Cyriel got up from her desk and stretched out her stiff body. This was the price she had to pay for being gone from her duties for an entire year. Day after day of sleepless nights. Thinking about it, when was the last time she left her office?

“…Too long,” Cyriel whispered, sniffing her loose-fitting gown. She had been maintaining her body purely with mana and light snacks for past the three months; focused only on the task of finishing the stockpile her mother had specially been collecting for her since her departure to the Redislands of Eria. Manas knows she forgot how a warm bath felt.

Granted, staying up for another seven months or so would have been easy, but the mental fatigue gathered by validating and organizing documents she had nothing to do with was extremely draining. Didn’t she become the face of the imperial princesses to avoid this kind of labor?!

Cyriel ruffled her hair into an even bigger spiked-up mess. ‘Damn you, you hag…!’ she made a waving gesture and all the piles of papers and communication devices littered on her desk vanished into the large cube seated in one of the alcoves carved into the wall.

‘…No. Mother is not at fault; this has to be Connie’s doing,’ she thought, muttering a low incantation under her breathe which resonated and disabled the barrier covering her office. “…Enter, Fina.”

Sitting back down, Cyriel smiled at Fina. The brunette Elf was dressed in a standard ankle-length, black-gold uniform, yet she exuded a unique charisma Cyriel simply could not live without.

It wasn’t that the Fina was an extravagant beauty, in truth, she could be considered quite bland. Her face didn’t even have any intrinsic features that would make one consider her ugly, beautiful, masculine, feminine, or anything in between…she was just plain.

To Cyriel, however, she was the prettiest flower in the imperial capital. Her ideal partner.

‘…If only my sweet Fina were a man…’

As she stared at Fina take a seat in front of her desk with a dejected expression, a knock reverberated within the office. Not willing to take any more visitors, Cyriel channeled mana into her voice and recited the incantation that activated the barrier. She chortled softly as her mother’s rare angered voice broke through the layers of wall and mana.

“Are you still mad, Fina? Forgive my impudences, okay,” Cyriel said playfully, leaning over and grasping her handmaiden’s frail hand. “I couldn’t possibly take you with. My heart would be torn to shreds had you been there.”

“…You aren’t sorry, Princess. If you were; you wouldn’t have locked yourself within your office soon after arriving… You didn’t even open it for me,” Fina turned away to hide the roseate glow that lit up her otherwise pale chicks. “…How was it? Did you find what you were searching for?”

An impish smile rose Cyriel’s lips when she heard the curiosity in Fina’s voice. “Why, take a guess, will you?”

“A tribe of ancient warrior’s that match your acquired tastes hidden around the Erian Archipelago?” Fina murmured thoughtfully, curtaining her sapphire eyes closed. “What were they again…? Ah. I remember. ‘The perfect man must have extremely feminine features yet has to be so boorishly masculine that it’s ludicrous’ …”

Fina opened her eyes, dispersing the contemplative aura she created. “…It sounds completely absurd. But taking the ‘Homunculus Incident’ into consideration… I can’t ever be sure with you.”

“Why do you feel the need to upbring my younger years in everyone of our conversations?” Cyriel sighed out, twisting her smile into something more devious. She let go off Fina’s hand and sunk back into her chair. “Will I ever live down my shame if you keep bringing up squelched rumors?”

“As I recall, your Rite of Arcane Transcendence was only held a few red moons ago. I doubt that incident can be considered an expedition from your ‘younger days’, Your Highness.”

Cyriel sneered cheerfully at that. “And as I recall; I wasn’t the only one who lost her chastity that festive night.”

“…I had no choice in the matter…” Fina retorted meekly.

“Yet you were the one moaning the loudest,” Cyriel added, nailing the coffin close. “And they do exist. Where did you think I picked up the idea in the first place? Don’t tell me you don’t know the folklore of the Guardians Deities of Marla Tombs?”

Fina’s jaw snapped shut, permeating the perfect silence throughout the office. Of course of she heard of them. Unless she didn’t pay attention to Cyriel’s drunken musings, there was no way she wouldn’t have heard of the green-headed warriors that natured the World Seed mentioned throughout various fairytales.

Smiling merrily, Cyriel removed an envelope sealed with the Imperial Insignia, more specifically, the insignia of the faction controlling the Erian colony. “Fret not. I didn’t do anything particularly horrid,” she said, carefully opening the envelope. “…Except, maybe tinkering with their minds a tiny bit…” she removed and unfolded the letter with great care. “…I also had to prepare some political nonsense so I could appease dear Mommy and Daddy…”

“Appease?” Fina interrupted. “Don’t tell me…”

“Yes, my darling, Ina. I’m engaged!” Cyriel handed the letter to Fina.

The letter was from Field Marshal Acardo, the Demiurge in charge of subjugating the rebel forces scattered across the Erian Archipelago. It detailed the discovery of the long lost Marlan civilization, as well as the Great Tomb of Marla. It also explained how a certain princess’s shipwreck drifted upon said hidden civilization and was taken in and natured as one of their own…

Fina sighed as she fanned the letter around in exasperation. “Surely, you don’t think anyone—other than yourself—would buy into this…blather?” she inquired, holding the letter further from the periphery of her vision, Fina read out the paraphrased version of its lasts contents:

“Her Majesty Cyriel Oryil not only tamed the barbaric tribe of warriors during her stay but also guaranteed the excavation rights of the Great Tomb of Marla—and possibly the World Seed—by garnering the Marlan princes’ infatuation…”

Driven by fatigue, Cyriel yawned and lazily drooped her head on her desk. “Are you insinuating Acardo would jeopardize his position by making wild claims?” she muffled, face down on the unnaturally comfortable wooden table.

“…That…”

Cyriel let out a small chuckle. How adorable. Teasing Fina like this was definitely enough to wash away some of her fatigue.

The truth of the matter was: the Marla Tombs had long been discovered. In fact, its existence has been sparsely known by the Upper Echelons since the Chaotic Era of the Twelve Warring Gods which dated back tens of generations. However, the tomb only spawned at sporadic intervals every once in a while to absorb mana.

That wasn’t all.

The tomb was always covered by multiple layers of barrier magic which were widely considered ‘absolute’, so until recently, the fact that the mysteriously occurring tomb was indeed the Marla Tombs was complete speculation. Most people thought of it as nothing but a mere hoax.

Still, this didn’t stop various forces from turning the once prosperous continent of Eria into a chain of minor islands in search for the Marla’s legendary World Seed. Only when Ratamir I ascended to the title of Silver Emperor by bathing himself in the blood of the Twelve Gods did the wars cease. With his power he purged most of those hungry for the mythic treasure and completely wrote of the Marla’s legends as fables.

Countless epochs have passed since then.

Exempting the Oryil bloodline and a handful of elites, the common populace considers Marla and her reign as an epic for young Elves to immerse themselves in. Of course, this includes Fina. Her head must be lurching as she tries to comprehend the fact that a bedtime story has become real. In her mind, Cyriel must done something immoral to get Acardo to write something that surreal.

Cyriel moaned out a light chortle once more, watching Fina knit her brows and reread the letter. Alas, she couldn’t indulge in this pleasant moment any longer. It wouldn’t be good to keep Mother fuming any more than she did.

“Fina, run us a bath,” she said, dismantling the barrier. “And tell Mother I’ll be joining dinner.”

Setting the letter down, Fina gracefully stood up to a practiced deep bow. “With pleasure, Your Highness.”

***

After calming her angered mother, who rushed to her office soon after the barrier was removed, Cyriel finally dove into the soothing pits of the royal bathhouse. Her stress and exhaustion evaporating and diffusing into the misty fog enshrouding the room.

With crippling reluctance, she then strutted into the dining hall soon after emerging from her bath; wardrobed in a simplistic gray floor-length gown.

The atmosphere around the dinner table was awful as usual. Everyone—her five sisters, brother, grandfather, mother and father—were all ‘enjoying’ the banquet in a grim silence. Not even the vexing sound of silverware meeting dinner plates resounded.

Then there was their attire, which was adorned in chunks of precious metals and gems; each sibling silently vaunting how well they were doing the emperor and empress.

It honestly made her stomach churn. This was not ideal. It never made for a enjoyable evening.

And it certainly would not make for a pleasant memory.

“How long are you going to stand there? Take your seat,” Emperor Reandre ordered as he sliced up the meat on his plate into bite-sized pieces. His impassive gaze landed on Cyriel when she sat down and opened her food tray. “You’ve made quite a mess of things on the Eastern shores.”

