Novarra sorted out the crisis in Rook. Surprisingly, all it took was Belluse getting elected mayor.

The shop owner looked at the mayor's robes she wore with a frown. It was a new addition to the office position, but it suited the redhead. “The Frosthold,” she said. “You’re going to the northernmost point of Elevyar, to claim the Holy Sword of Durendal.”

Varra nodded, smiling. “Yep,” the former heiress replied, popping the p. “Sorry for leaving you behind, though. The fire should be taken care of, if my favor comes through. The Elevyarian reinforcements will take care of it, I’m sure.” She sighed. “I wanted to take you with me, but Souveraine told me to bring Evan instead. Are you sure your forged identity’ll hold up under scrutiny, though?”

Belluse shrugged. “I guess I’ll find out, Your Majesty,” the dutiful former maid replied.

Novarra put her hands on her friend’s shoulders. “I’m worried.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I’m still worried. I’m sorry, by the way.”

“For what?”

“Dragging you in this mess in the first place. Asking you to run away with me.” It had started out as a favor to the other Nova, but Belluse was dear to Varra now.

“It’s okay,” Belluse said, simply. “I trust you.”

Guilt managed to worm its way in Novarra’s gut, but the heiress pushed it aside. “Okay,” Varra replied. She squeezed her friend’s shoulders. “Thank you.” As if compelled by some outside force, Novarra brought Belluse into a tight embrace. Sinking her head onto the former maid’s shoulders, she said, almost muffled, “Thank you, so, so much.”

The shop owner gave a small start, before easing into the hug. “You’re welcome,” Belluse responded easily, as Novarra felt her friend stroke her head. The voices calmed for a second, before the former heiress broke it off.

They were in their home for the past five years, her home, and Novarra felt a sense of an unlabelled emotion. Guilt, regret, sadness? She missed it, the sense of a family, belonging - Varra sighed, and turned her gaze to the window.

It opened to a vivid afternoon sun, the cerulean sky bright and taunting. She was different, now - she was powerful, here, immortal-

YOU NEED TO GO-

"Goodbye," the former heiress said quietly, half to Belluse and half to the house.

A silence.

“Ivauhnking,” Novarra called, cheerfully, “we’re leaving town.”

Evan was frowning at a townsperson who Varra didn’t know the name of, but the former heiress was sure that she had just prevented the blooming of an argument. The original protagonist’s scowl deepened when he saw Novarra, but sighed. “What do you want?”

“[To skedaddle before the reinforcements actually arrive],” she replied in her original tongue, smirking. “[Why, would you rather spend the time in the possession of the Elevyarian king]?”

Evan sighed again. “[Fine, fine],” he muttered under his breath. After shooting Novarra a well-aimed glare, he marched towards the former heiress’ direction. “What do you want?” he repeated, in a lower voice.

A smile tugged at Varra’s lips, and she let it. Reaching towards Evan’s head, she messed up his hair childishly. “We’re going north,” she said, “to the Frosthold of Elevyar, after finding a guide at a tavern.”

Evan glared at her, but the sharpness of it was dulled when he barely reached her waist. “Durendal’s there? How do you know?” The satchel on his shoulder had a conspicuous weight to it that meant that Excalibur wasn’t in his hand at the moment, but the newly-discovered immortal tilted her head.

“Have you looked up the Thief’s Brand, like I told you?” she asked, curious, hand floating to her side.

Evan shook his head. “Haven’t gotten the chance to,” he admitted, flexing his hand. “Was planning on waiting for my mana to regenerate before doing — or starting — anything risky, but it’ll be full by the end of the month, hopefully.”

“We should sit,” Novarra said suddenly. “It’ll be a long talk.”

They sat, and the former heiress told him.

A long silence.

“So Excalibur,” Evan ennuciated slowly, “makes me loose the ability to feel?”

Novarra shook her head. “Kind of,” the heiress said. “Durendal, if claimed by a thief, makes someone lose their sight, or foresight and hindsight, causing blunders; Clarent, if claimed by a thief, makes someone lose their taste in the people around them, causing misjudgements at the most critical places, and Excalibur creates loss of touch, or touch with life.” The immortal tried, “You know, fundamental things like empathy, morals, social skills? Things like that, I think. But that’s only as a punishment to those who steal Claims.”

