[Yonten]

Yonten woke up to see the Butcher and the Coroner wearing identical frowns as they stood in the middle of the room, their sights directed at a set direction. He followed the path to see it fall upon the Beauty’s belongings.

“Where’s our Beauty?” he yawned, stretching stiff limbs into function.

“We don’t know,” the Butcher answered. “We looked for her upstairs, but she wasn’t there.”

“Could it be that she left?” Yonten asked, just for the sake of it. He doubted it; not only were the entirety of the Beauty’s belongings with them, including her bow and arrow, but with the Beauty being the way she was, death would be the only reason she would forfeit.

The Coroner shot down his speculation instantly, “I’d believe that from anyone, but not her.”

The Butcher didn’t counter that argument, a silent expression of similar thoughts.

The two waited for Yonten to wash up before suggesting to look in the town for their missing fourth. Their first stop was the town’s gate, and they found their guide from yesterday facilitating the entry of a massive crowd into the town.

The Guide’s attention was split between them and the chaos he was in charge of as he answered, “Her? She went to our training grounds, yo—sir! This is the second time I warn you not to push!”

Seeing his plight, they decided to spare him from further questioning, choosing an idler Knight to tell them where the Beauty was.

The training grounds was another repurposed area, a significantly smaller one. It looked unbefitting for a group as prestigious as the Royal Knights. Then again, all the duties the Royal Knights performed in this town seemed unbefitting for their status.

Finally, they found the Beauty, bow and arrow in hand and standing in a shooting range.

Rather than alert her of their presence, the three of them silently joined the group of Knights watching as she took a shot and failed to hit even the margin of the target. She took a shot again and failed—shot and failed, shot and failed, until the quiver ran empty.

“Should we stop her?” one of the Knights asked, clearly in distress as they all watched the Beauty collecting the arrows to begin the process anew.

“I think we should. I’ve been here watching her since dawn, and there’s really no improvement,” another answered, as distressed or perhaps even more, judging by his affectionate worry.

Yet another spoke, casting an odd look at the second, “You’ve been watching her since dawn?”

“I was the one who gave her that bow,” the accused second defended himself. “Besides, have you seen her?”

The Knights made a collective noise of embarrassed assent.

“I would’ve thought her to be at least decent with her weapon of choice,” the Coroner mused, puzzled. Yonten noted a hint of worry in her tone.

A witness to the Beauty’s past failure, the Butcher sighed. “Perhaps she’d improve with more practice.”

By all means, the Beauty appeared like an archer—was equipped like one, too. Her arms held a toned strength, and her handling of the bow spoke of familiarity. She wore gloves, arm guards, and even a thumb ring, but such protective gear would fail against the delusions she held.

As an Elemental Smith, Yonten learned the art of matching weapons to their proper wielders.

This was not a matter of lack of practice, but a simple inability.

“Jehona,” the Coroner called out, stern.

The Beauty stopped and looked back. Upon seeing them, she let go of reaching for an arrow, waiting in place as they approached her.

“What were you doing?” the Coroner was the first to speak, her sights directed at the overworked tremor of the Beauty’s hands.

The Beauty appeared indifferent to it, simply answering, “Morning practice.”

A call from behind interrupted the Coroner’s pursuits for a better answer. They turned to see that it was a Knight who just arrived to the grounds.

“Your portraits need to be taken for the records,” was the Knight’s answer when they walked up to him, urging for them to follow.

The four of them looked at one another before they did as told, their thoughts running the same track.

Portraits?

[Stella]

It wasn’t only the Royal Knights who were deployed into mundanity, Stella found, as a youth introduced himself to them as Ren, an apprentice of a Court Painter.

Court Painters were the peacocks of the Capital City. They were known to be rather elitist, refusing to paint individuals who weren’t born into the wealthiest and most prestigious of nobility. It amused Stella terribly, the mere thought of those painters suffering such a ‘grievance’—to be forced by Royal Decree to take portraits of common-born volunteers.

This Court Painter stationed at Cora found a loophole with his apprentice, it seemed. From Ren’s dialect and lack of metaphorical ruffles, Stella estimated him to be a local of the area.

“Apologies for the clutter,” Ren said, quickly setting up a place for them to sit. “I usually take these at Teacher’s manor, but it’s currently undergoing renovation.”

“To accommodate the refugees?” William estimated, and Ren sighed heavily.

