizon blurred where sea met sky, both boundless and infinite. Above it all, the sky framed the scene in perfect clarity, its pristine blue canvas painted with wisps of clouds, an ideal backdrop for the significance of the occasion.

Valeryon had not realised how engrossed she had been in the view until her reverie was interrupted by Ophelia's gentle nudge. She glanced at her companion, nodding faintly before they stepped forward onto the terrace proper.

Awaiting them was the herald, resplendent in dark-toned ceremonial garb, his ornate staff gleaming in the sunlight. With a sharp tap of the staff against the stone floor, he commanded the gathering's full attention.

"Presenting, Her Highness Crown Princess Valeryon the Second, of House Valeryon," he declared, his voice projecting across the terrace.

Valeryon's gaze swept over the terrace's occupants—the representatives of the Twelve Vassal Houses. Each House had sent two delegates to act as Witnesses for the day's proceedings. Their formal attire reflecting their heritage and rank. Richly embroidered fabrics in a myriad of colours, intricate crests, and jewelled insignias marked their lineage.

The weight of their scrutiny pressed down on her, but she straightened her posture, forcing herself to press forward despite the sharp pain radiating from her ankles, where spikes bit cruelly into her flesh. A faint jingle punctuated each step. Her empty stomach twisted in protest, and her vision began to waver again, but she forced herself to endure it with whatever dignity she could muster.

Among the Witnesses, one figure stood out unmistakably: Laurel Vesalius. His long snow-white hair had been meticulously braided and adorned with a garland of vibrant red roses. The vivid red blooms stood out starkly against his attire—a high-collared, knee-length tunic and trousers of pristine white, embellished with delicate silver filigree and clusters of pearls.

As Valeryon approached, Laurel's expression softened into his characteristic dimpled smile, that made Valeryon's own lips curl slightly at the corners without her awareness. But just as she was about to to pass him, his demeanour shifted abruptly. His nostrils flared, his brows knit into a sharp furrow, and his hands clenched tightly at his sides. His body tensed in preparation to move, but before Laurel could, a steady hand rested firmly on his shoulder, halting him mid-motion.

The hand belonged to Archduke Consort Eilian Lin Adhe, Laurel's grandfather. Valeryon had heard countless stories about him, both from Laurel and the late Lady Daphne, over the years, but this was her first time seeing him in person. The elder's calm but commanding expression conveyed a silent order for restraint. Laurel hesitated, his frustration etched itself onto his features, his jaw tightening, but eventually yielded and reluctantly stepped back. His gaze returned to Valeryon, this unease etched starkly across his features.

Valeryon's brows furrowed at Laurel's reaction, wondering what had provoked such a response, but knew this was neither the time nor place to address it. Already, Ophelia was gently guiding her forward, leading her toward the stone dais that dominated the edge of the terrace.

The dais itself was a sight to behold. Its surface, worn by centuries of history, was etched with intricate glyphs that seemed to grow brighter as Valeryon neared. Garlands of ivy and asphodel intertwined around the base, their verdant leaves and pale blossoms adding a touch of natural beauty to the austere stone.

As Ophelia assisted her up the steps, a collective hush fell over the crowd. Each movement sent fresh waves of pain coursing through her body. Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, sweat trickling down her temples. The spikes embedded in her anklets bit deeper into her flesh with every step, and the chiming of the bells that followed felt almost mocking.

Upon reaching the platform, Valeryon paused briefly to steady herself, her weight shifting carefully as she fought to keep her balance. Her heart pounded painfully in her chest, and for a moment, she closed her eyes, drawing in a shaky but deliberate breath. When she opened them again, her gaze met Ophelia's, and she gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

Taking the cue, Ophelia stepped back, leaving Valeryon alone to face the expectant eyes of the Twelve Houses. The weight of their scrutiny pressed heavily on her as she straightened her posture, paying no mind to the fresh surge of pain that lanced through her body.

Across the dais stood Elora Vesalius, poised and radiant in a tailored sky-blue dress with its sleeves and hems lined with gold brocade. Her short brown hair was styled neatly, and atop her head rested a gold-beaded headband that complemented her chandelier earrings—a departure from her usual understated studs. Draped over her shoulders was a matching sky-blue cape fastened with ornate gold pins, prominently displaying the Valeryon sigil intricately woven in shimmering gold thread.

The cape was not simply ornamental; it was a declaration.

Today, by donning the Valeryon sigil and standing before the assembled Witnesses of the twelve Vassal Houses, Elora would sever all formal ties to House Vesalius. In doing so, she would irrevocably pledge herself to the royal family.

Ophelia, standing to one side, checked the timepiece in her hand. She seemed to waiting for something, perhaps the auspicious time, before stepping forward. Moving to the centre of the dais, she positioned herself between Elora and Valeryon.

Her voice, resonant and clear, carried across the terrace.

"Heiress Elora Vesalius," Ophelia began, each word measured and imbued with ceremonial gravity, "You stand here before the Witnesses of all twelve Vassal Houses to renounce all ties of kinship, duty, and allegiance to the House of your birth. Do you, of your own free will, pledge unyielding fealty to the Valeryon bloodline? Do you swear to serve Her Highness Valeryon the Second, loyal above all others, bound by honour and duty, until your final breath?"

Elora raised her chin, her voice unwavering. "I swear it."

Ophelia inclined her head, her expression solemn as she continued. "Then let this token, seal your commitment. May it remind you, in times of doubt, that loyalty is your strength, and service is your enduring legacy."

A Shrouded stepped forward from the edge of the dais, where they had positioned themselves, bearing a velvet cushion. Upon it rested a ceremonial choker, crafted with an intricate gold latticework wrought with exquisite craftsmanship.

Valeryon reached out and carefully lifted the choker from its resting place. As she approached, Elora bowed deeply, both in deference and to accommodate for their height difference. Valeryon secured the choker around Elora's neck, the clasp snapping into place with a resolute click. A soft golden light briefly radiated from the choker before fading.