Evan frowned. “Yeah,” he realized. “I stole—”

“- Kiara’s claim,” Novarra finished. “And if I Claim Durendal, I’ll lose my foresight and hindsight, which is a pretty bad weakness if you think about it, but one that can be hidden if I lie that I was Chosen by the sword.” The retired queen shrugged. “I mean, apparently I’ll be given a rank of a countess, if I discover it, and be given a noble writ for my services to the Elevyarian royal family.”

“A win-win, but with higher stakes,” the other transmigrator summed up.

“But the third transmigrator can mess everything up.” Varra threw up her hands, seemingly frustrated.

She said seemingly, because irritation only served to mess up her plans.

Evan simply responded, “There’s a but.” The peer in a child’s body blinked back at here, the statement laced with certainty.

Novarra laughed. “I’m relieved that you trust me that much,” she said with a trace of mockery in the tone, “but yes, there’s a but. The third transmigrator can mess everything up, but — haven’t you noticed?” She gestured towards her surroundings. It’s everywhere. “Cliches — they’re everywhere. The dutiful maid, the puppet queen, the everyman transmigrator — not an insult meant, of course — the overpowered mages, the wise kings, the complicated theories...they’re all controlled, regulated.”

Evan raised his eyebrows. “Your point is?”

“There’s a point,” the former heiress insisted. It all points to it. “The System talks to me as if they know what’s going to happen. All of this, all of the transmigrating — it isn’t a System mistake; the Butterfly Effect is a programmed response, but not to the deviation of the original storyline.” Novarra shook her head. “And don’t tell me it’s paranoia, you can tell, can’t you?”

The other transmigrator blinked, slowly. “I’ll listen,” he said finally, “to your hypothesis.” That meant he knew something that supported the theory—

The thoughts drove her, voices clamoring: “Look, this world has the Metaphysical Theory, right? If we transmigrated into a book, there would be clues driving the plot forward — the clue here, this clue, is staring us right in the face. The System is a Meta entity, higher than the Heroes they worship as gods here.” The heat from the fire she set filled her words.

“It wouldn’t be rational,” Novarra said, cooling her voice down a bit, “for a Metaphysical to make mistakes. They could wipe our existences out with just a snap of their fingers — why would they go out of their way to put three transmigrators in one world and mess everything up for them?”

Evan frowned, just a bit.

“It’s the plot,” the former puppet queen answered her own question. “There’s a fate, a plot, we have to follow. This cross-player nonsense is a diversion — the System is much more dangerous than they let on.”

“And?” The boy was surprisingly calm. “You’re immortal. What are you going to do about it?”

A laugh ripped itself out of the heiress’ lips, involuntarily. Involuntarily. There were little things that Novarra did involuntarily, but…

“Nothing,” the former heiress declared, throwing her hands up in the air. “I ran away, became adequately powerful, dealt with this world’s gods — what is death? Can it save me from going down a predetermined path? Can death do anything for me? Can immortality do anything for me?” IT CAN’T. “It can’t,” Varra said, shaking her head. “Fuck, I can keep asking myself, ‘why me?’ and throw pity parties all day but, Ivauhnking—”

The boy met the girl’s eyes.

“The fact doesn’t change,” the girl continued, “that we’re playing an entirely different game from the ones we know. But, this time, there’s an audience.”

Evan didn’t respond.

“Quit the Guild! Build an Empire! I can’t die—” it was the truth now, HER TRUTH “-so why not do whatever I want for as long as I live?” The retired queen laughed. “See, Evan — if my future’s a self-fulfilled prophecy, the logical thing to do is fulfill it, right?”

“Win the game,” the Ivauhnking said dryly, “but do it, your way?”

Novarra shook her head. “That’s the thing,” she corrected, “there’s no game to be won. A life watched is still a life to live, a play where you know the person next to you knows the ending is still a play to be watched.” She was almost rambling, her thoughts jumbled, but still she smiled. She used [Air Manipulation] to form part of her [Sky Whip] in her hand, the chain of winds glimmering in her hand.

“Magic,” she breathed, but then she smiled.

Evan was looking at her like she was crazy.

Novarra Ultra got up. “Let’s go, soon,” she chirped, “before Belluse has to deal with villager riots.”

