1

Izumi’s reunion with her human companions went more or less as was to be expected. The men exhaled restrained sighs of relief at finding their worst fears misplaced. And as soon as Izumi stepped into their room, Millanueve de Guillon threw herself at the woman, squeezing her with all her might.

“I can’t breathe,” Izumi pointed out, but the knight wouldn’t let go of her.

“I was so worried!” Millanueve exclaimed, on the verge of tears, her face buried in Izumi’s bosom. “I was so...worried!”

“W-well. It’s not like I did it on purpose,” the woman mumbled. “Sorry.”

Millanueve drew back, still clutching Izumi’s shoulders, and gathered her composure with a sniff. “Promise me you will never leave us again.”

“Eh, I’ll kind of have to,” Izumi replied. “By the time we go home, at least.”

“That’s not what I meant, you idiot! You won’t leave anywhere without my permission again, while we’re on this island! Is that clear?”

“Not even to toilet? So strict,” Izumi tried to joke.

“Not to toilet, not to bath, not anywhere!” Millanueve cried, seeing no humor in the matter.

“That’s really getting too kinky for me...”

“Stop messing with me! I’m being serious!”

“Honestly, sis, you’re being an embarrassment,” Alexander sighed further back.

“You be quiet!” Millanueve snapped back at him.

“Our captain’s a lost cause,” Stefan added with a shrug.

“What is wrong with you all!? Why are you picking on me!?”

While the senseless exchange went on, Izumi noted that one still remained absent from the lot; Waramoti, the self-styled bard. It appeared that he still hadn’t come back after his departure early in the previous day, which added to the general restlessness. As for Millanueve, she had never gone missing in the first place, but had only taken a short stroll within the Palace floor to cool her head, before returning to their room unhindered.

On everyone’s insistence, Izumi shared her colorful story, starting from her misguided search for Millanueve, on to being shut out of the Palace, and becoming ambushed by the elves on the bridge. At her audience’s shocked reactions, she was forced to explain also her meeting with Naliya, and how the child had healed her injuries with magic. In her usual low-key fashion, Izumi omitted a number of details from her narrative, such as her dream about Yubilea, and what she had seen on the upper floors of the building, deeming it inessential in the big picture.

As the earthling concluded her report, a stunned silence spread in the room.

Coming to Alderia was dangerous; so they had been told time after time again. But it was only now that the actual extent of the peril was laid bare. The elves didn’t like their human guests much, anyone could see this, but an attempted murder at the first available opportunity was still more ruthless than anyone had envisioned, the sorceress included.

A deep frown now clouded Carmelia’s features.

“You don’t think they got the bard too?” Izumi asked her.

“I cannot say,” Carmelia reservedly answered. “Yet, something does not add up.”

“What do you mean?” Millanueve asked her.

“Our hosts may have their shortcomings in terms of manners and sympathy, but emiri generally value consistency. Cohesion above chaos, to put it succinctly. Granting us a shelter, then denying it; sparing our lives, then attempting to take them—these contradictory actions speak of an abnormal state of internal disorder. It goes against the very culture to take individual action against the established consensus. If this is all true, then it does not bode well. Neither for us nor the stability of the nation.”

“You mean to say, there’s some kind of in-fighting going on?” Stefan asked.

“In a way, perhaps,” Carmelia answered. “But dismissing it merely as such would be downplaying the matter. Rebellious acts here bear significance vastly different from what they would in a human society, where such are more or less commonplace. You must understand, there is no crime in an emiri community. They are beings of harmony, of strict unity. It would be inconceivable for individual citizens to defy law and order purely for personal motivations, no matter how they disagree with the regime. An emiri will sooner choose to exclude themselves from the society altogether and perish, rather than attempt to take justice in their own hands. Regardless of how they are wronged.”