"Next," Ophelia intoned, "the Mark of Fealty. It shall bear witness to your devotion, your allegiance, and the burden of duty you now shoulder. Where shall this mark reside?"

Elora's expression hardened with resolve. "My forehead," she declared without hesitation.

A second Shrouded figure stepped forward, holding a ceremonial brand, its ethereal blue flame dancing around its design—a replica of the Valeryon sigil.

In an unexpected and bold gesture, Elora dropped to her knees before Valeryon, bowing her head. A wave of murmurs rippled through the crowd.

Valeryon herself was momentarily taken aback by the depth of the gesture. While it was common for individuals to bow as a sign of respect during ceremonies, few would kneel. Sorcerers, prideful creatures by nature, often resisted submission. Evidenced by how even at their most desperate times during the Sorcerer's Hunt, many chose not to take the Oath of Fealty to the Founder in exchange for safety and instead moved on to seek safety elsewhere rather than surrender their autonomy.

The terrace fell into a tense silence as Valeryon took the glowing brand from the attendant. With deliberate care, she pressed it to Elora's forehead. A sharp sizzle filled the air, followed by the acrid smell of burning flesh. As sigil seared into Elora's skin, the brand's blue flames flared, causing the air around them to shimmer with heat and energy.

Elora's face flushed under the intense heat, sweat beading on her brow. Though her face contorted with pain, she bore the agony in silence, her fists clenched tightly where they rested on her thighs as she exhaled shallow, measured breaths.

When Valeryon finally removed the brand, a glowing blue sigil was left behind—a permanent symbol of loyalty that would endure as long as Elora's loyalty remained true.

Ophelia's voice cut through the ensuing heavy silence. "Now, your Oath."

Elora lifted her head, her expression resolute as she gazed up at Valeryon. Her voice carried over the terrace, each word infused with magic—an Unbreakable Vow. "By the stars above that bind us, I pledge my life, my spirit, and my body to Her Highness Valeryon the Second. I forsake all other bonds and renounce all other ties. My loyalty shall be unwavering, and my devotion solely to her, above all others, in this life… and the next."

As Elora completed her vow, a surge of golden light enveloped her, entering on the chocker and Mark of Fealty, the light cascading through the terrace like a wave, sealing the magical bond between them. The light swirled and dissipated, sealing the magical bond between them, marking the ceremony's completion.

Valeryon's eyes widened. To swear such a pledge in the form of an Unbreakable Vow was no ordinary promise. It was a bond that transcended mortality, one that would persist beyond the confines of this lifetime, whatever form their souls might take. Magic would ensure it.

First the kneeling, now the Oath.

Valeryon could not help but wonder what it was that Elora saw in her: what greatness did Elora believe lay within Valeryon, for such a profound pledge of devotion to be made?

Valeryon's thoughts abruptly stalled as something caught her attention. She turned sharply to Ophelia, who had remained steadfast throughout the event. Noticing Valeryon's gaze, Ophelia smiled and offered a final, deep bow. "It has been an honour, Your Highness." Straightening, she paused, as though weighing her next words. "You resemble your brother—my King greatly, Your Highness. May your path be... smoother than his."

Valeryon's eyes narrowed. Brother?

By every record and rite in this world, Valeryon should be recognised as the late King Vilram Valeryon's daughter, not his sister.

Ophelia was never one to misspeak.

If she said brother, she meant brother, but how could that be?

Valeryon was the sole survivor of her generation in both the Origin and Sorcerer's Legacy. Although Vilram Valeryon was the previous monarch in the current timeline, it was difficult to determine how many generations he was born before Valeryon in the Origin as the Ban prevented them from sharing any details about their lives in the Origin while residing in the Outer Worlds.

Perhaps, Ophelia just said that because she was familiar with the royal family's reproductive practices? Maybe biologically, Valaryon shared a genetic donor with the previous king? Such a scenario would technically make them siblings rather than father and daughter.

Valeryon wanted to Ophelia to elaborate on her words, but it was too late.

The Immortal Remnant moved to the dais's edge, right at the ivy clad railing, between two golden glowing lanterns.

With her role as the interim Chamberlain done, the magic that animated the Immortal Remnant dissipated, she returned to her dormant state, a statue once more. The vibrant life that had once animated her faded leaving Ophelia's marble form standing in eternal vigil at the edge of the terrace for generations to come until duty called her forth once more, as it had following Lady Daphne's death.

Valeryon's chest tightened as she watched the transformation. Though she had known this outcome was inevitable—Ophelia had explained from the start that her presence was only temporary—the sight of the Immortal Remnant returning to lifeless stone left behind an ache within her that Valeryon had not anticipated.

During her brief time with them, Ophelia had been a guiding presence, offering wisdom and stability during the turbulent months following Lady Daphne's death. Now, that presence was gone.

Drawing a steadying breath, Valeryon composed herself. She shifted her focus back to Elora, who remained patiently kneeling before her. "Rise, Chamberlain Elora of House Valeryon," Valeryon commanded, sounding a lot steadier than she felt.

Elora obeyed, her gaze filled with solemn pride, her lips pursed as she blinked away tears. Ophelia's departure had clearly impacted her, having grown close during the months of training for the responsibilities she was now bound to uphold.

The asphodel garlands adorning the dais swayed gently in the growing breeze, their soft fragrance mingling with the briny tang of the sea air. Valeryon cast a glance at Laurel who stood below among the Witnesses.

His posture was rigid and his expression looked troubled, his grandfather's hand firmly on his shoulder, keeping him in check. Yet, despite his evident discomfort, he managed a small, reassuring smile when he sensed her attention.

Soon, she promised herself. She would speak with him soon.

For now, however, duty called once more. The ceremony had reached its midpoint, and the next portion was about to begin.