With a small sigh, Cyriel pushed away the platter of dragon tripe served to her. ‘Not this again… Who told her I would be joining dinner?’ she shot a vengeful glare at Cyrill seated on her left-hand side. To which, the tomboy simply snorted out a laugh, coating the edibles in front of her in a fine spray of chewed food.

“Indeed, I have,” Cyriel said flatly, hiding her amusement for Cyrill’s never-ending antics. “But can we talk about it after dinner, Father? I assure you, it was all for the Glory of Orliea.”

The surge of emotion that was shot through the table by her statement was immediately dispelled by a rise of the emperor’s hand.

“For your sake, I hope that is the case.”

“…You give them too much freedom…” an apathetic voice echoed, causing the majority of the table’s occupants to fold in on themselves—especially Cyrill whose body broke out into a terrible frisson. “Even now, you aren’t strict enough,” Cynthea continued, dabbing the edges of her lips—which curved into a mirthless smile—with a silver tissue.

Rather than voicing an argument, Reandre brought a tender piece of meat to his mouth before saying, “You take care of it, then.”

“Gladly.”

Cyriel gave a wan smile when Cynthea’s gaze met hers. Dealing with her mother directly always proved to be an agonizing chore. But this was the predictable outcome, anyhow. She would just have to deal with the unpleasantness of conversing with someone who had tendencies worse than her own.

‘I suppose it’s simpler this way. So long as Grandfather doesn’t intervene…’ The chances of this were low, but the old bat could be quite fickle when he felt like it. Cyriel put a sudden hold on her thoughts, her stomach cramped with a ravenous hunger because of the appetizing aroma clinging to the air.

An eternity must have passed since she had her last real meal, to think Cyrill would not be merciful tonight of all nights. ‘Mm…how should I get her back this time?’ she idly pondered, removing a black rune inscribed capsule and a peeler from her storage ring. Inside the capsule was a fist-sized, pale green seed-like growth. The cotli embryo throbbed a pleasant heat with each stroke of the peeler’s blade on the surface of its husk.

“What’s the matter?” Cyriel asked in a mana-infused whisper that could only be registered by her twin’s ears. She grinned when Cyrill’s expression turned completely mortified. “Ah, didn’t you mention you were starting a treant garden in the letters you sent me? Oh my, it can’t be… Are you sympathizing with my dinner?”

A well of tears began burning in her eyes, drawing a small witch-like cackle from Cyriel. “If only you hadn’t ordered the help to replace my servings; this young sapling might have grown to appreciate the brilliant glow of Byral’s sky… Alas…” she scooped out a large portion of the cotli’s fibrous insides with a serrated spoon, dropping its copious life force to null. “Its pleasantly sour. Want a taste?”

“No,” Cyrill snipped. “This isn’t funny, either,” she snorted back a tear before continuing, “I’ve been waiting so long for your arrival and—”

“Rill. Act your age for once, and accept your punishment for toying with me.”

A burst of hearty laughter forced Cyrill to retract her deathly glare. “As entertaining as it is to eavesdrop on you two bickering. I’ll have to take my leave,” Vadil declared. “Next time join us a little earlier, Cyriel.”

“I’ll try, Grandfather.”

Once everyone paid their respects to the previous emperor, Cynthea dismissed the rest of the table—excluding Cyriel, Emperor Reandre, and the Crowned Imperial Prince, Roumal. “Explain yourself,” she ordered in a monotone whisper, her crimson eyes scintillating with deep flashes of anger.

Cyriel winced at the suffocating pressure laced between each word. She was afraid. Afraid of how Cynthea might recondition her if she wasn’t pleased with the argument she had planned. But more than that; she felt relieved that she chose to come home when her parents weren’t even close to Orliea’s shores. Otherwise…

Vertigo hit her as she tried to shake her head. “Mother…please, calm yourself.”

The dreary pressure subsided back into the hollow husk it coalesced from. But Cyriel’s fear didn’t, she knew: bloodlust or not Mother simply did not have a use for broken dolls.

“…Think of it for a moment,” Cyriel began, taking deep breaths to ease the fear flaring through her nerves, “we managed to remove the absolute barriers surrounding Marla Tombs…It won’t even take a year for the news to reach every corner of Byral. Including Erama…”

“Get to the point,” Cynthea interrupted. “Or do you take us for fools? You of all people should know the reason we went to Erama was to get them to stop funding the rebels in the Redislands.”

“Of course, I know that. However, we all know that isn’t enough. Even if we seal the secret of the tomb’s excavation after eradicating the rebellion…it wouldn’t be long before the monarchs of Erama catch wind of the discovery,” Cyriel stated, avoiding pointing out the obvious fact that the Eramites might grow suspicious after their diplomatic run. Then, again she didn’t know the full extent of their plans. It would be far wiser not to bite off more than she could chew.

“What then?” she continued, “Indeed, if its military might, we are evenly matched. But within the veins of Erama’s royal bloodline runs Manasael’s blood.”

Her words came like the bleak sigh of winter.

“We too—”

Cyriel shook her head at her flustered brother in exasperation. “Let’s not buy into our own propaganda, dear brother. We are not the same as them,” she said. “If the teams exploring the Marla Tomb come back with the World Seed, who do you think the rest of Byral would grant the duty of storing such a taboo treasure? Us, or the Scions of Manas?”

Reaching out to the glass flask beside her, Cyriel poured a moderate amount of water for herself. The thought that it might have been tainted by Cyrill’s salivate in the far back of her mind. “…That’s why I manipulated the minds of the guardians of the tomb and silently injected the news of its discovery to the world.”

“…You dullard.”

Cyriel’s skin seethed. She wanted to dig her fingernails into her underneath her flesh and tear it all off inch by inch, to alleviate the pain, but a ghastly force coiled around her and petrified her to her seat.

“Those are your reasons?” Cynthea said. “Is that why you flushed years of my planning and resources down the drain?” her voice came out as a low growl, almost feral in nature. “For a foolhardy reason as that?”

“Enough, Cynthea. I understand where your anger is stemming from, but Cyriel’s plan certainly piqued my interest,” Reandre intoned, moving his arms to make way for the maidgolems silently cleaning the dining table.

Cynthea held her tongue and took on a statuesque visage. As much as she must be angered by Reandre’s interruption, she could never disregard the emperor’s words once he was serious—or as he put it ‘interested’ in something.

“Still, one thing does not fail to elude me. How are you going to convince Deinae that we didn’t manipulate the guardians’ minds?”

“…The magic I used cannot be detected,” Cyriel said. Slowly, she raised her arms to reveal the cursive runes gradually imprinting her skin. The runes pulsed purple to match her pained breath, and her bronze skin bleached a sickly waxen tone. “…For it is—”

The screech of Reandre’s chair scraping against the tiled floor interrupted Cyriel’s speech. “Don’t say it!” he bellowed, his chiseled face completely flushed with utter disbelief. He cleared his throat, then took a moment to regard the disheveled silver strands of hair flowing down his forehead. “…You have indulged in the Taboo Art? How and why—? No, none of that is of importance... You do realize the price of dealing with that Thing is never small. Nations have fallen because of fools like you who dare to play God!”

Cyriel frowned. Play God? This dimwitted pus of mediocrity. What did he know of the secrets to divinity? If she wanted to reach that summit, she’d have to delve deeper—

Sacrifice much more.

‘No, let's not get greedy. I’m satisfied…everything is within my reach…I just have to cross this final hurdle,’ she told herself, smiling gently. “As I said before, my will is simply for the Glory of Orliea. I assure you, Father, our empire is safe.”

Reandre sat back down with dignity fit for a man of his stature, turning his scrutinizing gaze from Cyriel to Cynthea—who still held the air of a false god; cold and indifferent, yet majestic enough for the peasantry to swear their eternal piety to her.

“I will not ask you of the Toll you paid, nor will I ask you where it is you learned what you are practising…” Reandre sighed out, the stoic gleam in his golden eyes far gone and his face slack; as if he’d reached Longevity Burn in the span of seconds. Such was the weight of finding out his own flesh and blood was dealing with O’Sgemyrul. “…However, I need to understand. Are there more of you Demons prowling around?”

“…No. I’m the only one who has received His providence,” she explained with a solemn expression, her skin slowly reverting to its normal color. “Of course, I don’t dare declare this as an absolute truth.”