Evan reluctantly accepted her outstretched hand, and dusted himself off before following the Queen into the direction of the noon sun.

They only stepped ten meters out of the town when they encountered the king’s reinforcements.

An older man, a younger man that looked like his son, and another man who looked Novarra’s age. They all descended the carriage at the halting of Varra and Evan, their luxurious clothes a dead giveaway.

“Vanahan crest on some of the guards,” Evan whispered, “Rella on most of them, and the carriage.” Novarra didn’t have time to question how he knew, but she readied herself and her facades.

“H-h-hello!” she squeaked out, managing to sound satisfactorily like a frightened peasant. “Y-y-y-your L-L-Lordships?” She winded an arm around Evan’s neck and pulled him closer like he was her son, muffling his protests in her waist while bowing frantically. She was afraid for her child, they were nobles, surprise, shock, fear—

The older man’s son smiled kindly. “Hello there,” he said, before introducing himself, “My name is Bertram la Vanahan, and this is my father, the current Marquis Vanahan. The other man is by the name of Aidann de Rella. We’re to help you — I’m assuming you’re from the nearby town, Rook?”

Novarra gulped.

Bertram tried another approach: “Is that your child? How old is—”

The former heiress let her voice become shrill, as she gripped Evan almost theatrically tighter. “A-a-are you going to take him a-a-away?”

Bertram winced, the introduced Marquis scowling while plugging his ears, as the oldest son of Rella — a problem — didn’t move.

“Now, now,” the marquis’ son coaxed, “there’s no need to be so hasty…”

Evan managed to wriggle his way out of Varra’s chokehold, coughing his way out of suffocation, as the boy opened his mouth and nothing came out. Novarra reached for him again, still pretending to be fearful, as the original protagonist’s eyes widened. WHaT HaPPENED— Her eyes followed Evan’s gaze to a space above the duke’s son’s head, which meant that he was— using his System-given Ability?

He was using his System-given ability, but for that reaction —

It was only a matter of seconds, before the Ivauhnking blurted out: “[You]!”

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—

Her vocabulary became primitive when it came to times of distress, she noticed. Well, it was understandable.

Novarra schooled her features into a calm expression, letting go of the boy. “[Evan, if you got it wrong, I swear to Xuena I’ll end you],” she warned. “[It’s — ]”

“No need for anyone to end anyone, here,” the boy that Novarra was formerly familiar with chuckled. His eyes gleamed. “[Always nice to meet a fellow transmigrator].”

Aidann Ehwa was being faced with a mother-son pair. At least, that was what it would’ve looked like, to a bystander.

Sometimes, when he wasn’t acting, he liked to put his eyeview into a picture frame, analyze it like a piece of art — maybe it was one thing he had in common with this body. The other Aidann liked to draw beads of crimson spilling on almost grotesque figures contorted in scenarios of pain, chiaroscuros that could’ve symbolized the moral greys in which he saw the world, gardens illuminated by moonlight in almost startingly realisticality. This Aidann, the only Aidann that existed in this world, now, preferred the abstract of things. Curves, colors, shapes, emotions.

The mother-son pair was strange. Maybe it was the way the boy struggled when pulled into her embrace just a touch too aggressively, or the way lean muscles rippled through the mother’s body structure that couldn’t have been formed through farmwork, or the recognizable sword-work calluses on her hands. The emotions on her face were almost undeniable, though, as if honed through weeks of practice, vividly real as a distraction.

But then the boy spoke a language that wasn’t supposed to be spoken in this world.

The hints all clicked together — who would’ve set fire to the camp, changed the course of diplomatic relations of a continent? A person who cared little for the continent itself. A transmigrator.

Like him.

“[Always nice to meet a fellow transmigrator],” Aidann responded, dryly.

Bertram looked at the scene in confusion. “What are you— Lord Aidann, do you know these people?”

Aidann tilted his head. “You could say that,” he allowed after a while, a falsely mischievous expression clawing up his face, “but you also couldn’t.”

The young mother let a smile stretch across his face, posture unfolding into a confident stance — like that of a magician or a charlatan, Aidann thought to himself — while transforming into a completely different person. “Right,” she agreed, giving a small bow to the other confused nobles.