“How mad!” Millanueve unwittingly exclaimed, unable to comprehend such a mentality. After all, the Ludgwertans’ entire quest was born out of a private ambition. Their chivalry was built upon the standards of the strong defending the weak against all odds, whereas for the elves, weakness was largely perceived as the individual’s own fault.

“So what’s really going on?” Stefan scratched his head.

“To make brief of the difficult matter,” Carmelia explained, “incidents like yesterday’s are only possible if they are not truly independent actions, regardless of appearances. The assailants must be part of a larger faction, which has assumed a stance opposing the Court, either openly or in secret. They have elected to act the way they do, because they perceive that the current regime no longer represents Alderia as a whole—whereas they do. And, contrary to the Throne’s policy, we are being perceived as an active threat to the community.”

“How can that be?” Millanueve asked in dismay. “What could we possibly do to threaten them so, as we are?”

“Perhaps that is precisely the problem,” Carmelia suggested in an evasive tone. “Not what you can do, but being as you are.”

“What do you mean...?”

On this subject, the Court Wizard kept diplomatically tight-lipped.

“I am not certain yet, and therefore, would prefer not to mislead you with fallacious theories.”

“And the guards?” Alexander asked. “Were they in on it? You don’t suppose this other faction has even infiltrated the court? If so, then there’s no safe place anywhere for us.”

“The possibility cannot be ruled out,” the sorceress replied. “But it was likely only idle harassment on the guards’ part. They are given authority to decide who is allowed into the Palace and who is not, and are...liable to abuse that authority. The guards could not have foreseen that Izumi would leave the Palace, or which direction she would take, and so set up the ambush. I am more inclined to believe that the operators of the hostile faction merely met her by chance, and seized the opportunity. Since you humans are not deemed as equals and killing you is—well, not considered a murder. However, as soon as they discover that she lives still, they are bound to target her again. And the rest of you as well. After all, the danger you pose to them has now grown, with what you have learned.”

“Great. We’ve barely arrived and they want us dead,” Stefan summarized.

“The Hel did we do to deserve this?” Alexander grunted, clenching his fists. “They won’t answer us, or even suffer us live? Some noble race indeed!”

Carmelia narrowed her eyes at his words.

“Yes, if no questions are made, then there is no need to provide answers either...”

“Hm?” Izumi didn’t fail to notice that the sorceress was onto something. However, Carmelia wouldn’t disclose her suspicions even to a friend.

“Either way,” the Court Wizard shortly continued, “it has become evident that you are not entirely safe even within the Palace grounds. The enemy must not be allowed to learn of Izumi’s survival yet, or they may resort to even more drastic measures. Therefore, I see no other choice but to have you move house.”

“Move?” the others echoed, confused.

What place in this miserable island could be safer than the Royal Palace, the central stronghold of the kingdom? However, before Carmelia could explain further, the door of their chamber abruptly opened.

“——?”

In the doorway stood the imposing frame of a human warrior, muddied, bruised, and covered in scrapes all over, and soaking wet from head to toe.

It was Waramoti.

The man took a long step in, a blank, forward stare in his eyes, and—fell flat on his face with a loud thud.

For a few seconds, everyone was too astonished to even move. Then, fearing the noble hero had been mortally wounded by an unknown assailant, the knights all rushed to his side. They carefully turned the man around, to examine his wounds and offer whatever treatment was necessary, or possible.

However, no wounds too deadly could be found on his abused form. Staring sternly at the ceiling, still fully conscious, Waramoti opened his mouth and announced,

“I hunger.”

2

The infamous ex-mercenary was given food, and soon regained some of his usual vitality. Under everyone’s ceaseless questioning, Waramoti was forced to explain where he had been for a whole day, and what perils he had faced.

And the audience began to regret ever asking, as he carried on.