The emperor fell silent, as he let her words sink in. “Go,” he ordered, dismissively waving his hand. “We’ll talk more on the matter of the Marla Tombs come tomorrow.”

Cyriel stood up, gave a subservient bow to the two sovereigns, and left the grand dining hall in a stagger. As she walked through the wide, black-gold corridors leading to her room a smile tugged at her lips. Her gamble worked.

Still…even though she ran different experiments on peasants and nobles alike, she didn’t think that one of the most powerful men on the planet would fall prey to the same amount of fear as the rest of the faceless sacrificial pieces… ‘Just how scary are you, my little devil friend?’

She had heard of the tales of the Deity O’Sgemyrul, but she also knew of Reandre’s abysmal level of strength; power that was enough to fill oceans and built entire planetoids—truly feats that could rival ‘gods’ of old. It was strange to think a colossus and a starving dungeon rat would have the same fears.

Cyriel put a hold on her musings, turning her attention to her precious Fina and spiteful twin standing in front of the door to her room. She disregarded Cyrill for a moment and shot an appraising look at Fina.

The maid wore a large royal blue cape that was littered with an absurd amount of jewelry over her petite body, her face was completely flushed and tears brimmed her eyes.

“What did you do?” she questioned in an accusatory tone directed at the grinning Cyrill.

“Me?” Cyrill asked sweetly. “Nothing much. Your page thought of me as you, of course, I corrected this ridiculous assumption immediately. But not before berating her about that obscene outfit she was adorned in!” The miscreant had the audacity to break out into laughter that breathed life into the large halls as soon as she reached a crescendo.

Cyriel sighed and flicked a finger squarely against her sister’s forehead. “What were you doing knocking on the doors to my chamber, knowing full well I wasn’t here?” she asked, infusing mana into the door to her room. Thin golden streaks of light spread across the door’s surface, intersecting to form nine hexagonal runes which unlocked the security mechanism only she could open from the outside. “At least you had the decency to lend her that unsightly cape after locking her out.”

“I came to lay in wait for your return, Sister,” Cyrill said, rubbing her forehead. She hurriedly followed Cyriel and Fina into the room before the doors sealed shut. “…But boredom struck me like a bolt of ionized mana, so I summoned our lovely Fina out to accompany me…” she kicked off her armored books and dove into Cyriel’s bed before continuing,

“If you didn’t ban me from entering your room without permission, I would’ve gotten us both in before the door could lock behind her…so technically the blame lies with you.”

Cyriel let Fina slowly dress her in her evening wear as she rolled her eyes. “And who gave you the right to enter my room this time?”

Wisely—or perhaps what she considered intelligible—Cyrill chose not to answer and burrowed beneath the silken covers of the bed she was intruding on, forcing a light chuckle out of her sister. Frustrating as she was, who could ever stay annoyed with the thousand-year-old toddler?

“If you’re going to sleep here, take off that accursed armor, you’re wrinkling my sheets,” Cyriel said, climbing into bed with Fina in tow.

“…I can stay?” she asked, cautiously peeking out of the blanket.

Cyriel gently patted Cyrill’s head, mussing her straightened hair which barely reached her pointy ears. “Well, I can’t in good conscience send you away after what Mother said, now can I? I know you won’t catch a wink of sleep otherwise,” she violently shoved Cyrill out of the bed. “But first, you’ll have to put on something more comfortable. Check the wardrobes.”

“Please let m—”

“Where do you think you’re going?” Cyriel asked, hugging Fina back into the bed. The maid removed the cape she was wearing, revealing her sleeping wear. A thin fabric white blouse that failed to cover her midriff and a loose thigh-length skirt—her long, slender legs were also sheathed in gray leggings for whatever inane reason.

Cyrill gagged loudly, directing the room’s occupants' attention to herself. “Honestly, sis, you’re too much,” she said while removing her breastplate in a haste. “Doesn’t the way you treat Fina border sexual harassment?”

“And?” Cyriel countered, tightening her hold on her handmaiden. “What of it? She belongs to me.”

Cyrill paused, and for a brief moment, a speculative expression flashed across her face. “Cornelia explained to me you were getting married or something,” her face suddenly brightened. “Right! Tell me about the adventures you had in the Redislands! And, and…you have more cotli embryos, don’t you?!”

When Cyriel nodded, the imp’s smile widened with excitement. Perhaps she was unable to contain the excitement because the next second the red glow of purified fire attribute mana encased her body and incinerated her clothes—she excluded melting her undergarments in a simple display of aura mastery.

“Tell me, did you witness the dreary Fallen Legions yourself?” Cyrill asked, blitzing into bed. She squeezed herself between Fina and Cyriel. “Pictures, videos, stories! I want to experience it all! Now. Now—!”

“Yes, yes. I’ll tell you everything. So calm yourself,” Cyriel relented, releasing Fina from her embrace. She took a few minutes to appreciate the childlike wonder coloring Cyrill’s face, then took another moment to decide where to begin her story. “…First, let's talk about the different treant embryos I gathered for you.”

***

Deep within the dim private quarters of the imperial couple, the shadows whirred and danced to life. Watching this scene impatiently, Cynthea got up and paced the room with an expression warped in stern anger. Her normally tender, white cheeks were ablaze with a crimson tone that matched her eyes, and her sharp brows furrowed deeply in thick contours.

It was an intense expression only Reandre was acquainted with, and normally he would tease her whenever she showed him this side of herself, but he couldn’t muster his wit tonight. He couldn’t even remember the last time he felt so drained and cornered. ‘…Maybe the years before my first century?’ he mused.

“Why are they not responding to our summons?!” Cynthea finally exploded into a fiery rage, the hem of her cream-gold nightgown fluttering as she kicked the shadows with a barefoot.

Reandre sighed. “This isn’t you, Cynthea. Quell your anger and think. There might be a chance their minds were distorted and our wills over them overwritten,” he pointed out, gesturing for her to take a seat next to him on the bed. “Or I should say, that is most likely the case. Seeing how we can’t reach out to them via the Connexion.”

“…Reandre, my love, my prince…my emperor. I’m sorry, but I can’t take you seriously,” Cynthea said sharply, folding her arms beneath her modest chest, as she faced her husband. “Rather than being angry, I suppose you want me to deal with this as you are?”

“Let us not play this game. Outrightly state your meaning, woman.” Reandre demanded laxly.

“State my meaning?! It should be obvious!” Cynthea snapped, walking up to Reandre, she affectionately cupped his face in her hands and continued in a soft tone. “…Look at yourself, love. Your face is haggard, and your eyes are completely dull. In the span of minutes, you went from the strongest man I know to this…repulsive lump of defeat. And why? Because one of our kids is being a little rebellious?”

Reandre caressed her cheeks weakly, in her scarlet eyes he could see a pathetic shell of himself. Beyond that, he could perceive the unshakable shackles of fear coiling her mind. “…Being a little rebellious, you say,” he laughed. “Seems like we’ll have to give our little girl a spanking.”

Cynthea snorted. “She’s going to need a harsher punishment than that,” she said, causing the Emperor’s weak laughter to turn hearty.

“Your Imperial Majesties, you summoned these lowly servants?”

Both husband and wife turned their heads to the new visitors. A man and woman with bronze skin, silver eyes, and jet-black shoulder-length hair. The two were dressed in black tunics embroidered with fine gold patterns that would make even the proudest kings under the Orliean Empire’s rule bow into the dirt when faced with their presence. That much was obvious, the patterns proved they worked directly under the Emperor of Orliea, the Calm Agglomerate of Chaos.

“You’re finally here, Szanal, Lenoir. What took you so long?” Reandre asked, gripping Cynthea’s wrist he stopped her from going into a frenzy.

“We were waiting for the princess to approve us leaving her shadow,” Szanal and Lenoir replied worriedly in perfect unison.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Reandre gazed upwards. “Who do you serve? Me or my daughter.”

“The Imperial Family, Your Majesty,” the two homunculi replied, exchanging confused glances.

“During Cyriel’s year-long trip to the Seas of Eria. You conducting weekly reports to Cynthea, did you not?”

“Indeed, we did, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“And during these reports, you knowingly distorted facts,” Reandre said, his steely gaze studying Szanal’s ghastly expression. It wasn’t fear of being executed, but a contorted mix of confusion, shame, and madness. The expression of a homunculus that had gone astray from the path it had been created for. “I would like to know what these lies are, Szanal.”