Steeling herself, Valeryon turned to face the gathered representatives. The terrace buzzed with an undercurrent of expectation, however the muted rustle of fine fabrics and soft murmur of conversations silenced as the Herald stepped forward. His ceremonial staff struck the marble floor in a crisp rhythm, each echo resonating through the air like the tolling of a bell.

"By the grace of Her Highness, Crown Princess Valeryon the Second," the Herald began, his voice carrying effortlessly across the terrace, "the noble houses of the realm may now extend their greetings."

The assembly stirred as the first delegation approached. Leading them was Archduke Consort Eilian Lin Adhe of House Vesalius, his noble bearing amplified by his serene expression and the enormous white feathered wings folded neatly behind him, their pale edges glinting in the sunlight.

Laurel followed a half-step behind, his gait respectful yet tinged with a quiet defiance that made Valeryon's brows furrow. Behind Laurel, a pair of attendants trailed, bearing items veiled in exquisite coverings.

As the Archduke Consort ascended the dais, he swept into a low bow, his wings extending in a graceful arc that cast long shadows, creating an imposing silhouette. "Archduke Consort Eilian Lin Adhe of House Vesalius greets Her Highness, Crown Princess Valeryon the Second."

Valeryon inclined her head, her iridescent azure veil and diamond asphodel crown shimmering as it caught the light. "Well met, Archduke Consort Eilian Lin Adhe."

As the Archduke Consort straightened, Valeryon's gaze lingered on his features. Up close, the resemblance to his late daughter, Lady Daphne, was even more uncanny—the same high cheekbones and piercing silver eyes, though age had lent his face a harsher, more angular quality. Only his gender and wings—a trait of the Seraphic lineage that had completely bypassed Lady Daphne—set him apart from his late daughter.

Valeryon realised she had been holding her breath when her lungs began to ache. She exhaled sharply, refocusing on the present. Thankfully, no one had noticed her distraction, as rather than continuing the conversation, the Archduke Consort had shifted his attention to Elora, his youngest child and adopted daughter.

The Archduke Consort's tone when speaking to his daughter carried an undercurrent of indifference that made Valeryon's eyebrow raise. "Chamberlain Elora," he began formally, "on behalf of House Vesalius, I extend our congratulations on your appointment. It is a testament to your… luck, perseverance, and"—he paused briefly, lips tightened into a faint grimace—"capability to serve directly under Her Highness. Truly, you honour our House with your…accomplishment."

Being no longer obliged to bow to any except Valeryon, Elora inclined her head. "Thank you, Your Grace," she replied, her voice clear and composed. "I am deeply honoured by House Vesalius'—" her lips curled up slightly, humourlessly, "…support, without which I certainly would not have the opportunity to be here."

For a fleeting moment, the Archduke Consort's mask of polite indifference faltered. A flicker of disapproval crossed his face before he smoothed it away, but Valeryon caught it.

Interesting.

However, the tension eased with a gesture from the Archduke, as one of the attendants stepped forward to unveil one of the items they brought with a flourish.

The gift, presented to Valeryon was an exquisite hand-held harp. Its frame, carved from polished wood with a glossy ebony finish, shimmered like liquid night. Intricate rose motifs made of sparkling diamonds adorned its edges, each petal catching the light like stars. Golden strings stretch gracefully across the harp's small, curved frame.

"This harp," the Archduke Consort elaborated, "was commissioned twenty years ago on the advice of a Diviner who foresaw the birth of a royal heir of exceptional destiny. It is our hope, Your Highness, that it serves you well." His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning.

Valeryon inclined her head. "I am certain it will," she replied evenly, her voice devoid of inflection but polite enough to pass as gratitude.

Divination might have weight in certain circles, but Valeryon had always viewed it with scepticism.

It was not that Valeryon considered foresight fraudulent, just unreliable. Much like how natives of the Orcus Galaxy, including Valeryon, wield the Will to Live to revive from death, or how those from the Sapientia Galaxy possess perfect memory and comprehension which allowed for their researchers to establish the Origin Inter-Galactic Training, inhabitants of the Fortuna Galaxy have the innate ability to manipulate probability—or luck. This constant alteration of probabilities has left the Origin's future in perpetual flux, making prophecies or divinations, no matter how genuine, often nullified before they could even be spoken.

So, Valeryon did not particularly give weight to it, nor what it said about her.

However, foresight or not, the item before her was crafted to suit her tastes perfectly.

Unable to help herself, Valeryon reached out to pluck a string, and a sonorous note filled the air, its resonance sending a shiver down her spine. At that precise moment, the Celestial Receiver on her wrist flared to life, emitting a golden glow that she had last seen when the side-quest had triggered at Starlit Staffworks.

A small holographic window appeared, hovering just above her wrist:

Unique Item Acquired: Harmonic Harp

Bind this item to your Inventory?

[Accept] — [Reject]

Her brows furrowed as she studied the notification.

Gold rather than purple. And 'Unique' instead of 'special'.

It seemed that this 'Harmonic Harp' was of a separate category to 'Home Away from Home', although Valeryon did not yet understand why.

She selected accept with a subtle flick of her fingers and directed her attention back to the present. Seeing that everyone's attention was on her, she forced herself to speak a few words.

"It is beautiful."

The Archduke Consort bowed once more, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I am honoured that it meets your preference, Your Highness."

Valeryon barely suppressed a sigh of relief as she was saved from having to speak more when a Shrouded stepped forward to receive the gift on Valeryon's behalf.

Then it was time to present Elora's gift. Murmurs of the assembled nobles grew louder as the attendant unveiled a second item. Resting on a velvet cushion was an ornate hourglass suspended from a gold chain. Crafted from crystal and bound in a golden framework etched with glowing glyphs. The sand within shimmered like stardust, changing colours as it moved.

Even without the attendant's announcement, Valeryon recognised the artefact immediately: the Chronos Hourglass. She had seen its illustrations of it many times before in books buried in the depths of the library's first floor, regarding the most sought after artefacts in the magical world.

