A smooth burn cascaded down Cyriel’s throat as she sat on her bed with her favorite book of poems, Ymael’s Whimpers, in her right hand and a glass of pale-pink liquor in the other.

‘This is no good…I’m addicted…’

She slowly placed her eleventh glass of wine on the ebony counter situated on the right-hand side of the bed and sighed softly. Maybe it couldn’t be helped, with the war to conquest the human continent Q’er-something-or-another coming to an end and Adon forcefully conscripting himself to the front lines—for the umpteenth—she needed something to help ease her anxiety.

Then there was Taryl’s condition. “He’s definitely not going to Awaken…” A smile, unfitting a worried mother, tore away at her beauty. “…Though, I’m upset it didn’t work on Allie…"

Just thinking about Alice’s Awakening made her nauseated with dizzying anger.

However, she of all people knew it couldn’t be helped. Alice inherited her family’s Innate Bloodline Ability: White Chaos. The dormant body-enhancing skill most probably purified the mana vein corroding poison she fed them after they were born.

Unlike normal affinities, Innate Bloodline Abilities lay dormant in the Heir’s soul. Even if the owner of such a skill never Awakened; the ability would surface someday because the skills weren't dependent on mana, and since mana veins were mediums of the soul and body the skill must have protected them.

She sighed in annoyance. “Oh, Al. Whatever will I do with you?”

It truly was a headache, according to her source at the Royal Academy, there was a prophecy explaining the rise of young heroes that would reach the depths of the Labyrinth no one has ever seen before, and bring home Salvation IV.

Cyriel’s expression abruptly turned forlorn. “Alice definitely fits the descriptions of Young Chosen.”

This wasn’t her being a biased parent, it was simply a factual statement. After all, it was because of White Chaos that the Ancient Elven Warlord, Ratamir Svier Fta Oryil, annexed an entire continent and ruled it as emperor back in their old world. And it was because of this skill that her twin sister, Cyrill, managed to reach the heights she has at only the age of two-thousand-and-seventy-three.

“Still…two White Chaos Heirs in a row? How in the world did this happen?” Cyriel exclaimed, a thought bubbling in her head. “..Perhaps in exchange for one twin to awaken; the other was cursed? If so, does the Royal Academy’s prophecy hold some truth?”

Cyriel shook her head and reached for the glass beside her. If she kept going a flame of resentment might be lit in her heart.

She didn’t want to hate her precious little doll. Not even by the smallest fraction imaginable.

Her children were her greatest source of happiness. ‘I miss them so much already.’

Cyriel picked up and glanced at the pocket watch on the covers of her bed. “Two hours until Alice gets home from her first day at school… Hmm, should I ask Heran to pick up Taryl?” She mumbled aloud. “Haaa. Adon, my love, when are you going to stop going against my wishes?”

If it was up to her, they would both be home right now. But her hardheaded Erian of a husband went ahead and enrolled her despite her objections. And because of that, Taryl would be starting his work at Syra’s sooner than she planned. She didn’t want him to feel neglected when they sent Alice off to the Royal Academy.

Essentially, the reasons she wanted Taryl to work at Syra’s garden was so he felt useful and not view his sister in contempt, and for him to forge a relationship with the current king's niece. Although she was worried about the Shaman—Syra’s new master—she didn’t think any Elf would lay a hand on an Oryil and Syra owed the Oryil Household her life; no, her kin’s lives. In extreme terms, she decided whether they lived or not.

Her assets were currently being poured into the construction of a castle on the eighty-fifth floor of the Labyrinth, and her faction was currently in dismay because of her little ploy to make Cyrill the High Commander of the army invading the humans.

But did that matter?

No.

She could simply order them to kill themselves and that’s exactly what would happen. They were servants; she was their Lord. Her words to them—and all the aides under her family’s name—were absolute laws. It didn’t matter if a mother didn’t want to eat her infant, had she willed it; the infant would be devoured whole.

…Is what she’d like to say, alas, upon migrating to this planet five hundred years ago; the Oryil’s and all the other powerful House Holds were in constant decline. The family released most aides in order to better manage their resources. And Syra and her kin were amongst the freed; their Slave Runes were long removed.

Incidentally, Syra was also her grandfather's favorite handmaiden and gardener; she took care of his private medicine garden. And it was because of her grandfather’s influence that Syra’s family members were able to cross the Bridge to this world.

Cyriel didn’t think Syra would hurt Taryl, and most importantly if Yl burst into flames she could heal him.

Still, she wished Syra would treat her with a little more respect. But it couldn’t be helped with her being banished from the family and all. Besides, she couldn’t recall Syra ever being respectful towards her.

‘Surely, it’s not only me? What about Cyrill and the rest?’ Though she thought this; she wasn’t bothered by it as much as she should be.