When Szanal opened his mouth, however, all that came out was incoherent gibberish. A list of glyph names in no particular order, numbers, shapes, dates. Purple-black indecipherable cursive runes marred his throat, temples, and lips. His eyes glazed over completely with madness. The same thing was happening to Lenoir, but less dramatically.

Reandre frowned. He prided himself in his sensitivity for mana, or any other naturally occurring energy for that matter. But he couldn’t even interpret the not-so intricate circuitry of the runes, let alone feel what was flowing within them. Still, he had an educated guess of what it could be. The power of the gods, and of course, he didn’t mean divine energy that beings like Ascenders and Ascended harnessed—no, for he knew O’Sgemyrul was an absolute being that transcended even that.

Actually, rather than calling it an ‘educated guess’, he was certain the energy flowing within the runes was a type of Aeon specific to the Demon God. As Reandre reached this conclusion, the two homunculi stopped with their strange ritual and simply stared at the two monarchs—sanity returning to their eyes.

“Is this a test of loyalty, Your Majesties?” Szanal asked incredulously. “If we have wronged the Crown in any manner, please dispose of us.” He bowed his head in a way that exposed his neck.

“Your lives are of little value to me. I simply need you to give me exact answers,” Reandre said, the pressure localized around the two aides thoroughly carrying his annoyed intent. “Your deceptions to the Crown, what do they entail?”

Szanal stiffly raised his head, his silver eyes revealing bewilderment. “Your Imperial Majesty, was it not your desire for us to be completely loyal to the Fourth Princess?” he inquired. “I cannot go against this intent you have planted into my very being. Therefore, I can only assure you—we have been moving only following the Princess’s orders.”

For the second time since the two’s arrival, Reandre noticed his wife allowing herself to show an ounce of emotion as she arched her brow. “Even if it is our wills?” she asked coldly.

“That is the case, Your Majesties,” Szanal replied smoothly, in spite of the confusion washing over his face.

“That will be all, Shadows. Leave us,” Reandre said.

The two bowed in unison before countless misty shadowy tendrils devoured their frames. Reandre watched the ground where they stood for a moment. “What do you think?” he said, regarding Cynthea’s calculating expression.

“…If it could deceive us, Manas knows it can deceive those arrogant Eramites,” Cynthea stated simply, her words correlating with his own thoughts.

“Indeed, it is not something we can hope to see through using these shells...” he sighed. “That learning process certainly was something,” Reandre recalled the jarring crazed rambling the homunculi chanted.

Cynthea nodded bitterly as she climbed into bed, her expression showing slight signs of exhaustion.

Unlike the empress, Reandre wasn’t hoping for the two Shadows to be loyal to him. Since he found out about Cyriel’s dirty dealings, he was certain their loyalty had long been tampered with. He also knew his wife understood this well, she just tended to be more faithful in times of disparity.

He shook his head, standing up to a straightened posture. If this worked, the result of the gamble was the World Seed; it could help his empire ascend beyond the thick husk that was the Body Limit. However, if it failed it could mark the end of his forefathers’ legacies. ‘Manas watch over us…even though what I seek goes against the Doctrines…’

Cynthea perked up from beneath the navy blue bed sheets. “Are you not joining me?”—a small, but exaggerated sigh escaped her lips— “…I suppose there are contingencies to draw up,” she said with a warm, thin-lipped smile. “Well, it’s not like you’ve ever been able to properly comfort your wife at times of need.”

Reandre scoffed. Replying to that comment would probably lead to sleepless nights fueled by his pride. Instead, he summoned the maids to dress him in a dull-colored semi-formal outfit and made way to his office. Pausing, he thought of his daughter, Cyriel. An appalling chill crumpling his expression for a split second.

‘For your sake, I hope you are not doing anything absurd enough to force me to use lethality on you,’ he thought, glancing at the tapestries on the walls. They depicted many things, among which displayed battles of how the Oryils rose to power. They weren’t as blessed as Erama’s royalty, and after the Silver Emperor fell from burning out his vitality, it was one bitter battle after the other before the next White Chaos Heir partially stabilized their rule over the various monarchs.

And even after that, small skirmishes always popped up randomly. Yet, their family fought until their rule was absolute. Until their economy thrived, and their subjects were happy. His path as emperor was clear, even now. He had to protect the prosperity of the Empire no matter what. Never would he let the blood used to draw their borders be in vain.

Reandre restarted his stride with firm steps. “To break free of our own mortal shells, we seek the strength to lift the veil of death,” he mumbled in a mantra that filled him with holy vigor.

***

Cyriel begrudgingly crawled out of bed. Her unwilling moans coming out like the wails of a fresh corpse reanimated with dark magic. She shot a glance at Cyrill sprawled out on her bed. It was because of her insidious pleading for ‘the next adventure’ that kept her up throughout the night. Yet, when she looked at her, all she could feel was warmth in her heart.

Why couldn’t her relationship with the rest of her siblings be as intimate? She didn’t hate them, per se. But she also didn’t love the lot of them, she was simply…detached. Unlike most, Cyriel found pleasures in familial affection and not in worldly positions; a fact made obvious to her by Cyrill at an early age. Before that, she might as well have been dead.

How she longed for her perfect little family. ‘It won’t be long, now,’ she thought, slipping into her private bathroom and getting into the shower after removing the last piece of clothes garmenting her body. She sent a bit of mana into one of the water switches, letting warm drops of water splash on her body at a perfect pressure. ‘Ah, maybe after that, I should work on creating the ideal Imperial Family.’

A solid plan. After all, one could never be too happy. The world could always be better. ‘It could be better…without me,’ she said mentally scowling at herself. Indeed, without her, the world would be a little bit more wonderful. Most of the Sacrifices Cyriel offered O’Sgemyrul were deviants that committed some of the most disgusting acts. However, sometimes the Ancient Demon would ask for an innocent infant or a young maiden with an intact chastity.

Other times, the requests would be oddly specific, as if It were describing the features and mannerisms of an old acquaintance. Like a serial killer carefully choosing their next victim. Cyriel retched slightly, recalling the one instance when the Demon asked for an infant tainted by its father.

The euphoria brought by her ever-approaching dream—and the fact she had been away from home, searching, scheming, testing—usually drowned out the curses spat by those she had robbed the chance to see Manasael’s Kingdom. But when she was truly lucid, they were loud and clear—completely undying and unwavering. Chipping away at her sanity.

‘…I’m paying the price for my sins.’ The very fact validated her vile existence.

Cyriel applied a flowery shampoo to her wet head of silver hair. The morning Servant Assembly would end soon, she couldn’t allow Fina to see her current expression. And besides that, there was an insurmountable amount of work to do.

***

The Emperor’s Court was relatively boisterous early in the morning, the sole reason for this noise was the demanding voice of a slim woman of average height. She had white-silver hair that fell down to her small waist; her intelligent scarlet eyes seemed glaringly vibrant on her milky-white oval face.

The woman kept haggling with the emperor for more orlis, claiming she needed to increase the size of the Western Armada, amongst other things. The nobles present were not daring enough to interrupt her lengthy speech, in fact, they seemed to revere her skillful use of the Ancient Tongue.

Cyriel smiled as she approached the throne, Cornelia probably caught the slight wear in Reandre’s eyes and was doing as she always did when she smelled weakness: taking full advantage of it.

“The Fourth Princess greets His Majesty, Emperor Reandre, Sovereign of Chaos,” Cyriel announced, curtsying. The belligerent bulge of Cornelia’s eyes made all the effort she put into waking up worth it. “Please, let me voice my apologies for interrupting, but I believe we need to have a discussion.” She glanced at her sister. “However, matters of our navy certainly warrant my full attention. I’d like to share my input. If I may, Father. ”

Cornelia who had recovered her wit showed signs of revelation. Reandre simply raised a brow, as if he completely saw through her. “Speak your mind.” He said in an authoritative baritone, leaning back comfortably in his regal seat.

Cyriel dipped her head, then let her stealthy gaze sweep the Imperial Court. The nobles present were not all of the high ranks, she could only spot one Archduke, and the presence with the highest title—excluding the Emperor and Imperial Prince—was Cornelia, queen of the Western Province, Mvreda. Not that it was of importance, information spreads at the speed of light within the noble circles.