An invention of the Mainland's renown Department of Arcane Phenomena, the Chronos Hourglass remains shrouded in secrecy. Only ten were known to exist, each capable of glimpsing fragments of time—past or future—at the wielder's discretion.

The Decennial Auction was the only place where artefacts of such calibre changed hands. So upon their revelation, they had been auctioned off—as the Department of Arcane Phenomena often liked to to do with some of their more experimental items. The buyers were anonymous, their identities protected by ironclad secrecy, as all client identities were in the Decennial Auction. So, their whereabouts had always been a matter of conjecture and speculation; and the odd time one did get discovered or revealed, it often heralded calamity for its owner.

Valeryon's lips pressed into a thin line and her gaze directed to Elora.

Elora's face looked bloodless, but her expression remained carefully composed. "Thank you, Archduke Consort," she said, her voice steady. Valeryon would have thought her unaffected if not for the slight tremor in her hands, which Elora concealed behind her back—something Valeryon only noticed due to their proximity. "I will strive to be worthy of this honour and use it wisely in service of the Crown."

Why would House Vesalius do this? Had the Vesalius family considered the implications? The hourglass was a prize coveted by scholars, sorcerers, and power-hungry opportunists alike. To give it to Elora so openly was akin to painting a target on her back.

Whether intentional or not, the consequences were clear.

Mind racing, Valeron stepped forward, silencing the growing murmurs and reached for the hourglass. She lifted it from its velvet cushion, turning it over in her hands. The craftsmanship was extraordinary, the artefact humming faintly with latent magic. Valeryon's gaze shifted to Elora and she stepped towards her.

"Lower yourself," she requested softly.

Elora hesitated only briefly before obeying. Not, bowing as Valeryon had expected, but kneeling before Valeryon one more. The sight of such complete submission stirred the same indescribable emotion Valeryon had felt when Ophelia and the Shrouded had done the same after the preparation ritual she had undertaken in preparation for today's ceremony. Taking a deep breath, savouring every second of the moment, Valeryon draped the chain around her Chamberlain's neck, where it settled below the golden lattice choker Valeryon had placed earlier.

"Rise," she murmured and once Elora was on her feet once more, she turned her attention to the Archduke Consort.

Valeryon spoke, her voice ringing out like steel wrapped in velvet. "House Vesalius has shown extraordinary generosity. Rest assured, Chamberlain Elora will be afforded every protection under the Crown's authority."

The Archduke Consort inclined his head, his expression unreadable. "Of course, Your Highness. The Crown's consideration is a great honour," he said, his voice smooth yet faintly clipped. "We trust Chamberlain Elora will wield her newfound responsibilities—and gifts—with due caution and wisdom."

There was nothing more that could be said after that.

From the moment the Vesalius delegation stepped onto the dais Valeryon's gaze periodically flickered to Laurel, her concern growing. Valeryon, ever attuned to his presence, noted the storm brewing within him. His agitation was evident in his restless movements—fingers flexing, weight shifting from foot to foot, as if he was gearing up for something. Valeryon longed to hear what he seemed to want to say, but—

Valeryon's attention snapped back to the Archduke Consort as his hand clamped firmly onto Laurel's shoulder, halting the younger man's restless fidgeting. Laurel's body stilled under the elder's grip, but the tension roiling beneath became almost palpable—a bowstring drawn taut, ready to snap.

"Ah yes" the Archduke Consort began, his voice quiet and grave, "I had almost forgotten." His sharp silver eyes landed squarely on Valeryon."Your Highness, my family owes you a debt of gratitude for the care and consideration you have shown my grandson during these turbulent times. It is a kindness our House shall not forget. However,"—his gaze flicked meaningfully to Laurel before returning to her, like a blade poised to strike—"it is our belief that the current arrangement, with the two of you residing in such close quarters at this age, regardless of the innocence of the circumstances, invites unwarranted speculation. For the sake of propriety, and to preserve the reputation of all involved, my wife and I have concluded that it is best for my grandson to reside in the Vesalius Estate for the foreseeable future."

The implication struck Valeryon with the force of a physical blow. She stiffened, her mind scrambling to find a response. The Archduke Consort's reasoning was irrefutable within the rigid framework of this time period's strict societal norms. To challenge him was to invite scandal, tarnishing not only her reputation but Laurel's as well.

She glanced at Laurel. His lavender eyes were wide and imploring, silently begging her to intervene. There was a raw vulnerability there that made her heart twist, but what could she do? Any protest she might voice would be viewed as unbecoming, a mark against her character, a criticism of her judgement that would be held against her indefinitely. A lump formed in her throat, guilt weighing heavily on her as she lowered her gaze. She felt the sharp sting of inadequacy, a sensation all too familiar and a reminiscent of her younger years at the Junior Academy.

Drawing a deep breath, she managed a curt nod. "Understood."

The words tasted like defeat.

Laurel's disappointment was clear, his expression falling and Valeryon found herself unable to meet his eyes.

With the agreement, the delegation's farewells came swiftly, and though she responded with the appropriate words and gestures, her mind was elsewhere. Her heart felt heavy with bitterness, and her hands clenched into fists, nails digging into the flesh of her palms through the fabric of her gloves.

The Vesalius delegation had nearly reached the edge of the dais when Laurel suddenly broke rank. He pivoted sharply, his lavender eyes alight with a familiar mischief. A dimpled grin lit up his face, and before anyone could stop him, he called out, "I will see you soon, my dearest Val!"

The crowd's reaction was instantaneous. Gasps rippled through the Witnesses like a sudden gust of wind. The scandalised whispers had barely begun when Laurel added to the spectacle. Clutching his chest like a lovelorn hero from a romance play, he added theatrically, "I will miss you every second, minute and day we shall be apart, looking forward to the moment we will be together once more!" His dramatic declaration ended with an exaggerated wink and a kiss blown her way.