“My name is Ingrid Signia,” the woman introduced herself with almost practiced ease, “of the former Signia Barony of Resilia. I’m currently working as a teaching assistant at Vya Academy, although I had to take leave once I heard about the situation here.” False disapproval tugged down her lips, as she gestured towards her ‘son.’ “This is Evan King, an esteemed member of Cavialierre, Resilia’s best Guild, dispatched to check in on the rebels.”

Evan King—

The protagonist?

How—

“Resilian spies,” snarled the marquis in accusation.

The woman under the false alias Ingrid shook her head. “I’m a proud Elevyarian citizen of Rook,” she said, before continuing, almost mockingly, “I’m sure you wouldn’t want to exploit my race for your own personal gain.” The Marquis Vanahan, the slimy git, frowned. “I tried to unite the town and provide some sort of resistance against them—” she shrugged “-but evidently, nature took care of that for us. Don’t get me wrong, I’m relieved — but the smart thing to do would be to hightail it out of a burning house before anyone decides it’s easier to accuse a victim of being a culprit than actually finding the arsonist.”

“You talk a lot,” Bertram observed, perplexed.

“I feel it’s better than letting other people talk and mess my plans up,” the other agreed, honest, as she clapped her hands together. “Again, I’m sorry for bumping into you on your way to cleaning up what I’m sure is a very important mess. I would refrain from lengthening this conversation further, as it would only end up in one of us hating the other, so I’ll be on my way.”

The woman talked in a way that was purposely confusing, bombarding quick speech with conversational landmines that was deliberately meant to throw the nobles off guard — that, Aidann noticed. So the transmigrator was cunning, but there was only so much damage confusion could do — displays of flamboyance could be cut through easily with the knife of neutrality.

But was it neutrality, she was looking for?

Her dark eyes flickered towards Aidann, and she gave him a pleasant smile. “It’s good to see you again, Dann,” she said while bowing. “Renee says hello.”

“Well met, ‘Grid,” Aidann replied in return. “[We should talk, my friend. Catch up]?”

“[Of course],” the woman responded in the same language. “[When can you get away]?”

Bertram shook his head, interrupting the exchange. “Look, Lord Aidann,” the marquis’ son interjected, “although they may be your acquaintances, our job is to take care of any suspicious individuals that—”

Aidann rolled his eyes internally, but felt the strings of illusion over a nearby grove. It should do as a distraction, an excuse for separation — crimson flowers licking at the heels of screaming men, Vivaldi’s Storm, no, Pagnini Caprice No. 24? Red — and so he conjured the illusion of fire, painting a picture on the canvas of existence.

“Fire!” someone screamed, probably a knight, and Aidann could see the tendrils of the mirage wrapping around their vision and perception. Red.

It was easy enough.

While they were distracted, he gestured for the woman, an impressed look on her face, and the boy to follow, and so they ran away from the chaos the Artist had created.

“So.” Unsurprisingly, Novarra herself was one to break the silence first. “What was that, back then?” The logical conclusion would be to assume that it was some type of hypnosis ability — the flames were shockingly realistic, as if feathered and painted by a careful hand; but her mind screamed that it wasn’t rational for a fire to start roaring up out of nowhere, especially when they were so far from the woods — the needling of doubt that pin-pricked her brain gnawed at her.

Perhaps it was chance, but the flames faded away by an increment, everytime the amount increased — hypnosis, that depended on how much the target believed it, she deduced. Her mind was probably off-kilter, how it grabbed at the strangest conclusions, but when everything was irrational you had to eliminate the rational.

“Illusions,” he replied, simply.

It was strange, to see a person you ‘knew,’ with another soul occupying their body. The facial features were the same — his mien was still like a dashing prince’s, but there was something that glittered beneath his eyes that wasn’t like the soulless puppet that had stared back at her all those (years?) ago.

There was something there, a motive, a reason. If you stared at the supposed duke’s son enough, you could see how his icy smile back then had a hint of purposeful mischief to balance it out, just the right amount of forced emotion to balance it out. Now, ‘Aidann’s’ face was empty, slack, blank — like a moving statue, instead of a puppet.