“As said, I went to sing,” Waramoti told them. “I found a suitable stage not far from the central avenue, a plaza with a great number of civilian residences around. There I resolved to begin my artistic conquest of Alderia, though I admit the effort rendered me unusually nervous, almost as if I had become an innocent teen once more. I started by reciting a poem I wrote on the way here, not even a very long one, since I felt it was a tad too daring to break into song so early in the day. My intention was to gradually attune my vocal cords to the humid sea air, and felt the recital was proceeding quite smoothly, all things considered. The gargantuan trees offered a most majestic background to my performance, even though the acoustics left something to be desired. However, as expected, the elves were not an easily pleased audience. Many came to offer me feedback in increasingly aggressive tones, but I did not understand what they were saying, and persisted. In no time, quite a crowd had gathered around me, and instead of politely listening or offering coins, they started to forcefully shove me around. I then arrived in the conclusion that there were perhaps better venues to be found for my craft. I tried out several other spots around the city, but the critical reception did not improve by much. Some threw sticks and stones at me, one picked me up and tossed me down a nearby ravine, but I couldn’t allow myself to return home without a semblance of success. And success I eventually found, in a way.”

“Lies!” Izumi interjected in disbelief.

“It is true, on my honor,” Waramoti insisted. “Later in the evening, I was approached by a certain, refined gentleman, who knew the common tongue well enough and addressed me in an exceptionally civil manner. He informed me that my voice vividly reminded him of a broken, rusted plow dragged on naked bedrock, and requested that I returned to whatever cavern I’d crawled from. But I saw at once by his astute observation that he was a man of culture, and that this was the very opportunity I had been long waiting for. I immediately requested the man to make me his apprentice and correct the errors in my presentation. He strongly refused such an impossible task—his words, not mine—but I never presumed to win him over so easily to begin with. So I followed him all the way to his house and took a seat outside the gate of it, waiting for my chosen master to change his mind. He would occasionally take a gander through the window, tell me my ugliness was frightening his wife, and yelled at me to scram. But I had no intention to give up. I remained where I was for all night, not budging an inch. At daybreak, I greeted the sun with a merry little song, thinking my dedication would melt the old master’s heart, and he came and whipped me with a stick. But my body had suffered through worse on the northern battlefields, and some semblance of mercy held his hand. There, I knew I was beginning to win him over. I have an eye for these things, mind you.”

“So he did take you for an apprentice in the end?” Millanueve asked.

“No, he did not,” the bard shook his head. “He called me an accursed little ape, and returned to his house, not showing himself again. And later in the afternoon, without eating, drinking, or sleeping for more than a day, and still fatigued by the lengthy journey, I began to feel slightly light-headed, and thought I should make a temporary retreat to gather my strength. Which brings me here. This appears to be turning into a battle of attrition, but rest assured, I shall triumph by the end of it. I took a bath in a river on the way, and will return to my to-be-mentor’s house the first thing tomorrow, fresh and ready.”

“I think you got hit in the head a few times too many,” Izumi pointed out.

In spite of the warrior’s somewhat suicidal report, the others were mainly only relieved that he hadn’t been targeted by the hostile elements lurking in the elven dominion.

As soon as Waramoti had rested enough to move again, the group headed out of the Palace under Carmelia’s lead. They passed once more through the front gate, with the two knights keeping watch. The guards made no remarks as the crew left the building, preserving their statue-like solemnity uninterrupted.

However, whereas the rest walked on, Carmelia made an unexpected turn back, and raised her hand high up, squeezing her fingers into a tight fist.

An eerie red glow appeared coiling around the guards, who backed up in astonishment. Before they could so much as make a sound, the light intensified, and the pair was veiled by an explosion of smoke and scattering embers. The humans watched the show eyes wide. As the dust soon cleared, they saw that the elven knights in their brass armors were gone. In their place, on the marble pavement, leaped only a pair of spotted toads.

“You can turn people into frogs!?” Izumi exclaimed, horrified.

“It is only a temporary illusion. Albeit a rather convincing one,” Carmelia halfheartedly explained, turning to go on. “As you can see, I myself am not without a sense of humor. Hurry now. We’re using the gate. I don’t want anyone else to know our destination.”