The Archduke Consort's expression darkened with fury, and he spun Laurel around with an unyielding grip, dragging him away before he could cause further commotion. Laurel made no effort to resist, his unrepentant grin firmly in place as he allowed himself to be marched off.

Valeryon stood rooted to the spot, her face aflame, her heart pounding erratically. At her side, Elora let out a faint cough, though the corners of her lips twitched with barely suppressed amusement. It was a subtle yet familiar habit—Elora's way of concealing her laughter when decorum demanded restraint.

"Whoever said romance was dead?" Elora said softly. Her words made Valeryon's face burn hotter.

Valeryon could not bring herself to respond. Perhaps in misguided attempt to change the outcome, Laurel had not only undone her efforts to avoid scandal but had also fuelled the very rumours the Archduke Consort had sought to avoid.

Despite the inconvenience his actions caused, a large part of Valeryon found delight in his defiance. For his courage in doing what Valeryon was too cowardly to do, and his refusal to let their closeness be so easily dismissed, even if it meant leaning into the very rumours that society sought to separate them with. 

However, after the initial stir settled, Valeryon had little time to dwell on the incident. The herald's call resounded through the terrace once more, and one by one, the representatives of the Vassal Houses continued their approach with greetings and gifts.

The air in the chamber still buzzed with the echoes of Laurel's antics, whispers and sidelong glances following her every move. Despite the mounting pressure, Valeryon drew upon the lessons drilled into her. Every greeting, every polite exchange, and every carefully chosen word became a performance, a shield against the scrutiny surrounding her.

In the midst of it all, Valeryon felt gratitude for Governess Sachar. Etiquette had been only the one aspect of her teachings; far more valuable was the exhaustive education on the intricate web of alliances, feuds, and bloodlines that bound the Archipelago's Vassal Houses. Without that foundation, Valeryon knew she would be drowning in the subtle undercurrents of the gathering—every glance, every word a potential minefield.

The Vassal Houses, though their roles and responsibilities had evolved over time, could still be categorised into four broad blocs based on their traditional duties. While their traditional roles were no longer rigidly enforced as much as they used to be, the four bloc categorisation still provided a helpful framework for understanding the political landscape of the Archipelago.

Diplomacy and Internal Affairs were dominated by the Vesalius and Sil Adhe Houses who often found themselves in the thick of negotiations and governance.

Defense and Security was a formidable coalition comprising of the Lunarys (land borders), Aerwyna (sea borders), Warrington (military), and Gyrfalcon (law enforcement) whose collective strength ensured the Archipelago's safety from external and internal threats alike.

Trade and Finance fell under the Arthas (banks), Golde (mines), and Newmans (Agriculture) who formed the economic backbone of the Archipelago and ensured the Archipelago's prosperity.

Research and Innovation was championed by Hawthorn, Sachar, and Serpens, propelling the Archipelago's progress through magical and technological advancements.

For Valeryon, most interactions with these Houses were mercifully brief. Protocol dictated a simple exchange: greetings, a presentation of gifts, and polite pleasantries. Any further engagement required a formal appointment—one she could easily decline given her impending departure for Forester Academy. Once the main doors to the terrace closed behind the final group of representatives, Valeryon exhaled softly.

It had been an eventful day, but at least the most challenging part of it was now over.

Elora checked her pocket watch before glancing at Valeryon. "It's nearly time for your meeting with the Knight Commander, Your Highness," she said. She extended her arm in a gesture reminiscent of Ophelia's earlier escort.

Valeryon felt a pang of discomfort in her chest. She swallowed hard, unable to bring herself to look behind herself and take in the dormant husk left of Ophelia as she wished to do.

Taking a deep breath, she accepted Elora's arm gratefully, relieved to shift some weight off her aching feet.

The Shrouded moved in silent procession behind them, trailing like shadows as they made their way back to the castle. They bore an array of gifts—lavish, intricate, and precious—but none captured Valeryon's attention like the Harmonic Harp, which she looked forward to playing once freed from her current obligations.

As they neared the Main Entrance, the Shrouded seemed to dissolve into the shadows, disappearing soundlessly. Valeryon assumed they had gone to secure the gifts somewhere convenient for later perusal.

The next time she saw them, the Shrouded stood outside Valeryon's study, each balancing platters stacked high with food, beside a slightly bewildered Knight Commander.

As if on cue, Valeryon's stomach growled loudly. Valeryon tried to reassure herself that it was a natural reaction considering the circumstances, but she could not prevent the warmth spreading through her cheeks.

Perhaps no one had heard?

Her hope was short-lived.

"Your Highness, I hadn't realised—you must be starving," Elora said, dismayed. "Please forgive me, Your Highness."

Valeryon dismissed her concern with a wave of her hand. "No need." But inwardly, she thought starving was an understatement. It had been days since her last meal.

"Greetings, Your Highness," the Knight Commander said with a respectful bow before opening the door for her. Valeryon responded with a faint nod as she entered.

Inside the study, Valeryon sank into her chair, the wood cool against her overheated skin, exhaustion settling over her like a heavy cloak. The Shrouded cleared the table and arranged the platters—simple soups, steamed grains, and soft bread—far lighter than the rich, decadent meals she was accustomed to. She wondered who had decided on the meal, grateful for their consideration.

As Valeryon ate, her focus shifted to the rhythmic motion of her hands lifting the food, though each movement felt laborious. Her stomach, somewhat unused to such sustenance, protested with every bite, the feeling of fullness overwhelming in the most uncomfortable way. Her belt pressed tight against her waist, and she shifted in her seat, trying to ignore the discomfort.

Finally, after what felt like eternity, Valeryon finished the meal. The Shrouded quietly removed the platters and returned the items they had removed from the desk to their original meticulous arrangement, leaving the study as undisturbed as it had been when they arrived. The door clicked softly shut behind them, leaving Valeryon alone with Elora and the Knight Commander.