Yes, she was mildly annoyed but in the end; it was hardly worth her time.

And ultimately, it was her own fault for taking on the broad-minded-and-kind-imperial-princess role in the first place, unlike her obnoxiously proud siblings.

‘Especially Cima…Lord, did she look down on peasants,’ Cyriel clasped the Seventh Sigil of Manasael: Requiem of Light hanging from her neck and sent prayers to her dead sister. She doubted if any god was forgiving enough to welcome that golden-eyed sadist into paradise, but she at least hoped her sister was sent through the Cycle of Reincarnation.

Shaking her head to dispel the passing sense of loss, Cyriel unclenched the pendant and went back to reading Ymael’s Whimpers. But as she got comfortable, a thought pummeled her.

She ignored it. Again, her psyche was shaken to the core. Her expression tinting a few shades darker.

Now that she sent Taryl to Syra’s, she didn’t think she could rely on the woman who couldn’t even heal her son’s hideous scars or inform her more about the curses plaguing him. And what if the Shaman was more dangerous than she estimated? ‘No…’ What if Syra had betrayed her in hopes of earning points with her new master?

She didn’t want anyone to lay a hand on her cute, aloof, and pleasantly introverted son. ‘I’ll have to give him a decent excuse as to why this’ll be the last time he goes out… At least until I find out more about the Shaman… I’m sure he’ll be fine…I’ll buy him lots of books…and we can have more peaceful memories together, here. From the safety of the house…’

A ghastly chill ran through her body as she recalled a number of her favorite memories with Taryl. The first day she took the twins out was supposed to be a special happy memory, however…

‘Why?! Why?! Why?! Why?! Why?! Why?! Why?! Why?! Why?! Why?! Why?! Why?! Why?! Why?!’

The glass in her hand shattered and shards of broken glass bit into her skin.

‘Why…did he ruin it by lying to me?’

She recalled Taryl’s fake little fit back at the weapons store and unending waves of fury took over her.

As the fourth princess of the fallen empire, Orliea, she was acutely conscious of her surroundings. She could tell if someone was lying to her with a simple glance. It was something her mother pounded into her head since the age of two.

Conversely, putting on a mask was also as easy if not easier since she had to do it every single second.

Staring at her healed bloody hand, Cyriel gritted her teeth. “Calm…down. We went through this repeatedly. It was just a tiny little—minuscule really—fib… But if he ever lies to me again. I’ll have to discipline him thoroughly.”

An untrustworthy son is an unlovable son.

How can anyone ever find pleasure in the presence of a lying snake?

‘What vexes me, even more, is how good he was at it…the little demon.’

But when she thought about the goofy face, he made on their way home, she couldn’t help but smile. It was the first time she’d seen him so happy. “He really is adorable,” Cyriel said, laughing softly. “I absolutely must protect him…both of them.” Biting her lip, she fell into thought. “Should I unseal it and inspect the details of his curse? No…it’s not worth it… For now, I’ll keep observing him. Besides—”

[Master? I have something urgent to report.]

Feeling a tug on the psychic link she had established with her ‘shadow’, Szanal, Cyriel suddenly had a bad feeling. “What is it, my loyal retainer?” she inquired via her network of the telepathy net; Imperial Connexion, a no-attribute arcane spell founded and enhanced by her great grandfather.

[…It’s about the young Lord. The official known as Shaman had his blood drained,] Szanal said. [It’s being stored in Itchla…should I intercept?]

“How is, Yl?” Cyriel rasped, gnawing on her fingernails.

[C-, currently bedridden and dosed up with a multitude of high-grade healing potions… He’s recovering at a fast rate…]

That was a relief. Now that her anxiety had been subdued, she could focus entirely on the malice flowing through her heart. The strong palpations sending eruptions of anger throughout her very soul made even her retainer’s presence shrink back in fear. “Szanal. Forget Yl’s blood for a moment; concentrate on protecting him. Okay?” immediately she felt him agree. “Also, be a dear, and integrate my senses with yours.”

Cyriel’s vision tunneled and ‘her’ nostrils were assailed by a stuffy air. Looking up ahead; beyond Szanal’s Shadow Realm, she could see Taryl lying motionlessly in a small bed—a gray-haired girl standing by his side.

“I know y-you’re awake,” the young girl, Resiah, said. Leaning closer to Taryl, she continued. “My masters are going to grow impatient if you keep pretending…”

There was a long, unsettling silence. Resiah, timid as she was known to be, was fidgeting around nervously in this heavy air. “L-listen…y-you fell unconscious suddenly. But my master took good c-care of you…” Resiah said meekly. “Y-you’re all right now, aren’t you?”

Sitting up straight, Taryl heaved a long breath whilst caressing his throat, “Yes, I am. I’d like to thank your master for helping me, boss.” Taryl said, smiling brightly. “Ah, by the way, could you tell me where my garments are?”