It really didn’t look like a joke. Giving the toads one last horrified glance, reminding herself to never again annoy the Court Wizard more than was necessary, Izumi followed after the others.

“Where will you take us?” Millanueve asked Carmelia.

Despite the fearsome show of magical power, Millanueve seemed to have shedded some of her initial fear of the sorceress, often questioning her without particular displays of caution or formality. Just as curious was how Carmelia wordlessly accepted this casual address and graced it with answers. It was almost as if those two had found some manner of a common ground over the past two days, despite their differences.

Although, in this case, the answer turned out unexpectedly curt.

“A safe place,” the sorceress merely said.

Imagining wondrous ancient fortresses, each mightier than the last, the companions followed Carmelia through the opaque portal she conjured. But the sight that awaited them on the other side left the lot of them somewhat disappointed.

There were no magnificent citadels in view.

Instead, the party saw a plain forest road lined with simple, close to identical houses under great trees, on both sides of the one-way lane. Indeed, it looked much like any ordinary suburb in the world, in this one or the other. Sooner than legendary heroes or magical warriors, one was more likely to see a tired salaryman walking his dog there, or children playing ball in one of the yards that barely waist-high hedgerows guarded.

Not that the travelers actually saw a soul.

No more protectors than xenophobic pedestrians.

The neighborhood stood quiet and still, almost as if abandoned.

“What’s this? The Hobitton?” Izumi pondered, gazing around.

The other human travelers looked equally confused as they walked on, though their impressions were probably slightly different. Offering no explanations, Carmelia strode on for a bit further, before turning to approach the gate of one of the houses, opened it with a wave of her hand, and entered a tidy front yard that short-cut lawn covered.

A little footpath paved with round stones led across the yard, to a sturdy oak door.

Taking a few steps along the path, the sorceress stopped and waited.

Shortly, the front door opened.

An emiri woman in simple, gray-blue clothes and an apron emerged, to see what the gathering outside the house was about. The moment she saw Carmelia, the woman stopped short, with a face like seeing a ghost, mouth agape.

Carmelia said nothing, and for a moment, the two were left staring at each other under a highly awkward silence.

“Malevalá,” the unknown woman then uttered.

“Isa,” Carmelia now responded. “I need your help.”

3

Regardless of race or culture, the layout of civilian dwellings tended to share certain common key characteristics. There was a kitchen, of course, with sufficient space to both prepare meals and to enjoy them, complete with a large dining table of six seats. Merged with the kitchen area was a spacious, round-walled living room, with stylized armchairs and a divan, drawers, a bookshelf, house plants, and other appropriate furnishings. All that was missing was a nice, fifty-inch QLED TV, Izumi felt. A bedroom door could be seen as well, a bathroom, and a staircase to the attic, which doubled for a guest room and storage space. Down the corridor under the stairs was one more guest room, though it didn’t look like there was anyone else in the house right now.

It was a cozy, simple house. The lifestyle of an average emiri citizen might have seemed exceedingly ascetic by human standards. For these people, the efficiency of living, with minimal hindrance to the neighbors and the natural environment, was a priority above the dwellers’ personal pleasure. Or rather, it was in living clean that these people found their pleasure.

In this regard, Isa Natilí Na Di Odian was an exemplary representative of her kind.

“It looks like a hobbit house on the inside too,” Izumi remarked. “Just bigger.”

“What kind of a house is that...?” Millanueve asked by reflex, also feeling that she didn’t really want an answer.

The ceiling was indeed higher, seeing as emiri were larger than humans on the average, and the buildings and all the objects they made were scaled up accordingly.

The guests had all gathered in the living room area, where the lot of them fit in a line without much trouble. They were all too tense to even think about sitting down, despite the inviting chairs. Standing side by side, unsure of what was to come, they followed the meeting of the two elven women of opposing factions, concern in their hearts.