Valeryon shifted her focus to Knight Commander Marcellus, who stood rigidly to Elora's left, arms crossed and posture rigid. His grey eyes—though sharp and focused—had a distant, faraway look. There were shadows beneath his eyes that suggested sleepless nights and the furrows between his brows seemed deeper than Valeryon last remembered.

"Knight Commander Marcellus," Valeryon said, her voice firm. "What is the status of our Knight Squadrons? How is the current progress of your previous assignment?"

Marcellus straightened, arms clasped behind back. "Your Highness, the incorporation of the runic tattoos within the Knight Squadrons is proceeding smoothly. The evaluation of its performance with the sample unit was successful. We have now begun to expand its incorporation into other units. However, progress has been slower than anticipated."

Valeryon's brow furrowed as she considered his words. "What is causing the delay?"

"Master Inscriber Arion is performing the tattooing himself. He is the only one able to do it." Marcellus explained. "The complexity of the runes is such that only he can replicate them perfectly. With lives on the line, we thought it best to not take a risk with anyone else. To help speed up the progress, Master Inscriber Arion has taken a month-long leave from his other duties, but still, there is only so much progress that can be made with only one person."

"I see. And where is Master Inscriber Arion residing during this time?"

"Currently, he is in the Knights Barracks, Your Highness." Marcellus replied. "I assure you, we are ensuring that Master Inscriber Arion is adequately cared for and compensated for his time and efforts."

"Very well," Valeryon said. "Now, what are the results of the investigations?"

The atmosphere shifted, the weight of the question hanging heavily in the air. Marcellus' expression became grave.

"Your Highness," Marcellus said carefully, "the findings are… concerning. These infiltrators have assumed identities with such precision that detecting them without creating mass panic is—challenging."

A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaped Valeryon's lips. She had expected this, though it did little to soften the reality of the situation.

She reached into the desk and activated a rune, opening a hidden drawer. From it, she withdrew a neatly rolled parchment, which she held out to Marcellus. He accepted it, unrolling the paper with an almost reverent caution.

Valeryon had prepared it with extensive research and Ophelia's help; as a former Chamberlain, Ophelia's expertise ensured the document was magically binding, designed to expose anyone with treasonous intentions or a false identity.

"Commander," Valeryon intoned, her voice as smooth and sharp as glass. "I trust this requires no further explanation."

Marcellus's brows rose as he quickly read over the contract. The Knight Commander cleared his throat, gathering his magic, and pressed his hand to the document. A faint gold light flashed over the page and the paper disintegrated.

Marcellus was cleared.

A knock sounded at the door.

Valeryon glanced at Elora who checked her pocket watch and nodded.

Right on time.

When Valeryon inclined her head, Elora briefly used a handkerchief to wipe the sheen of perspiration from her brow, then she went to open the doors.

When she returned, she was accompanied by a group of people. The group shuffled in, their anxiety palpable as they came to stand before Valeryon, who laid out more copies of the contract, evenly spread across the table, awaiting their magical signatures.

"Sign it," she demanded curtly.

The Staff Department Heads exchanged glances and Valeryon watched their interactions closely.

The Head Groundskeeper, an older Davi gentleman who had been managing the palace since Queen Vera's reign stepped forward first, barely scanning the text before pressing his magic to the contract. A flash of gold, and he was cleared.

He stepped back, visibly relieved.

One by one, the others followed suit: the Head Housekeeper, the Head Healer, the Head Librarian, the Head Stable Master, and the Head Treasurer—all cleared.

Finally, only the Head Chef remained. Valeryon's gaze sharpened as she took in the man's trembling hands, his pale complexion, the sheen of sweat that clung to his face and neck.

The Head Chef closed his eyes, muttering something under his breath, a prayer or perhaps a plea, before stepping to the table. He raised a shaking hand and touched the paper.

Nothing happened.

No flash. No shimmer. Nothing.

The silence was deafening.

Elora's face turned ashen, her hands clenched at her sides. Even Marcellus, who had stood stoic through the proceedings, stiffened. His eyes darted quickly to Valeryon, who nodded, a grim understanding forming. He gave a sharp whistle. Not a second later, a series of armoured footsteps echoed outside for a moment before two knights barged into the study and seized the Head Chef by the arms.

How had this happened?

Valeryon pressed her temples, a headache forming. How had Lady Daphne missed this? From the Knight Commander's previous report on the Staff Department Heads, Valeryon knew that the recruitment and promotion of the Head Chef had fallen under Lady Daphne's oversight. As Chamberlain, Lady Daphne was responsible for all staff appointments and, by law, required to witness each staff member reaffirm their Oaths of Fealty to the royal family.

"Take him," Valeryon ordered.

Marcellus whistled sharply, and armoured footsteps echoed briefly before two knights stormed in, seizing the Head Chef and dragging him out.

Valeryon turned to the remaining department heads, nodding at Marcellus. "Them too."

She did not believe for a second that these people, having worked together for so long, were unaware of the situation. Marcellus gave a sharp whistle in a different sequence, and more knights entered, ushering the remaining department heads out.

As the doors shut, Knight Commander Marcellus released a stream of colourful language under his breath, then stopped abruptly, his face flushed as he realised his blunder. "My apologies, Your Highness," he stammered, clearing his throat. "The words I used... such language should never be repeated."

Despite herself, Valeryon's lips twitched and curled up at the corners. "Noted, Commander." With the current circumstances, it was easy to forget that she still wore the shell of a child to the outside world.

Her amusement, however, was short-lived, replaced by a creeping dread as the reality of the situation sank in.

If a non-magical infiltrator had secured a position as high as department head, the situation with the general staff could not be good.

The realisation soured her, a bitter taste at the back of her throat.

She thought of the Archipelago's founding purpose: a refuge from the outside world created by the Founder to shield magicals from persecution during the Sorcerer's Hunt era.

Prior to the events of that time, magicals and non-magicals coexisted peacefully.

The magical community, as assimilated as the were to the non-magical society, was fragmented, scattered across the land, with only a few organised groups forming protective enclaves.