Cyriel woefully watched Taryl get dressed and desperately plead for Syra to send him home to no avail. She wished she hadn’t been so overly cautious and registered Szanal as a Delver. Suddenly, as she observed Resiah take samples of Taryl’s skin, her connection with Szanal faltered.

“What’s going on?” she asked, glancing at a nervous Taryl run to Syra.

[…Seems to be a small spatial tremor.]

That didn’t sound right. But Cyriel didn’t have extensive knowledge about the Labyrinth, especially since the difference between each floor was almost always drastic. ‘It should be fine,’ she hoped.

Unfortunately, the small seed of hope she planted in her heart died soon after, as the connection between her and Szanal completely severed; the last thing she witnessed was Syra being dismembered by a claw.

Cyriel’s heart stopped beating as her chest tightened around it. She toppled off her bed, rendered useless by the deep contractions twisting and churning her abdomen. “Ah—!”

***

Szanal was at a loss. His spell would not last long within the crumbling of the sixth floor. In the first place, the spell Shadow Realm was not a spatial attribute spell, but an arcane level dark attribute spell that fed and latched onto its surrounding space for sustainability.

And with the surrounding space in such disarray the Shadow Body he formed in order to enter the Shadow Realm was also scattered around. If he tried to exit the Realm without reabsorbing all the pieces of his ethereal body, the drawback surely wouldn’t be small.

Thus, pathetic as it may be, the only way he could protect his Lord was by coating him with a layer of mana he sent past the permeable field dividing the Shadow Realm and reality.

Szanal glanced out the Shadow Realm as he slowly absorbed another piece of his body. Taryl was attempting to run away from an enormous piece of debris.

He needed to act.

Letting out a low grunt, Szanal abandoned his plan of becoming a whole and dove out of the Shadow Realm at such a staggering speed that it caused reality to ‘splash’ in ripples. He fought back vertigo and incinerated the large mass of land meters away with a black flame.

The immediate danger was extinguished, however… The sixth floor couldn’t contain the high-level battles of the Labyrinth Eaters; even their footfalls were enough to completely collapse the earth into a seemingly endless void. What's more, his body was falling apart, and he had lost half of his mana and life force.

Scanning the surroundings as he treated Taryl and Resiah, Szanal could make out the energy signatures of other arcane mages amid the chaotic mana the Labyrinth Eaters harnessed. ‘…six…no, two…’ he assessed, blocking another wave of destruction spread by the battles. ‘…They’re all battling to protect the thing called Emperor’s Heart from the monsters?’

Whatever they were doing; he could at least be sure of the fact that one of them was a Delver. As he made stepped forward in the direction of the battle, Szanal froze. Dread clung to his soul, rooting him to the ground. Only when the aura of the last two Elves disappeared, did he regain his senses.

Szanal channeled mana into every cell in the body and broke off into a sprint. To escape the sudden suffocating presence he chose to jump into a chasm created in the large battle. A split-second decision he came to regret soon after. He expanded most of the mana in his disfigured Essence just to keep the storm of mana from killing or sending them flying throughout the void.

Still, going back to that ongoing battlefield would only hasten their deaths. ‘…No…I’m not even sure if I have the ability to return,’ Szanal thought, glancing at the dim cracks overhead—then to Resiah. ‘I can’t ensure her safety, milady.’ He thought, recalling the plans Cyriel had made for Taryl.

Szanal could barely hear anything as his thoughts drowned out the world. Should he abandon Resiah to maintain his and the Lord’s life a little longer…or should he make use of her ability?

“…I will live.”

Awakened from his thoughts by Taryl’s determined voice, Szanal felt a deep shame. He was nothing. A being created to live and serve only Cyriel from birth until the day she drew her last breath. His Master’s words were to be revered as doctrines of truth. To him, she was a being no less than Manasael; an untouchable divine apparition.

Then what would that make her son that she sacrificed so much for?

What would that make a person she was set on making her son’s spouse?

Did he really have the right to consider his life as more valuable than the life of said person?

The answer was always: No.

“…Lord Taryl…stop,” Szanal said, grabbing the piece of orgonite Taryl was clenching tightly in his mouth. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Who are you?! I do need that, you bastard!” Taryl screeched as he thrashed around; biting and clawing into Szanal with monstrous strength. “I can’t die! I can’t! I fucking won’t! If you get in my way, I’ll kill you!”

‘What got into him so suddenly?’ Szanal thought, knocking Taryl out. This behavior went past determination and bordered madness. ‘Ah, he’s just a child…’ he glanced at Resiah. ‘…You are, too. But…it can’t be helped.’

Szanal steeled himself. He was but a helpless spectator throughout the day. It was time to bury his shame.