Though those two appeared to know one another, their meeting didn’t look particularly heartwarming.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” the emiri woman called Isa said, crossing her arms, her voice heavy with irony. She sneered at Carmelia, who appeared rather awkward and out of place. “The daughter of the King Most High comes to my humble house, asking for my help.”

Perhaps she chose to use the common tongue following Carmelia’s example—or perhaps to let the human visitors know how absurd and ridiculous the occasion was. In spite of this, it became quite clear to everyone that she was not a simple housewife, having a history with the infamous Court Wizard.

Moreover, though she didn’t look like a legendary magician herself, or a princess, Isa’s presence was hardly less imposing than that of Carmelia. On the contrary, as they stood there, face to face, Izumi felt the emiri was in many ways the more fearsome of the two.

A fair two spans taller than Carmelia, Isa looked tough and upright, and not a stranger to hard work. But though she lacked that certain feminine fragility, and seemed like she could have arm-wrestled Waramoti for an easy win, this didn’t make her unsightly, by any means. Isa’s figure was slender and fit, and she carried herself with upright pride and grace. Her beige hair reached a bit below the shoulders, unbound but tidily combed, and her face was quite attractive with its willful, light gray eyes. Were she human, Izumi would have estimated Isa to be around her own age, from mid-thirties to early forties, but a human she wasn’t and guessing was pointless.

Next to Isa, who appeared to ooze vitality, Carmelia looked unusually frail, unhealthy, and almost meek.

“These humans need protection,” the magician explained. “Their lives are in danger, and I cannot always be there to watch over them. Let them stay at your house for a time, and I will see to it that you are compensated for your troubles.”

“It’s been two hundred years,” Isa ignored her and said. “I thought you were dead.”

“You were mistaken,” the sorceress replied with nonchalance, but avoided Isa’s gaze.

“In case you forgot, I’m not your servant anymore, ‘Princess’. You dismissed me. I have no obligation, no duty, no cause whatsoever to become mixed in your problems. You abandoned us, in case you forgot. Voicing any sympathy for your kind these days can get one banned from the island! So give me one good reason why I should listen to you now, instead of calling the guards?”

It was highly unexpected—and perhaps just a bit refreshing—to see the Court Wizard on the receiving end of a scolding, Izumi thought.

“Isidro...Isn’t home?” Carmelia asked, glancing around the house.

“He died,” Isa reported, facing the kitchen. “Forty years ago. Forty-six.”

“I see,” the sorceress laconically murmured.

“The island took him. Elouve as well. And Iruna. There’s no one left. Do you see, Caalan? No one. It’s over.”

“We’re still here,” the sorceress replied.

“But for how long?”

“It doesn’t matter. So long as we live, we have a purpose.”

“Damn you and your purpose!” Isa snapped at her, turning back. “Two hundred years and you haven’t changed one bit! Had I known our reunion would go like this, I wouldn’t have bothered opening the door. Oh, who am I kidding! I always knew it would go like this! What are you even doing here?”

“These people—”

“—I’ll look after them, all right!” Isa interrupted, losing her temper again. “Bet they only got involved because of your damned machinations. Rather, I’m surprised their well-being matters to you at all. Since when were you one to care for those beneath you? Before your grand ‘purpose’, all else is irrelevant, isn’t that right? Ah! So that would be the reason, yes? These puppets are still useful to you, of course.”

“I assure you, it is not what you’re thinking,” the sorceress argued, without much zeal.

Leaving Carmelia, Isa approached the human guests, who remained still further back, nervously waiting.

“Very well then,” she told them, scanning the lot of them with her eyes. “You can stay here for as long as you help around the house, don’t make a mess, and don’t cause any trouble. The moment it becomes a nuisance for me, I’m throwing you out. Don’t expect any miracles from me either. If they ever come looking for you, I’m not going to stick out my neck for you, but hand you over. Do we understand each other?”

The humans all nodded in agreement. It was quite difficult to talk back to someone nearly seven feet tall. Though there was an exception.