“I take it that your teacher wasn’t pleased about this development?” It would be a surprise if the Court Painter didn’t raise a fuss at that inconvenience.

Ren’s pointed silence told enough. With an admirable sort of decisiveness, he changed the subject, asking as his sights traveled between them, “Who will be the first?”

Yonten raised a hand with unconcealed eagerness.

With a smile Stella suspected was amused, Ren gestured for Yonten to take a seat opposite of his own, promptly beginning to put an initial outline.

As William and Jehona watched the process with interest, Stella looked around the small cottage Ren resided in, taking in the many trinkets adorning its every corner. Curiously enough, while many portraits were neatly propped on the wall in varying degrees of completion, only one portrait was on display in all its glory—right at the center of the room, where no eye could miss.

The portrait was of a young woman with similar features to Ren’s, an unmistakable warmth in her eyes.

Ren noticed Stella’s lingering look, and his smile faded in melancholy as he spoke, “My older sister, Hana. She was a volunteer like you.”

“It’s a beautiful portrait,” Stella praised, sincere and somber. The change in Ren spoke volumes.

“Thank you, I’ve been told it’s my best work. I think it’s due to Hana herself requesting it from me before her departure.” Perhaps seeking solace in his art, Ren didn’t stop working, continuing, “She left along with her friends in the first year of Aldric’s invasion. Back then, there were only two Gates. The South Gate’s whereabouts were never known, so her party opted to take on the East Gate in Mirror Island.”

“Did they make it there?” Mirror Island was infamous for being ridiculously hard to find. Ships coursing right next to its borders could end up missing it entirely. Some speculated it was due to the almost translucent quality of its beach’s sand, reflecting both the sky and the ocean seamlessly.

“They did, but only one of them returned.” Ren’s voiced turned hoarse, then. “I wished he didn’t when he told us what he saw.”

“What did he see?” By this point, the enthusiasm Yonten showed to having his portrait taken vanished, replaced by solemnity running the same course as their own.

“They killed her,” Ren answered, repeating, “They killed her. My sister’s friends… they killed her, and then they killed each other.”

A long, heavy silence fell upon them after Ren’s reveal. Stella regretted accidentally reopening the subject with her wandering sights. With the regret, though, came an insistent sort of speculation. What could make a group of friends kill each other?

It must have a relation to that East Gate. Perhaps Mirror Island, too.

Despite the reminder of bitter memories, Ren managed to finish up their portraits. It seemed as if a semblance of steadiness took hold of his thoughts, gaining strength with every brushstroke. He looked away from the last of the portraits, William’s, and uttered a low, “I’m done.”

One by one, he revealed their portraits. And they were incredible.

Since the portraits were merely for documentation, Stella didn’t expect Ren or anyone in his position to put unnecessary effort into them.

But Ren did the complete opposite, actively challenging both the limited time he had, and the strain his efforts would cause him. A single look at their portraits would show the entirety of the heart they held within their details. Details Stella went past ever since this quest of theirs started, now taking note of them in this still form.

Jehona’s complexion was seaside sand. Her beauty was the wild sort, the intense—even in the amber of her eyes and the black of her hair.

William’s was darker, all sun-kissed. His features held an aged sort of strength, but his blue eyes, his chestnut hair, held a contrasting gentleness, overshadowing the rougher edges.

Yonten’s was tan, complementing the sly, striking charm of his features. The dark of his eyes ran deep, glittering a moment and then dimming in the next.

Then there was Stella’s own portrait. Her own little details—a bronze complexion embracing features that were overly soft, overly docile, so much that it startled people when her attitude didn’t match her looks. Eyes that were a deep brown, and hair that was a shade lighter.

Ren had talent. Stella was not an artist nor did she ever partake in such pursuits, but she nonetheless deemed Ren’s level to fall slightly shorter than that of a Court Painter’s. A few more years, though, he would exceed it. It was an outrageous claim, but one Stella would put her word behind.

“I hate to take these,” Ren murmured before any praises rose in succession, dulling the awe inspired by the portraits.

Stella frowned, thoughts already conjuring up many injustices committed by the Court Painter. “Did your teacher force you?”

Ren shook his head. “It’s my choice.”

This time, it was William who said, “Why?”