Many skilled magicals, seeking better opportunities, migrated to more developed magical communities in neighbouring nations like Ebren and Simran, further dispersing their strength.

At that time, magic was in its infancy, a fledgling force, and knowledge about it was tightly guarded by scholars and researchers alike, much like the glyphs. What little magic was commonly known was more of a novelty than a threat. Combat and protection-related magic were virtually nonexistent, as there had been little need for it in a peaceful society.

So, when Fiore's non-magical ruling class, unlike their counterparts in Ebren and Simran who embraced collaboration with magicals, viewed them as a threat and launched a sudden, violent purge, the unprepared and outnumbered magicals stood no chance.

Whoever had orchestrated this breach of non-magicals into the palace was not only humiliating them by spitting on the Archipelago's founding principles but was also courting catastrophe.

Their laws were clear and absolute.

Across both the Archipelago and magical Fiore, it was forbidden to reveal magic to non-magicals, to shelter them, or even employ them within magical domains. This society had been built on secrecy, on a delicate balance of power that kept their existence safe. Violating that was more than a crime; it was a betrayal that put their entire society at risk of discovery—and vulnerable to another Sorcerer's Hunt.

Another Sorcerer's Hunt. Another mass extermination.

It was an outcome too terrible to even consider.

Although, when considering how far magical society had progressed, Valeryon felt certain that, in a conflict, it wouldn't be the magicals who would be forced into hiding this time.

Commander Marcellus cleared his throat, breaking her from her thoughts. "Your Highness, if I may inquire—what action should we take concerning this breach? The royal household cannot escape consequences entirely. But perhaps, we can mitigate them if we maintain discretion."

Before Valeryon could respond, Elora spoke up. "With all due respect, Commander, I must disagree," Her voice carried a desperate edge. "If we hide this, and the news leaks out anyway—as it very well could, given that our enemies orchestrated this breach in the first place—it would be even more disastrous. We're already at a loss. If we attempt to keep it quiet and fail, we'll lose all control over the narrative." She drew a shaky breath, her eyes darting between the Knight Commander and Valeryon. "It would be far better to handle it openly from the start, rather than risk a catastrophe later, Your Highness."

Marcellus shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. "The knights are discreet, Lady Elora," he assured her with a calm, steady gaze. "This is not a suggestion to bury it forever, only until we have gathered all the facts. Once we understand the full scope of the infiltration, we can better mitigate the fallout."

"Discreet?" Elora scoffed, her words holding a bitter edge. "Your discretion seems almost too thorough considering how easily the enemy has managed to slip into our ranks and put Her Highness at risk. My sister and many of your knights are dead, Commander Warrington. Can you look me in the eye and say it was not preventable?"

Warrington. That was the first time Valeryon had heard the Knight Commander referred to by his last name. For the most part, palace staff, regardless of rank were referred to by their title or their first name to avoid any confusion or mix up unless there were two people of the same name. It had not seemed pertinent to look into it, so Valeryon had not realised that the Knight Commander was a member of a Vassal House, but it made sense. Similar to how the Vesalius had the monopoly on the Chamberlain role, the Warringtons had monopoly over the Knight commander role, as was tradition.

More surprising, however, was Elora's outburst; it was rare to see her so blatant in her anger.

Marcellus's jaw tightened, his gaze hardening as he turned to Valeryon. He bowed deeply, dropping to one knee. "Your Highness, my deepest apologies," he said, his voice steady yet weighted with regret. "Heiress Elora is correct in her assessment. It was our oversight that has led to this."

"Get up. Apologies won't undo the damage," Valeryon replied curtly. "However, you alone are not accountable for missing what no one could have predicted—not without warning, not without evidence. There were multiple points where this matter could have been intercepted before it ever reached the palace." She paused, then added, "But the fact that it didn't is concerning. How did threats of this magnitude—the successful smuggling of Sugar Crystals into the Archipelago, the bribing of staff in the Terminal to lace the food with it, non-magicals infiltrating the palace, let alone them setting foot on Vesperia itself—go unnoticed with all the security measures we are supposed to have in place? This cannot be just an individual's error; this is a failure of the system itself."

Marcellus lifted his gaze. "What do you suggest, Your Highness?"

Valeryon took a measured breath. "Certain individuals seem to have grown…lax in their Oaths—if they even took them to begin with. And who is to enforce that? Especially if those who are meant to enforce this matter to begin with are the ones compromised to begin with. The Archipelago seems infected with complacency, inviting rot. But presently, without authority beyond these palace walls, I can only address the symptoms of this matter, not the cause."

With that, she pulled out a sheet of parchment and dipped her quill in ink. "Covert investigations will take too long. Place the palace on immediate lockdown." She paused to open a drawer, withdrawing a thick stack of magical Contracts she had gotten copied earlier. She placed them squarely before Elora. "Every individual is to be accounted for and bound by oath—tonight."

Elora straightened, glanced at the stack, then back at Valeryon. "Of course, Your Highness. I'm scheduled to meet with them in a few hours." At Valeryon's gaze, Elora flushed slightly and cleared her throat. "I thought it would be useful to formally introduce myself and address any concerns. I have a complete list of all personnel and will ensure no one is overlooked."

"Good." Valeryon's next words fell, clipped and cold. "Knight Commander, an investigation must be opened regarding Lady Daphne Vesalius' involvement in this matter."

Elora froze. "My sister? But—"

"As the previous Chamberlain," Valeryon cut her off, "it is highly improbable that Lady Daphne was unaware of a non-magical's promotion to Head Chef. Not only should she have overseen the selection, she would have been present during the oath-taking. Such an oversight reeks of negligence at best, betrayal at worst."

Her gloved hand moved in precise motions as she sealed the document, handing it to the Knight Commander Marcellus. He took it with a respectful bow, his face set in stern lines. "As you command, Your Highness."