Waramoti suddenly stepped out of the line.

“On behalf of my companions, I humbly thank thee for thy boundless generosity, o’ fair lady of the immortals,” he pronounced, bowing deep. “It is more than we, who are born into the shadow of death, deserve. Ask anything of us, and we shall spare no effort in returning the favor twice—nay, thrice over. And what we know not, pray teach us, and so cure us of our beastly ignorance.”

“What is wrong with this guy?” Isa turned to ask Carmelia.

“I hate to be a burden, but please look after us, Lady Isa,” Millanueve followed Waramoti’s example and also stepped forward with a bow. “As shameful as it is to admit, we are helpless on our own. On my honor as a knight of Ludgwert, I swear we will not bring shame to your household!”

“A-as the captain says,” Stefan also bowed his head.

“Please,” Alexander bowed too, though his tone wasn’t quite as sincere.

“Well, at least you seem to know where you stand.” Isa gave them all a scrutinizing look, though not entirely displeased by their humble attitudes.

Then, her critical eyes turned to Izumi.

“O-oh! Let’s get along!” Izumi stuttered and bowed, in a rather comical fashion compared to the rest.

“Hm. Why, aren’t you a mixed bag,” Isa unexpectedly stepped in front of Izumi and her gaze narrowed in displeasure. “You kind of smell.”

“Eeh?” Izumi leaned back in shock. “I-I do know how to take care of my personal hygiene, even in a medieval fantasy land!”

“You reek of death,” the elven woman continued, not amused, and leaned even closer. “I’m not sure I want you in my house.”

“Um...” The earthling helplessly furrowed her brows, not knowing what to say.

“Fortunately then, she won’t be staying for long,” Carmelia interrupted them.

“Eh, I won’t?” Izumi asked.

Meeting the woman’s gaze, the sorceress answered her confusion,

“You wished to see Erekhigan, did you not? I found out where he lives.”

4

The humans were thus given a temporary sanctuary, hopefully sparing them from any further mischief by the unknown enemies in the main city. The Court Wizard of Tratovia would not remain with them for long, however, but departed from Isa’s house as soon as she was finished with her business, entrusting the humans' lives to her former servant.

Back at the Royal Palace, an event demanding her immediate attention was about to unfold.

The sun was about to set. A full day had passed.

The gloomy assembly of the priests of the night once again gathered in the throne room of Alderia’s King. As promised the day before, the ptolean emissaries had returned to state their demands. They were like a shadow taking root in the middle of the otherwise bridal white hall, a stain, a disgrace.

No one wanted them there, for certain, but perhaps this would be the last time the elves had to endure those shady figures’ company. Clinging onto the hope that the ptoleans would depart after some token redress and never return again, the King and his court did their best to contain their revulsion.

Their patience was certainly tested.

“I am returned,” Koolon, son of Klaum, spoke. “How fare you today, your grace? Sun once shone above your people, brighter than for all the rest. What about now? Is it a new day you see ahead of you? Or a nightfall?”

Koolon’s stone-like face was indecipherable, and the look in his spotless eyes didn’t betray a single emotion. His voice was stable, neutral—condescending, if anything. His companions made no move, standing behind their leader like impersonal reflections.

“Spare us of your madness, you shaman of the past,” the King told them. “Make your claim and begone.”

“So you do recognize the justification of our cause?”

“I recognize that you miserable villains will not stop haunting our footsteps until we resolve things for good. One foolish band after another will venture to disgrace our doorsteps, no matter how many times they are chased back. Let this be the end, Koolon. Find whatever settlement your accursed clan can be content with and never again set foot in Alderia.”

“We need not be enemies, King,” the ptolean said. “As you said yourself, the debt between our peoples was made by others. Why don’t we start over then? You and I. Who knows what we might gain by joining forces?”