“Because of those who wait,” Ren gave, something steely in his eyes. “As long as Aldric continues his reign, there will be ones who will make the sacrifice to end it. And as long as those heroes emerge, there will be ones who will wait—either for a return, or a closure.” He looked at their portraits, reflecting, “For many, these portraits act as the last remainder of their loved ones, so who am I to rob them of that comfort?”

That… was one way to think about it.

Having a portrait taken was a luxury, a display of prestige and status. A comfort given unconditionally?

Absurd, but wonderful.

Escorting them out, Ren bade them a warm goodbye before saying, “I hope you’ll be the ones to claim your portraits from me in the future.”

As far as wishes of good fortune went, it was one of the best.

[William]

While much bigger than Cinder, Cora Town’s crowded streets gave William the illusion of the opposite. Even after the sun fell, the streets remained as lively as ever, making their journey back to the old tavern longer than it ever had the right to be.

Upon entering, they found none of the Knights had returned yet. It should be close to the time the leader of this town’s Knights returned, so how come no one was here yet?

They settled around the only table available, shoved carelessly to a heavily shaded corner of the room.

“Heroes?” William heard Yonten musing to himself. Looking at the youth, William found a peculiar sort of amusement marring his smile. “He made it sound so poetic.”

“The act of sacrificing yourself for the sake of another generally is,” Stella said, sounding barely convinced.

“Well, there’s no one I’m sacrificing myself for,” Yonten drawled, leaning against his seat. “I don’t care for this Kingdom’s fate. Is that heroic?”

“Those thirty coppers must’ve been rather precious, then,” Jehona mocked.

That strange air Yonten exuded faded, his smile holding unconcealed agitation. “You’re a petty one, aren’t you?”

“Better than being a hypocrite.” Jehona’s smile was amusingly smug, childish even. “It’s not about what you think of yourself, it’s how people will remember you. You took on this quest. You’re a hero.”

Why did such praise sound like an insult?

“A lively lot, yes?”

William sighed, nodding as he took the goblet offered to him.

His eyes widened right after, and the goblet’s rim settled on his closed lips, a thin stream of the drink it contained trickled down his bearded chin, an inconvenient sensation, but one William didn’t particularly care about at the moment.

He turned to his side, and there he found a grinning stranger.

The four of them jumped at that moment, letting out a variety of embarrassing sounds.

The stranger laughed, delighted by their reaction. “Always works like a charm!”

It was then that William noticed the tavern’s opened door, where a group of Knights entered to fill the room in number and sound. Among them, William caught sight of an exhausted Flynn.

Yonten muttered to himself, clearly irked, “Can’t believe I fell for a Shadow Teleportation of all things…”

That caught William’s attention. “What’s that?” he asked, following Yonten’s gaze to the sword strapped to the stranger’s back, at the fading, purple glow of its handle.

“All Elemental energies have the potential to be used for transport in the appropriate setting.”

An appropriate setting…

William regarded their dim surroundings, and realized.

What a dangerous skill!

The stranger perked up, looking at Yonten with interest. “Ah, you’re well-informed, lad!”

The stranger’s cheer only furthered the fatigue evident in Flynn’s entire being, his gaze exasperated as he addressed the stranger, “Sir, you really need to stop doing this.”

The stranger dismissed him. He put a long arm around William’s shoulders, acting as a long-lost friend. “Why? It makes things interesting!”

“No, it doesn’t,” was Jehona’s venomous response.

The stranger didn’t falter, addressing Jehona with a sagely air, “Young lass, a little scare builds character.”

“And coffins,” added Stella, her hand still pressed against her chest.

William lowered the stranger’s arm from his shoulders, asking, “Who are you?”

Flynn was the one to answer him, a little sheepish, “He’s our leader, Vice-Captain Greco.”

This muddied, excitable mess of a man was a Vice-Captain?

William’s firstborn, Locke, dreamed of being a Royal Knight. He studied and practiced day and night to qualify into joining their ranks once he became of age. Exposed to his son’s endless praises, William built up a certain image in mind of the Royal Knights, one that cracked little by little ever since they arrived here.

Vice-Captain Greco’s mere existence served to shatter the remainder of that image to oblivion.

“Let’s start with a little briefing, shall we?” Vice-Captain Greco turned to his subordinates at that, commanding, “Prepare the stage!”

All Royal Knights present in the room broke into agonized sighs, their eyes haunted by imminent despair.