Valeryon took another parchment and resumed writing. "When all the signatures are gathered, and the true scale of the situation is understood," Valeryon continued, "notify the Enforcers handling the Asua werewolf attack. They must be briefed on these developments."

"What should be the fate of those we detain, Your Highness?" asked Marcellus.

"All non-magicals involved are to be handed over to Enforcer custody. Standard protocols apply: interrogation, memory adjustment, relocation, and monitoring until we're certain they no longer pose a threat to our society."

Marcellus stepped forward slightly. "What about the magicals, Your Highness?"

Valeryon's hand paused mid-stroke, the quill trembling slightly in her grip. Beneath her veil, her eyes narrowed as she considered her response. "There are laws for traitors, are there not?"

Elora's face looked ghostly, as she spoke up, "Your Highness, your Healer's Oath! Does it not prevent you from such actions? Your life would be at risk!"

A silence hung in the air as Valeryon regarded Elora.

She was right; the Healer's Oath, binding for all Valeryons, forbade them from causing harm directly or indirectly, with severe consequences for any violation. However, the Inter-Galactic Origin Training had begun before her Name Day, the event when she should have formally taken the Oath and become an official member of the clan.

"My predecessors were perhaps too restrained when they didn't need to be. If our enemy is to be stopped, there must be consequences. Why else would the law exist? The Healer's Oath will discern between justice and vengeance." She added, "And if there is a cost, I will bear it."

While there would be no actual cost for her decision, Valeryon didn't feel the need to reveal that. Her clan members were believed to be born with the Healer's Oath naturally, and contradicting that belief would only complicate matters.

Elora and the Knight Commander still tried to insist otherwise, claiming that no amount of justice was worth the risk of harm that the Healer's Oath may subject Valeryon to. However, perhaps sensing that their words were not convincing, Elora tried another tactic.

"Your Highness, wouldn't the public see such measures as… unnecessarily severe and cruel? The Mainland has already outlawed capital punishment and similar stances are also being taken in many parts of the magical world. What kind of potential ruler would they see you as, if you choose to risk your well-being just so that traitor would be killed?"

"Cruel?" Valeryon echoed, her tone edged with a hint of incredulity. "What is cruel about enforcing the laws of this land against those who wish to destabilise it? All those who reside here are subject to its rules. If they object, they are free to leave for lands more aligned with their values."

Valeryon resumed writing, the quill scratching against the parchment. "Prepare a formal case for the Council of Vassals. They seem to have sat idly by as this decay took root; let's see if they'll lift a finger to address it when the evidence lies plainly before them." Her quill paused briefly, and her voice hardened. "This is their mess. They will clean it."

Elora shifted, her brows drew together, worry etched deep in the crease between them. "And… the public, Your Highness?"

"What of them?"

Elora hesitated, careful with her words. "If we take the initiative to shape the narrative ourselves, we could prevent our enemies from turning public opinion against us."

Valeryon dismissed the thought with a wave of her hand. "That is a matter for the Enforcers and the Vassal Council to handle. I am merely a student preparing for their first year of education at Forester Academy. If the palace were seen as overly involved it may raise more concerns."

Elora pressed her lips together, reluctant but determined. "Your Highness, while it may seem trivial now, public perception could become crucial. Someday, when your authority must be solidified… today's approach might shape how the monarchy is viewed for years to come."

Valeryon's gaze rested on Elora, her tone flat. "Public opinion holds little weight. I have violated no law, my hands remain clean in this matter. Should anyone wish to criticise me, they will find no fault here."

Elora's expression grew more intense, almost pleading. "Your Highness, please reconsider. Even if there's no immediate threat, leaving the narrative unchecked gives our enemies a foothold. It could encourage dissent, create cracks in the foundation, and jeopardise your influence. Those who oppose you could turn whispers into weapons."

Valeryon's hand stilled over the parchment, her fingers tightening on the quill. Elora's words lingered, touching on a concern she had not realised she held.

Anarchy.

Insurrection.

Those were not things so easily countered.

"The Oaths…" Valeryon murmured, as if speaking to herself.

Elora's voice was gentle, "The Oaths allowed for the very circumstances that led to the tragedy in Asua. If we continue to place blind faith in their protection, we may face another devastation, Your Highness?"

The weight of Elora's words settled heavily. For a millennium, Valeryon's family had ruled, upheld by alliances as ancient as Vesperia itself.

If these alliances weakened…

If there allies refused to take their Oaths…

If the Vassal Houses, wielders of power over essential veins and vital territories of the Archipelago, deemed her unworthy… what power could she hold against them? She was vulnerable—magically, socially, and politically.

The Valeryon clan's legacy could collapse like an ancient wall, crumbling stone by stone.

A faint headache pulsed behind her eyes, sweat beading under her veil, her body aching as the familiar sharpness in her ankles flared up. She could smell the faint metallic tang of fresh blood; her passive Healing magic had weakened once more. Adding to her discomfort was the stretch of her stomach from her meal earlier, making her nausea surge.

Valeryon took several steady breaths, focusing on manually reactivating her healing magic. Gradually, the pain dulled to a manageable throb. Being freshly recovered from a magical exhaustion induced coma, her current body was still unaccustomed to prolonged magic use.

Lifting her skirt just enough to confirm the glow around her ankle as the torn flesh knitted back together, she allowed herself a brief, shallow breath of relief.

Returning her attention to her parchment, she hesitated for a long moment before decisively setting the quill to paper again and continuing what she was writing.

Each word felt like an additional weight, pressing down with the realisation of her own limitations.

Regardless of whether her decision was right or wrong, with her power so limited, this was all she could do.

Finally, Valeryon took a deep breath and sealed the instructions. She then extended the sealed document to Elora, who accepted it with trembling hands.

Pale and looking visibly shaken, Elora's breathing was shallow as though on the verge of collapse. Just when Valeryon moved to check on her, Elora took a deep breath and seemed to regain her composure, silver eyes revealing quiet, fierce resolve.

"I will see this through, Your Highness," Elora whispered.