“Yes. As we all know, the Erian navy is our largest. But I’m sure you’re all also aware of the large influx of soldiers joining the rebel subjugation army,” Cyriel stated, bringing a hand to her chest. “Of course, this should not come as a surprise. My people are tired of the long war. So I suggest this, Father: Let us build more warships for this new swell of soldiers—instead of having them be foot soldiers.

“And I also think the majority of the new ships should focus on speed rather than destructive force. In doing so, we will be able to respond faster if our western waters are in peril,” she finished, nodding at the dissatisfied look on Cornelia, but that was just a small pleasure as she didn’t really care about the navy. She did, however, apprehensively note how her phrases ‘my people’ and ‘we’ seemed to cause a stir within the nobles present.

“I’ll consider it,” Reandre said, turning to the nobles. “You are all dismissed.”

The nobles left the meeting hall with disciplined subservience. That was excluding Cornelia, of course, the haughty woman had a defiant glint in her eyes, but chose to obey the Emperor's orders nevertheless.

“Have you considered my plan, Father?”

“I don’t even know what this grand plan is,” Reandre said, rubbing the large, multicolored InfiniteGem on his ringed pinky. He studied her with a stern gaze. “Though, admittedly your mind control trick is impossible to discern—that is excluding the learning process.”

Cyriel smiled. One of the reasons she didn’t completely overwrite her Shadows’ personalities was because there wasn’t any urgency to do so. The other reason was that it costs fewer souls to have them ‘learn’ the personalities she found fitting than to change them to something specific instantly. The last reason…well, was to demonstrate her power to the Emperor.

“You don’t need to worry about that, Father. All the guardians have been conditioned to our cause,” Cyriel said, swatting away Reandre’s worries. “ As for my plan, it should be obvious for a man as acute as yourself. We should annul my engagement to the king of Dtramo, then we end the rebellion in the East and form a coalition state centered around the Lost Civilization of Marla out of the Redislands.”

Reandre nodded. “Quite a straightforward plan. Dealing with the Dtramonian and convincing Erama not to send out their armada will be an annoyance, however,” he made a small motion with his hand, calling for one of his ever-present Advisers.

The scrawny man had skin that gleamed with a faint but lustrous silver-teal glow and shortened luminous cyan hair, two characteristics Divinebloods were known for. Cyriel frowned as she watched the man lean in and listen to the Emperor’s whispers.

She knew not all of the Demigods swore fealty to Erama’s Royal Family, and that the man had been working for her family since before Reandre was Emperor. But that didn’t stop the illusionary feeling of blood congealing in her veins at the thought of betrayal—things tended to go awry in an instant if one was not too careful.

‘He is a traitorous pig, after all,’ Cyriel regarded the man, his eyes widened—as if he was listening to whispers of a Sgema priest. ‘I’ll take care of him soon enough.’ Though…messing with the mind of a Divineblood was a little too risky at the moment. ‘…There are always other methods.’ She thought, disregarding the idea of using O’Sgemyrul’s power.

Cyriel was tired of seeing dread-laced eyes and blood. It wasn’t guilt, but something of similar nature that weighed on her. ‘No, perhaps, this is guilt… Or I could just be suffering from mental exertion.’ She couldn’t be sure, for she did not have much experience with emotions except for what she was sure was ‘love’, and the joys derived from it.

“I see, Your Majesty,” the Adviser said. His eyes locked on Cyriel’s, pulling her out of her thoughts. Then, he nodded apprehensively. “Indeed, this seems to be the perfect plot. The matter of Erama lifting arms against us should be resolved after the Princess’ coronation as the Queen of Eria,” he continued. “As for Lord Tamos, we’ll have to replace him... Or perhaps the Princess could brainwash him?”

Cyriel shook her head. Tamos was the king of the Northern Province, he fancied himself as a tyrannical warlord of sorts—and with the large army behind him, that wasn’t a far-off description. The man was an unruly being, and every attempt to wane his military strength has failed, this was because Dtroma was simply too big of a state—almost as big as the Central Dominion—and the war in the East was reaching a tipping point.

Not only that, but Tamos was also a Demiurge of Manas, meaning he reached the Body Limit. The pinnacle of strength. There was no way she’d be able to temper with his mind and soul, without the appropriate amount of sacrifices.

Cyriel sighed softly, turning her attention to the emperor’s conversation with his Head Adviser. This was the price of going off on televised interviews rather than holing up in her office with a mountain of paperwork—garnering the infatuations of an old fool. She’d just have to deal with it.

As she formulated a rough draft of a plan in her head, the scrawny man suddenly called for his assistants to bring him a scroll. He held up the parchment and began scribbling away as he said, “His Imperial Highness has spoken, the Princess will leave for Eria immediately and establish her dominance as monarch. You shall receive direct instruction on how to proceed after your coronation ceremony.”

“You leave today,” Reandre said with a wave of his hand. “Go prepare yourself for the trip. I’ll organize an elite entourage for you.”

“Understood, Father,” Cyriel said, bowing. “I would appreciate it if this elite entourage included a dozen or so spatialmages.” If he was planning on surrounding her with spies, might as well get some useful hands. Besides, it wasn’t fair that among her siblings she was the only one who didn’t get to make use of the conveniences brought by spatial magic.

Reandre frowned ever so slightly. “Two will do,” he finally said after a moment of thought, flicking a finger towards the Head Adviser—who gave a near-imperceivable nod.

“Thank you for your grace,” Cyriel said with a final curtsy.

***

Space-time cried in a maddened cacophony, as it usually did when trying to deny the unnatural force warping it. The myriad of runes compacted on the sides of the ten-meter tall spatialgate lit up with loud, electrical crackling. Mana surged as it oozed from the sides of the gate, mixing and condensing to form a blue portal within the metallic apparatus.

Cyriel turned away from the gate, glancing back at a wistful Fina; she couldn’t help but feel a pang of longing in her chest. Her handmaiden tried so hard to coerce her into coming with—and she had to admit, Fina made some enticing arguments. But, sadly, she couldn’t allow herself to be swayed. There was so much to do, and she needed to be her true self to see them through.

With a wave goodbye, she stepped through the portal, and the rest of her ‘elite’ group of helpers followed. Her skin flared with an unpleasant itch as the dense mana caressed it, thankfully she was standing on the other side of the spatial corridor within moments. A large lifeless beach.

A few meters ahead, on the surface of the dead sea, floated an enormous structure. The oceanic fortress was mostly metallic and matched the color of the black smoke clouds that polluted most of Eria’s skies. Though, it did stand out in the miles of clear blue the ocean offered.

Cyriel tuned out the general hum brought by the conversations of her retinue of sixty Elves. It was strange, though she was thousands of miles away from the Imperial Capital, her stomach bubbled with…excitement.

One step.

One major step closer to happily ever after. In a few days, by her estimate, she would officially become queen of Eria—and most importantly, Marla. A smile wandered onto her lips. She would not be handed off to a tyrant to ensure political ties, laborious as it may have been to get to the final phase; the elation brought by all her work coming together was impossible not to give in to.

‘…Let’s not get comfortable,’ Cyriel told herself, ‘this is only the beginning.’ She took a deep lung marring breath of the rotting, salty, dust-stained air to smolder her budding emotions. “Have you made contact?” she asked the man standing next to her.

Cyriel couldn’t help sighing when Herrice turned away from the screen floating in front of him and stared at her with a bothered, apprehensive expression. Though she had been away from her steward for a year now, his personality didn’t seem to have improved. It wasn’t that Herrice was obnoxious, he was a dear really, but…

“Please forgive my impotence, Your Highness, even though this is a sin that deserves Soul Burn! I cannot begin to, to…” Herrice slowly deflated as Cyriel’s gaze sharpened, the reverence in his eyes faltering, if only a tiny bit. He cleared his throat and glanced back at the circular screen his Sphere was projecting. “I’m deeply ashamed, I—”

“There’s no need to be apologetic, or ashamed,” Cyriel interrupted, glancing back at the still sea. The harsh air brushed briskly through her hair, tarnishing its silver luster. “I understand we’ve not been in contact for a long while now. You’ve simply forgotten the things that perturb me.” She smiled warmly back at him. “Now that you remember, it’s quite alright. However you have to understand, Herrice, standing in this horrid wind is also one of those things.”

“I understand, Your Highness,” Herrice said, flustered. He nodded obediently. “But…may I request for your patience? I’ve been handed access to the fortress’s server, but due to the lack of experience I have working on it, I can’t start the sky carriages with the keys made available to me.”

