Falmuth Empire — Imperial Palace
The sun had barely risen, yet the shadow of defeat clung to every corner of the Falmuth Empire. The city, majestic as ever, seemed colder today — the grand spires of the imperial palace gleaming like indifferent sentinels over a broken army. The roads were silent except for the heavy, uneven march of soldiers who had returned from the frontlines, their armor scratched, their banners dull with dust and blood. Among them, Skols returned, head bowed, steps measured.
He carried nearly twelve hundred men with him — soldiers who had once been the pride of the empire, whose names had been whispered with reverence in courts and villages alike. Now, they were husks of their former selves, shadows moving through the city's grandeur. Skols's face was pale, drawn, and the usual flicker of authority and superiority had vanished. There was no pride, no sense of accomplishment. Only the bitter weight of failure pressed on his shoulders.
Behind him, a carriage creaked along the cobblestones. From it emerged Ninia and Nihal. Ninia's eyes were lowered; her body seemed to bend under the invisible weight of shame and fear. The wind toyed with her hair, but she made no effort to brush it back. Every step she took seemed deliberate, cautious, as if she feared the very ground beneath her might betray her.
Nihal, in contrast, was a storm contained within a body. His eyes blazed with anger, the sort that burned from deep within, a fire that could not be quenched by words or reason. Tear streaks cut narrow paths down his cheeks, ghostly reminders of vulnerability he refused to admit. His jaw was clenched, fists trembling with the effort of holding in the fury that threatened to consume him.
The loss they bore was more than a battle — it was a defeat of the soul. Not just of arms, but of purpose, of identity. Life itself had been weighed, and they had fallen short. A life-battle, some might call it, though even that sounded inadequate in describing the magnitude of their failure. History remembers victors, yes. But the fallen… sometimes history remembers them far longer. Some names linger in memory not because they conquered, but because they burned brightly and fell spectacularly — Hitler, Saddam, Lucifer…
At the palace gates, the returning soldiers halted. Silence enveloped them, thick and suffocating. There were no cheers, no welcome, no emissaries to greet them. No one had come to receive the vanquished. Why would they? Victory was absent, and the taste of glory had turned to ash. Only the cold gaze of stone walls met them as they approached, indifferent and eternal.
Skols's mind churned. He knew — as surely as the desert sun would rise — that Nerin and the others had already heard of their failure. Their whispers of defeat had reached far before his boots had touched the palace steps. Yet still, he led his army forward, each soldier a living testament to humiliation, into the imperial hall.
Then, without warning, a carriage appeared, gliding to a stop directly in front of the soldiers. Its arrival was silent, almost spectral, yet it radiated an undeniable presence. From it stepped a boy and a girl, their appearance immediately arresting. Skols blinked, his instincts tingling. Their faces — it could not be — yet there it was: they looked exactly like Louis and Lily, familiar yet foreign in this context, as though echoes of someone else's past had been summoned to mock him.
Skols's voice cut the air, calm but commanding, "Who are you? Why do you block our path?"
The girl stepped forward, her body clad in a long, tattered black robe, threads fraying like the edges of forgotten time. Her eyes were sharp, unyielding, and her voice struck like a sword drawn from its sheath. "If I am not mistaken," she said, each word deliberate, "you must be the emperor… Skols, am I correct?"
Nihal's fury, already near its breaking point, surged like a tidal wave. "How dare you speak to us in such a tone?!" he roared, voice cracking with barely restrained rage. "Do you take pleasure in mocking the defeated?"
A sudden presence pressed against him, unseen yet palpable, suffocating in its intensity. His muscles tensed, instinct screaming that he was not alone. The boy standing beside the girl spoke — his voice calm, yet threaded with an underlying menace that made the hairs on Nihal's neck stand on end.
"Our master, Arre, sent us," he said, unflinching. "If that is no obstacle, we shall remain here from this moment onward."
Before anyone could respond, he moved — quick as shadow — toward the girl. In a motion that seemed to blur the line between seconds and eternity, he pressed his lips to hers. "We have work to do," he whispered, a statement of fact rather than affection.
The army froze. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
Ninia stepped forward, her hand resting lightly on Nihal's back. The gesture was simple, yet carried a weight that words could not bear. "What's done is done," she murmured, her voice both gentle and iron-edged. "There is no use dwelling on it. The path ahead is all that matters."
---
Meanwhile, far to the south…
A desert horizon stretched endlessly under a blazing sun. Heat waves shimmered above the sands, distorting the air into rippling illusions. Far in the distance, a city's silhouette gleamed like a jewel lost in the wilderness, almost impossible in its perfection.
A girl's voice rang out, high and jubilant, breaking the monotony of the desert wind.
"Yoo-hoo! There it is — Thebis City! We've finally arrived!"
A deep, gruff voice responded, laced with irritation and disbelief.
"Yes… we are close. Perhaps an hour or two at most. But tell me… how can such an advanced, prosperous city exist in the middle of this barren desert?"
Catherine adjusted the loose, airy garment draped around her shoulders, allowing the desert wind to pass freely through its folds. Her eyes, dry from sun and fatigue, studied the horizon with cautious wonder. "Nihah," she said, tone teasing but pointed, "you needn't get so excited. We've barely reached the first leg of our journey. And Arun… why do you appear so tense? Still thinking of your sister, Lily?"
Arun's gaze was distant, his jaw set. He shook his head slowly. "No. I'm just… tired."
Without another word, he began to run, feet sinking into the sand, kicking up clouds of dust as he moved. Catherine's eyes followed him. He was barely sixteen or seventeen, yet the weight of the world pressed upon him. Lily — his only family — was missing. Their parents were gone, swallowed by fate's cruelty. And now, the boy ran not with hope, but with the heavy, grim determination of one who had learned too early that the world could not be trusted.
Louis, standing quietly nearby, had once been a noble — born into power, wealth, and expectation. Yet he had shed it all, hiding his identity for Lily's sake, living as an adventurer in a dangerous, unpredictable world. Only one night had Catherine glimpsed the truth — overhearing his conversation with other nobles, suspicion had taken root. Later, she would learn that her suspicion was true. Louis was indeed a noble. But she had not told anyone. Not yet. Perhaps, she thought, it was better that way.
---
Elsewhere, in a distant chamber…
The room was sparse. Its vastness accentuated the emptiness: only a massive table, polished dark wood, and two high-backed chairs broke the monotony. A single dim light swung from above, casting long shadows across the cold stone floor.
At the far end, Roxy sat, hands folded before her face. Silent. Thoughtful. Calculating. Opposite her, Max swirled a tall, slender glass of crimson liquid, raising it in slow, deliberate sips. The liquid's color was reminiscent of blood — thick, deep, unnerving in its intensity. Each sip seemed ceremonial, a ritual of indulgence and calculation.
"Gran," Max began, his voice rough with intoxication and fatigue, "do you think this Ren… or this Arre… could become a threat to us?"
Roxy removed her hands from her face, eyes sharp as knives, measuring the room, the world, and the players within it. "What do the Higher Elders say?"
"They see nothing. Thomas reports nothing of consequence," Max replied, voice edged with frustration.
Roxy's lips curved into a faint, dangerous smile. "Then the course is clear. We go to the Holy Land. Once we arrive… only then shall we decide how to act."
The air in the chamber thickened, charged with anticipation, strategy, and an unspoken threat. Outside, the world continued — deserts stretched, soldiers returned in shame, shadows lengthened across cities, and destiny moved like a river toward the inevitable, unstoppable tide of fate.