“Every sound you utter is an insult to me and my people,” King Quaran replied, disgust clear on his countenance. “Our history still remembers Xbalot and Xebalba, and how you incited the beast tribes against us. And we do not forgive. No. Disappear with the accursed cirelo you joined hands with and leave Alderia be. There will be no bonds between us. Not now, not ever.”

“Shame,” Koolon said, turning. “Because such was to be my request.”

“What?”

“Yes. To forge a new, unbreakable bond with the race that was once our sworn enemy, and which so very nearly destroyed us. You see, unlike you, I am not beyond forgiveness, Quaran, son of Fanaran.”

The King’s glare wouldn’t lighten. “What are you talking about, you despicable wretch?”

“Your people stole the future from mine,” the ptolean answered. “What I want is merely to have it back. It is not earthly rewards, or empty riches that I seek, but a promise of something better. An assurance of continuity, if you will.”

The King could barely contain his wrath at Koolon’s ambiguous words, sensing foul intentions behind them.

“Whatever future your people are headed for will have naught to do with us.”

“Oh, but that is not so, at all. You see, for my people to have a future, your people are something of a necessity. To revive a dying tree, a sapling of a new, fresh one may sometimes be needed. For since ancient times, due to a bizarre whim of the gods or otherwise, there has been a certain ‘compatibility’ in our bloodlines.”

The ptolean’s words made no sense to anyone in the room.

On the surface, they appeared only the deranged ramblings of a lunatic.

But then, a terrible thought occurred to King Quaran. It made his face twitch in uncontrollable rage and loathing. He quickly subdued his inner turmoil. Surely it had only been his wild imagination at work, and nothing grounded in reality. It couldn’t possibly be otherwise.

Yet, Koolon’s next words turned his worst fears true.

“That’s right——I want the Dawnstar. Give her to me.”

“You bastard!” the King leaped up from his throne. “How do you know about her, you thrice-cursed abomination!?”

“Your secrets are not particularly well-guarded, King,” Koolon answered with revolting calmness. “And you gave us a day to learn of it.”

“Guards!” the elven king roared. “Not even dying a thousand times would be enough to pay back this insult, Koolon! But die you will, I promise this to you! Begone!”

The Royal Guard turned their spears and raised their shields.

Even if armed themselves, the ptoleans were surrounded and outnumbered three to one. However, in spite of the continued poor odds, the visitors remained calm and still.

“I see,” Koolon spoke, looking around at the wall of spears without fear. “I was afraid you would answer like this. A shame indeed, while not unexpected. If you would go this far to deny us, then we will have to take a different path to reach balance. If you will not allow us a future, then we will simply take yours away.”

Instead of turning to fight the guards, the ptolean clutched the lapels of his purple robe, and pulled them slowly apart, baring his wide chest. Through the deep-blue flesh was visible an unsettling, red glow within his torso, like a lantern sunken into sea. Before the confused eyes of the guards, that light suddenly began to brighten.

At the same time, similar glow began to emit through the forms of all the other emissaries, as a constellation of furious stars.

“What is the meaning of this?” King Quaran looked at the ghastly lights, appalled.

“An insurance, if you will,” Koolon answered. “You see, we have also grown tired of coming back to you people, time after time again, only to be disappointed. There will be no next. Kill us, King, and we will take you with us. Your future, alongside ours.”

“What…?”

“Blood magic,” Carmelia spoke up in the audience, narrowing her eyes in discomfort. “They have buried crystal rituals within their own bodies. The bearer’s death will trigger the spell, causing the crystal to detonate. The souls of immortal beings are high-value sacrificial materials—and yield tremendous destructive potential. The resulting explosion would level the entire Palace. And us together with it.”

Stunned by the revelation, the guards stopped in their tracks. The spearheads wavered and fell. A chilling quiet spread into the throne room. No one dared so much as to breathe.

Save the ptoleans themselves.

“Now can you feel what it’s like to be on the verge of extinction, King?” Koolon asked, looking up at Quaran. “Welcome. We have been expecting you.”