Cyriel nodded curtly and glanced back at the fortress. Glad he didn’t ask why she didn’t shield herself with mana, but upon the remembrance of the man’s zealous nature, she concluded it would be even stranger if he questioned her will.

The wait wasn’t long-lasting as Herrice implied. Seconds later, she could make out the forms of cubes floating from the military compound toward their direction. One of these white cubes floated in front of her, unfolding a ramp centimeters away from the vamp of her shoes.

She let Herrice help her into the sky carriage by the palm of her hand, and seated herself on the plush seats. “Herrice,” Cyriel called before her steward could take a seat opposite her. He immediately perked up straight—the black of his steward uniform contrasting against the white surroundings—as he awaited her orders. “I assume Father has given you the coordinates to Marla?”

“He did, Your Highness,” Herrice said, taking his seat at Cyriel’s consent. “Do you have somewhere you wish to grace before our final destination?”

“No,” Cyriel said, “take us straight to the Tomb. I’m curious as to what Father told you concerning…”

Her brain tingled. A familiar, obnoxious feeling. Like a faint itch inside her head, soon she began to hear a small melody that resonated with the pulsing itch. She frowned and signaled for Herrice to take off, then she reached to the pocket space connected to her ring, pulling out her Omni Utilitarian Spheroid. The colony of manabots caved in on themselves, forming a cavity that was then filled with a steady beam of solidlight.

The solidlight condensed further to form a blue screen. “Yes, Lord Tamos?” Cyriel said to the video image of the king, keeping her voice docile and respectful to reflect her public persona.

And yet, despite her courteous demeanor, the old king did not seem pleased. His brows were furrowed, creasing his smooth skin, and his black eyes were lit by an irate glint. “‘Yes’? Don’t play coy, girl!” Tamos spat, after a moment of brooding in open contempt. “What’s this His Majesty Reandre is telling me?”

Cyriel raised a brow. “My lord… Why are you only regarding me on this matter now? The news has been made public for months,” she said. In an exaggeratedly depressed voice, she continued, “I honestly thought you discarded the idea of taking me as one of your concubines…but, by His grace, it seems I still occupy a place in your heart.”

“You are to return home—to my palace—this instant. I will not be made a fool of.” Tamos said. Then, without waiting for a response, he disconnected the call.

Cyriel’s amusement showed on her lips. ‘Home’? The old fool really was delusional when it came to matters of his petty pride. She’d never been to his capital, how could she have a home there? But she couldn’t completely wave off his attitude with a smile. The man was dangerous, more so because of his insufferable ego.

Glancing at the rapid change in scenery brought by the near-sound speed of her flight, Cyriel let out a resigned breath. She would let her father deal with him. With that thought in mind, she stuck a hand out toward Herrice. Her steward looked confused for a moment before understanding washed over him. He stuck a glass in her hand and filled it with a pale yellow liquor.

“Hn? Have you forgotten my preference?” Cyriel asked, taking in the nauseatingly strong scent wafting off the glass of spirits. “Dtramonian, no less…”

“I haven’t forgotten your acquired tastes, Your Highness,” Herrice said, looking awfully proud of himself. “I simply thought it would be better for you to wash away that bitter ‘conversation’ with Dtramo’s finest.”

Cyriel eyed him for a moment. Who was this? The Herrice she knew liked to do things exactly as told, her words to him—no matter how old—were not simple orders. When she said: I love calming my nerves with South Orliean red wine. Those words were always met with deep reverence.

“I see,” she finally said, taking a small sip. “I’m not sure how I feel about this.” Noticing panic jolt down Herrice’s expression, Cyriel quickly added, “The liquor, Herrice. It’s a little too strong. The fact that you’re finally coming around, fills me with joy.”

Herrice visibly relaxed, but still carried on to remove bottles of wine from his storage space, arraying them on the small white table in the middle of the carriage. Only stopping when Cyriel gently raised her cup. “Your Highness?”

“How about I enjoy this glass in honor of the new you,” Cyriel said. “Put those away.”

Herrice did so without complaint, going back to coaching the carriage via his Sphere. By the time Cyriel felt slightly tipsy, the sky carriage came to a smooth stop. Taking a gulp of the last of the cup's contents, she got to her feet and made her way out.

“My queen, may I have a word?” a young woman said as soon as Cyriel climbed down the ramp, and took in the bustle of the military compound. The woman had dark blue hair that was tied into a small bun, and even darker, sharp eyes. She wore gray formal garments which hugged tightly around her adorable stout physique.

Glancing behind the woman, she saw her father’s spies slowly exit their sky carriages and group up behind her. Cyriel smiled, returning her gaze to the young lady. “Are you in charge of this little entourage Father has tasked me with?” she asked, gently pinching the woman’s soft cheeks. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“I’m called Dionne, my queen. And yes, I’ve been bestowed the pleasure of leading my fellow stewards by His Imperial Majesty,” Dionne said with a shallow, reverent bow. Seemingly undaunted by the fact that her cheeks were being coddled by another.

“Dionne…a fitting name for one as adorable as yourself.” Cyriel gestured for Dionne to walk with her. “But aren’t you undermining your importance by referring to yourself and your friends as ‘stewards’? We—or dare I say, you—are about to establish a nation!” She said, entering one of the heavily guarded main buildings. A practically furnished briefing hall.

“That’s not it, Your Highness. I don’t mean to undermine myself…however, you could say; your steward would have much more experience when it comes to matters of the court than I,” Dionne said placidly, positioning herself next to Cyriel as she took a seat on the large meeting table.

Cyriel let out an ‘ah’ in understanding, and Dionne flushed slightly. Assessing the young woman more carefully, Cyriel found that she carried an inexperienced air despite her professional demeanor. Then, it dawned on her. After the mess she created, surely her father wouldn’t send away his aides to establish some third-rate country—at least not now, or rather ever. He probably intends to end her life as soon as he’s sure of the World Seed’s existence.

“A freshly appointed apprentice, then?” Cyriel asked.

Dionne nodded.

The entrance doors slid open and a commanding, dark-haired man walked in. He was about a head taller than Cyriel. Bowing to her, Acardo opened his mouth to say something, but upon noticing she was about to speak he kept it to himself.

“What of your friends? Surely, someone more experienced is fit for leading this team.”

“There is”—Dionne pointed at a slim, older-looking man—“Freed, is his name. But I’m more qualified for the job, then he is.”

“I see,” Cyriel said softly. “Well, inexperienced or not. You are confident in your ability to complete the task, correct?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Dionne said with a determined look on her face. “As long as we have steady communication with Orliea, everything should be carried out efficiently.”

“As per your guidance, the technician team has constructed a Spheroid Communication Network within the heart of Marla,” Acardo said, answering the query she threw at him mentally. “Their reports say it's been running perfectly for a week now.”

“There you have it,” Cyriel said. “I also take it you know of Father’s true motives for establishing the Erian Coalition?”

“Yes. Though I’m not…sure of the exact truths. I do believe we’re here to secure the World Seed, ” Dionne said softly, seemingly intimidated by Acardo’s overwhelming presence.

Cyriel fell silent. There was no need for further conversation. From the doubtful glances some of the aides shared, she could tell how misinformed they were of their roles in history. Smiling, she glanced at Acardo. “I assume you came here to tell me the Gate to Marla is stabilized?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. All is ready for your departure.”

“It’s time to go home, then,” Cyriel said, standing up carefully with the support of Herrice’s helpful hand. Her intuition proved correct, Dtromanian liquor was too much for her system, especially with her refusal to use mana.

The chamber that held the gate to Marla was not a simple room, as it was an extension of a large spatialgate. This was because the amount of mana required to keep the spatial corridor to Marla open was astronomical, a standard spatialgate simply was not engineered to optimize that much energy. Additionally, within the walls of the room were some of the devices used to weaken the spatial integrity of the barriers surrounding Marla.

Indeed, though the barriers that kept the Marlan Tombs a secret so long were truly transcendent, they did not account for the changes brought by time. With new technology dedicated to finding the tombs, Orliea was able to track the exact coordinates to the subspace created by Marla and punch a tunnel to it.

Cyriel gently swept the glowing, blue portal with eager fingers. The mana pricked her with a familiar itch that soon engulfed her entire body. When the sensation was gone, she was standing in a dim forest. The trees were enormous, most probably peaked in the clouds. And with a few glances, one could tell these large trees held the Marlans special dwellings.