The way he controlled his features, if that made sense — it probably doesn’t — was vaguely familiar, like some kind of childhood memory. But she wasn’t that good with faces or names, and the train of thought faded away.

“Lucky,” she simply replied. Novarra made a face. “[I got stuck with Immortality. Who gets that, you know]?”

The other transmigrator paused for a bit. “[You could say that’s arguably better],” he responded, some semblance of mirth simmering beneath his tone, “if you wanted to get into the philosophical aspects of things.”

Varra was about to respond, when Evan’s suspicious voice rang out: “Where are we going?”

The stranger shrugged. “[Somewhere],” he answered vaguely. His lips twitched.

Novarra laughed. “Even though I find that absolutely hilarious,” she informed him, not even lying because of the reference to Country X’s hit blockbuster. She had watched it at age fifteen before it even hit the theaters, because one of Sachia’s former friends — the one that had a crush on her father — had acted in it. A wave of almost nostalgia hit her like a riptide — since she had no one to invite, she remembered (and, admittedly, McSweeney was the only ‘friend’ who would jump at the invitation) she had just strong-armed her chauffeur and personal assistant into watching it with her.

It had been one of the more entertaining memories from before, when those eyes had disappeared in that big home theater she had back home. It was just two people she had been vaguely comfortable with, a vat of popcorn, and a possibly-illegally-acquired CD — it had been too raunchy for her taste, but the ‘somewhere’ scene had become famous. When she was younger, she liked to pretend the help wasn't paid to follow her every order, and that they cared about her in a platonic way like older friends, and the delusion had been nice UNTIL SHE HAD GROWN OUT OF IT.

Novarra was brought back to the world around her — her world, now — as the stranger tilted his head.

“Even though you find that absolutely hilarious,” he prompted.

“Sorry,” she half-heartedly apologized, as she blinked herself back to reality. There was some kind of concern on the Kingbreaker’s face, but merely curiosity on the stranger’s. “Even though I find that absolutely hilarious,” she continued, ignoring the raspy whispers that had come back, threatening to corrupt one of her few fond memories, “I’m sure Ev here would like to know where you’re leading us — you know, human trafficking and all that.”

“Human trafficking. Here,” commented the stranger, dryly. “I’ll welcome who has the rare pleasure…” He trailed off, raising his eyebrows for a name.

“Novarra,” Varra supplied.

“As in, the dead Resilian queen of this world?” he laughed. “I guess it suits you, I mean, I’ll be honest and tell you my name’s Aidann, too. Aidann — Ehwa.”

Again, a familiar name. But she wasn’t good with names or faces, so he could’ve been a coffee barista for all she knew. Wait — Ehwa…

“Oh, wait, were you the contestant on the show, Heart of an Idol?” she asked, excitement bubbling. “I remember that I used to be into that — you weren’t my favorite, of course, Caspian was — but wow. I remember you had your debut, coming up? CROWN, right? Aii—”

“Stop fangirling,” Evan cut in brusquely. “I’m heading north with you, not you two. I don’t trust you, even after we’ve known each other a week or two, and I sure as hell don’t trust him.”

Novarra ignored the Kingbreaker. “Aidann, my dear,” she said, “would you like to join us on our absolutely delightful quest?” If he stabbed her in the back, well, at least she couldn’t die.

The former idol smiled. “Of course,” he responded, “I would love to.”

{Are you ready?}

“Of course. It’s just a wannabe hero, or two. Or three. History always loves threes. Ragtag groups, motleys — I know the drill, Souv.” The man on the bed laid sprawled on his matress, seemingly alone in the night, as he conversed with a voice in his head.

{Just because you and Jacques are friends doesn’t mean we are. Stay in line}.

“I don’t know why you’re so hostile to me,” the man responded mildly. “But you of all people should know, I’m not called the Guide for a reason. I know the Frosthold like the back of my hand, and— wait, are you still not over the fact that I tracked Durendal down, like, what, ages ago?”

{You—}

“You know, Souv, it isn’t recorded who discovers the sword in the stone, but who pulls it out.” The Guide blinked. “I find things, lead things. Find people, lead people to themselves. I can handle a few supposed fate-changing people, alright?”

A long silence.

{The Hog’s Wart. Ten days. You will be there}.

“Yes. Yes I will.”

The silence wasn’t broken again.