Squinting her eyes against the soft yellow orbs of light floating about, she could make out the silver-blue sparkle of the SCN Tower in the distance. Judging by the light show it was giving off, it seemed the nexus was fully operational.

“Dionne, check if your Spheres are working,” Cyriel said absentmindedly, a wide smile blossoming on her face as she watched Alice dash towards her.

“It really is you!” the energetic young maiden yelled, pressing her wet head of green hair against Cyriel’s chest as she wrapped her arms around her waist. She poked her head towards Dionne’s team. “Which one’s Cyrill?”

“She isn’t here, little brat,” Cyriel said, slowly prying the greenhead’s arms off her body. “Last I saw of her, my obnoxious twin was sleeping. Don’t fret, though. We should be able to communicate with her via Spheroid now.”

Alice slouched in disappointment, mumbling something about ‘how she hated the Spheres,’ ‘Cyriel breaking her oath,’ and ‘how she jumped out of the bath to meet the fabled Cyrill,’ as she made the trek back to the palace.

“Wait. Didn’t you come here for me?”

“Nuh-uh. Not for you,” Alice said without turning to face Cyriel, her hands holding the back of her head. “But if I were you, I’d come along, Papa and Ma are preparing a…welcoming party to come fetch you. Who knows how long that’ll take. You know them: proper etiquette and all that. Even the blockhead seems to be captivated by their traditional ways.”

Cyriel quickly followed her, matching her pace. “It isn’t ‘traditional ways,’ just proper manners,” she said with a fondness in her tone usually reserved for Cyrill. “I imagine you expect dear ol’ Mom and Dad to spring out of the bath when they hear they have a visitor?”

Passing the door into the largest arboreal dwelling, they entered a room that served as an antechamber; where Cyriel informed Dionne and her crew to wait in.

“As entertaining as that may be,” Alice was saying, laughing softly, “I feel I have to mention that I don’t have a particular hobby of indulging in such…strange thoughts.”

“Oh, I believe you.” she said dismissively, earning an adorable pout from Alice. When she saw her brother get up from his chair and approach them, however, she simply rolled her eyes dramatically.

Ignoring the juvenile, Cyriel felt her chest constrict with anticipation as Adon sauntered up to her. He gently pulled her against his chest by her waist, and sealed their lips. The sweet, fruity taste lingering on his tongue reminiscent of his favorite berries. “I take it you’ve been pining for me?” she asked once he allowed her to catch her breath.

“You could say that,” Adon said, intertwining their fingers and guiding her to a seat next to the spot he’d just been sitting in. “But it would be a gross understatement.”

“Just be glad I’m back,” Cyriel said with a cheeky smile, glancing at Elluin. They were at the very end of the Assembly hall, so she was able to observe the Marlan king in all of his majesty. He sat on his resplendent throne, staring down and explaining something to a small group. With his right elbow on the armrest, he propped up his head lazily by his hand. The king looked so…exhausted. The amethyst coronet on his head weighed heavily on him. “I think it’s time to relieve poor Dad from his regal duties, don’t you think, darling?”

Adon tightened his hold on her hand. She turned away from Avery, who had noticed her presence, to look at him. His beautiful features were strained in a somber expression, eyes carrying a deep-seated concern for the future, but—at the same time—they held what seemed to be endless determination.

Cyriel stopped waving at the queen and placed her other hand on Adon’s. “Why do you worry?” she asked. “You’ll make a great king. I’ll be at your side, after all.”

His expression softened. “I know… it’s just after everything you predict is about to happen after our coronation…” He took a trembling breath and continued in a small mana-addled whisper so Alice couldn’t hear. “Can we prevent it, the wars? Conceivable deaths?”

“Yes. We will,” Cyriel said firmly, glancing back at Avery, the queen just turned away Elluin’s attention from his subjects to their direction. He beckoned for them to step over. “For now I simply wish to have a pleasant time chatting with the family.”

Adon hesitantly nodded, leaving Cyriel apprehensive. He shouldn’t be this ambivalent in any situation, no matter how detrimental. He was to be confident in himself as long as he drew breath. ‘I’ll have to fix that later tonight,’ she thought, standing up in compliance with Elluin’s order.

Alice abruptly stopped her trudge to the inner court. Her expression barely readable, dwindling between shock, boredom, and understanding. She let out a winded sigh, then turned for the exit. “You have at your secret conversations,” she mumbled, walking out the door, “and expect me to stay for idle chatter? I find it all too uncivil to bear…”

“I’m sure you know to ignore most of what the brat says by now,” Elluin said with a smile plastered on his face. “But, Old Cyllie, you honestly couldn’t wait for me to prepare a welcoming party for you? The elderly truly don’t have face for anyone other than those older than them.”

Curtsying slowly, Cyriel cracked an annoyed smile. “I have use for your aides yet, Lord Father. They can help accommodate my friends outside,” she said, her brows twitching. “And please, Mother Avery, would you tell him to stop with the foolish jokes?”

“I tried, child. But he’s fixated on teasing you to his death…” Avery said, letting out a light laugh. She hid her playful nature beneath the veil of her elusive beauty from the servants present.

Cyriel’s eyes narrowed, but she did not say a thing. She understood Elluin would keep at her without end until his Ignition, that much held true. The man would probably keep using the fact that she was about to enter her second millennium, and Adon barely being five centuries-old as the punchline for all his jokes. Bearing with him was all that could be done, even though they were the ones who chose to end their lives prematurely…!

“Irregardless of that, Father, Mother, I hope keeping the thrones warm for Adon and I wasn’t too taxing,” Cyriel said.

“Taxing? Not in the slightest. Taking care of my people is always a pleasure,” Elluin said in a weary tone that suggested otherwise.

Seemingly sensing he wasn’t planning on saying more, Avery spoke up, “Indeed. Making sure everyone is fed and happy does wonders for our souls,” she said in her unique sprightly, yet dignified tone of voice. “Keeping the Assembly calm and willing to go along with your plans, however, does the exact opposite. I fear it’s getting harder to convince them letting the Seed go is the smart choice…”

“Rightfully so!” Elluin snapped gruffly. “Why would they be willing to hand over the one thing the Pantheon was destroyed for?! Just so we can preserve our lowly selves? The Goddesses died to protect what belonged to them. What right do we, as their children, have to give it up without a fight?!”

“Is that so, Lord Father?” Cyriel asked flatly, ignoring Adon’s firm grip on her hand. “You are to let them die? Your subjects, and the last of what your gods have gifted you?”

Elluin scoffed coldly. “We fear not death. I would think you would understand that,” he said firmly, breathing haggardly from the vigor he put into his words. “Rather than laying down to the whims of another, we would choose death!”

“Surely, you—a Demiurge—would see how unreasonable those words are,” Cyriel said softly, causing Elluin to flinch. She sighed, and looked to her side, at Adon. He looked deeply conflicted, almost like a child watching a harsh argument between parents.

“…I know you see what awaits those who have no god. I do not hope to understand what it is Marlans seek when they choose death over life, for I will always be an outsider when it comes to your beliefs. But, Dad, I beg of you. Don’t tell me you wish to end this beautiful paradise, one I have come to love completely as my only home, because of something as disgusting as pride.”

Silence fell for a long moment.

“…No. I do not wish to see the children frolicking frivolously out in the trees die,” Elluin said, closing his eyes. “I’m simply venting, Old Cyllie… I suppose I sought out your sagely advice after finally seeing you.”

“Oh…this is why that little brats presence is so important,” Avery said, sighing softly under her breath. “Don’t you agree, Adon Sweetie?”

“I agree, Mother.” Adon replied, chuckling softly.

The conversation continued down more political matters. Cyriel promised once she ascended to queen she’d be able to thoroughly convince the remainder of the Assembly that still had qualms about handing over the World Seed to Orliea. And with that promise, came the discussion of setting the date for the coronation. Two weeks from now.

“Enough of this talk,” Avery suddenly said, interrupting Cyriel and Elluin’s conversation. Once all eyes were on her, she straightened her posture, and her annoyed expression switched to something more refined…practiced. “I must know when it is you plan on binding with my baby boy.”

Adon flushed slightly. “Mother, please! Now is not the time to discuss this. We have much more delicate matters to sort out,” he said, facing Cyriel. “Don’t we?”

Enticed by the sight of Adon blushing, Cyriel failed to respond in time. Giving Avery ample opportunity to continue. “I say, the time before the coronation is best, no?” she proposed, her lips curving to a satisfied smile. The decision was already final. “That way, once you ascend to being the monarchs of Eria, it can be as one… Oh, how splendorous young love can be…”

“Young love?” Elluin chimed without missing a beat. “Would you consider the relationship between an ancient celibate and an innocent maiden ‘young love,’ dear? No…perhaps we should coin a new term for this profane union.” He grinned devilishly. “Leave it to me, I shall think of a term or it’ll be the death of me!”

The brightness on Adon’s cheeks spread to the entirety of his face, possibly because he was referred to as a ‘young maiden’ by the man he respected most. Cyriel, however, could have sworn the two had some sort of agreement when it came to teasing them. Especially in moments like this, where it just seemed pre-planned…

“I’d prefer you cease with this. The joke has run its course,” she said with a deadpan expression.

“Oh?” Elluin breathed out, shooting a glance at his only son. “I’m inclined to disagree. But if that is the case—if you can’t appreciate my comedic prowess. Maybe you will love what your precious told me the other day?”

Cyriel curiosity showed as she raised a brow, and the red in Adon’s face drained, leaving his skin ghastly pale.

“Interested, are we? Well, you see, at that time I asked my son a question,” he continued, leaning forward, pinky finger raised. “The gist of it being: ‘How would you describe your beloved’? His answer? ‘Aged delight’ of all things!”

Then, the king laughed. He laughed so loud and obnoxiously that Cyriel couldn’t help wanting to strangle him. But she didn’t. No. Her frigid glare traced straight into her darling’s eyes, into the depths of his spirit. “I see,” she muttered slowly, letting go of his hand.

“Please, allow me to take my leave. Father, Mother.” Adon said, bowing deeply as he fled.

“A little too harsh, don’t you think, dear?” Avery said, her fingers just below her cherry lips, forming an infuriating amused gesture. “You don’t seem mad, after all.”

Cyriel turned to the enchanting queen. Amusement colored her face more than usual. “My ire is simply silent, Mother,” she told her, curtsying. “Father. I have to leave now. I hope the Assembly doesn’t wear you to dust in my brief absence. They have to understand that willfully handing over the World Seed is the only way. I cannot stress this enough.”

“Yes, yes,” Elluin said in between breaths.

Despite him struggling to breathe from laughing so hard, Cyriel knew she could rest assured from the deep resolve in his eyes. Outside the Assembly hall, she shot a tempted glance in the direction of her and Adon’s bedroom chamber, but she couldn’t go chasing after him yet. Instead, she went to the antechamber, where the servants were still organizing themselves.

Cyriel scanned the room for a moment. “You there,” she said to one of the spatialmages her father handed her. He slowly approached her, and his partner followed suit acknowledging her beckoning eyes on him. “Please, the both of you, I have use of your services.”

The two nodded. “We are yours to use, Your Highness,” the older-looking one said, trailing behind Cyriel as she left the waiting quarter.

“It shouldn’t be too much trouble to create a gate to the SCN Tower with the both of you present,” Cyriel said, pointing out into the distance once outside the castle.

“That shouldn’t be much of an issue,” the older man said, waving his hand gently. Then something that induced shock within Cyriel—enough to completely sober her up—happened.

A blue rift manifested where the Elf’s hand passed. Without resistance, a spatialgate formed in front of her eyes—and on the other side of the gate, was a clear image of the SCN Tower only meters away.

“Are you also a Demiurge?” Cyriel asked, trying to calm herself. Thankfully, the man shook his head, bringing peace to her mind. She glanced at the older Elf again, then smiled. To think her father would bless her with such a useful tool, but she couldn’t be too gleeful. The man could as well as be her father's greatest weapon… “Tell me, are you both named by the authority of thy Advocates?”

“Indeed we are!” the old man said pridefully, bashing a clenched fist on his chest, just below the crest of the Orliean Royal Family. The emblazoned crest was just a stylized version of the magic symbol that represented: ‘the state in which mana is at a chaotic random’.

Cyriel couldn’t fully understand why all the servants worshiped it so but chose to ignore that since she was going to make use of that blind faith right now. “Kneel,” she said, forcing the two mages to their knees.

Then she bit the flesh from her thumb and let the blood that poured out dribble onto the older Elf. Immediately, two red runes cemented around his temples, and Cyriel could perceive all three of his slave names in her mind, as well as the purpose they carried.

“Right, TgaGail, you are not to follow me,” Cyriel said, using the man’s third name while infusing waves of mana into words; instilling Intent into the Ancient Tongue. She turned to the other Elf, her stomach upturned. She didn’t feel like doing that again, manifesting that much mana at once felt absolutely horrible. “Kill him if he does try following me.”

“I shall oblige wholly if need be, my queen,” the older Elf intoned, bowing reverently before her shoed feet.

Cyriel nodded half-satisfied, then stepped through the spatial rift. It felt welcoming passing through the corridor TgaGail created, there was no residual mana caressing her skin as if she was walking through thin air.

Taking a few steps toward the communication tower, Cyriel paused, looking back at the rift that was now seaming close. She barely managed to catch a glance of the mages still bowing to the dirt. ‘How loyal,’ she humored, restarting her gait. She stopped inches from the metallic structure.

“Where was it?” Cyriel mumbled to herself, tracing a finger around the boundary where two metal plates joined. As she wondered if she’d have to circle the entire Tower in search of the control panel, a dull flash triggered from where her finger traced, then the metal parted to reveal a silver compartment.

“Take me to the last floor. And begin preparing the next wave of Fallen,” she said monotonously, her expression becoming hideously impassive.

“As you wish, Your Eminence,” a voice came through the small speaker on the side of the elevator.

Seconds later, a sharp beep emitted into her ears, and the elevator doors opened. Cyriel trembled as the deep stench of blood wafted into the elevator. She let out a hot sigh, her insides flaring with bloodlust. Giving in to her urges, she expelled all the mana in her Essence as she took a step forward, causing the lights in the already dim chamber to flicker from the sudden storm of pure mana.

Mana rippled around her body, and melted all her garments as well as the metallic inlays beneath her feet, leaving behind red-hot, boiling depressions on the floor as she walked to the Sacrificial Pond. However, keeping a sliver of her rationality, she froze just before the tips of her toes could touch a segment of carvings circling the Pond.

Cyriel stared upwards, the domed ceiling where countless runes absorbed the mana she excreted, and impatiently waited for her body to cool. Once the last of the mana seeped out her pores, she sealed her Essence, then let blood flow freely through her body.

It started softly, but soon Cyriel could feel her heartbeat pulse violently in her chest, circulating what seemed to be an endless amount on Aeon through every level of her existence. Unlike when she showed Reandre how she was controlling the Marlans, she wasn’t in any pain, nor did she undergo any massive transformations in appearance.

All she felt was…control.

The magisteel hugging her feet shattered into tiny bits as she slowly restarted her walk. Finally, after months of abstinence, she let the neck-deep pool of blood embrace her naked form. Then the complex runic inscriptions lit up with an amethyst glare. This included the black tattoo that began on her chest and spiraled to the tips of her limbs.

Rapidly, the lifeblood brimming the Sacrificial Pond drained into Cyriel’s body. “The Ceremony has begun.” She said mentally to the servants tending to the captives.

Nine doors suddenly flung open, giving entrance to robed figures who each led a duo of man and woman. The robed Elves silently circled the blindfolded people around the edges of the Pond, then slashed their heads clean off.

Cyriel unflinchingly watched through her Aeon enhance perception as the souls of the sacrifices tried to escape their mortal shells, but failed to do so because of the magic cast upon them in preparation for the Ceremony. Instead of going forth to their next lives, the ghostly shadows were broken down and infused in the blood flowing into the Pond.

The process was then repeated, with different groups of all genders and ages. Some were tortured before death, some were spared the brutality but fully knew their fate—these ones would always cause a racket.

O’Sgemyrul’s Aeon pumped endlessly into Cyriel's body. Her eyes glazed over, the darkness encroaching her mind.

….Cyriel, the profane God whispered in her consciousness. ….Cyriel….

…

..

.

Cyriel’s body jerked as she sat up, waking from a nightmare. Her head throbbed and her eyes were awfully bleary. She glanced to her side, Alice was hugging her in a tight embrace.

“Mother?” she said, her eyes red and puffy. “You’re up.”

Tears dripped down Cyriel’s face. “...Taryl…”