Thunder rumbles beyond the window pane, a low, vibrating growl that shakes the very frame of the house. Outside, the rain crawls down the glass in long, silver trails, blurring the grand spires of Liveria into a fractured sea of grey.
In the window's dark reflection stands Elsbeth.
The heavy leather hood shadows the upper half of her face, but it cannot hide the stark, unsettling contrast of her features. Alabaster white, kohl black, and a jagged slash of carmine red across her lips and her arms remain wrapped tightly around her chest, anchoring the blank black book against her heart.
Sir Rowan sits across from her in the dim light. For a long time, neither of them speaks. The silence between them is not uncomfortable; it is simply heavy, laden with the grief of a crumbling kingdom.
Finally, Rowan exhales a ragged breath. "I'll be staying behind, Princess." His voice sounds uncharacteristically hesitant, almost uncertain. "Before you leave... there are things I must say."
Elsbeth slowly lowers herself onto the edge of the mattress, offering a small, silent nod.
Rowan looks down at his scarred, calloused hands. "I apologize," he says, the words leaving him like lead weights. "I am sorry that you are forced to flee from your own home. I am sorry that I cannot stop this madness. As your knight, it was my sworn duty to protect you from all of this."
Elsbeth gently shakes her head, her painted face stark in the shadows. "You don't have to apologize, Sir Rowan," she whispers, her voice soft and terribly distant. "You have helped me more times than I can count."
Rowan clenches his jaw, his eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce bitterness. "That does not change the fact that I failed."
Slowly, deliberately, the old knight rises from his chair. With a heavy clatter of leather and iron, he drops to one knee before her. The sight alone makes Elsbeth blink in stunned surprise.
A warrior of his stature kneeling in a dusty bedroom, his proud head lowered in absolute humility.
"I am ashamed," Rowan roughs out, his voice cracking with emotion. "The Princess of Liveria is forced to run like a thief while I still draw breath. I made a promise to your mother, Elsbeth."
*The Queen.* Even now, the mere mention of her name brings a phantom ache to the room.
"I swore to her, that I would protect you."
Elsbeth watches him quietly as the rain taps a frantic rhythm against the glass. "I think my mother would be deeply grateful to you," she says softly. Rowan freezes, his shoulders tensing. "If it wasn't for you, Sir Rowan, I wouldn't even be alive today. My father would have gotten rid of me long ago."
A faint smile appears on her lips—small, fragile, and tragic beneath the crimson paint. "But you were always there."
Rowan says nothing, completely paralyzed by her words. For the first time since entering the room, Elsbeth locks her dark eyes onto his. "So please... stop blaming yourself. And take care of yourself."
The knight keeps his head lowered, utterly unable to meet her gaze. Because for a fleeting, heartbreaking moment, he doesn't just see a broken princess. He sees the late Queen looking back at him through those eyes. The same unyielding kindness. The same quiet, foundational strength.
"So raise your head, Sir Rowan," she commands gently. "And do your part as my knight here in the Central."
Something vital breaks behind Rowan's stern expression. He slowly rises to his feet, a faint, weary smile cutting through his thick beard. "I will not apologize for what I am about to do to," he murmurs.
He steps forward, placing a massive, warm hand atop her hooded head. "Take care of yourself out there." Before Elsbeth can react, Rowan pulls her into a firm, protective embrace. He holds her against his chest, a steady shield against the storm.
"You don't have to carry the weight of the world alone," his voice trembles, his grip tightening just a fraction. "I am still here. We are all still here. So stop trying to bear everything by yourself." He swallows the lump in his throat. "Burden us, too."
Elsbeth remains entirely still. For once, she does not flinch away from the touch. She simply closes her eyes and lets herself rest against him, allowing the old knight's strength to seep into her bones, if only for a second.
"We will find him," Rowan promises, his voice hardening into pure steel as he releases her. "I will personally investigate the Church. I won't rest until I drag the truth into the light." He looks at her intently. "So stay strong. Stay strong enough to find Luan."
He pauses, his gaze drifting to the crown locked away in the wooden chest.
"And strong enough to claim your throne."
From his heavy coat, Rowan removes an old silver locket. It is worn, scratched, and clearly treasured across decades. He gently presses the cool metal into her palm. "This is dear to me. Let it remind you of who you are."
Elsbeth looks down at the locket, her fingers curling around it.
"I will be waiting for your return, Your Highness," Rowan says, a profound reverence taking over his face. "As Queen."
He turns toward the door.
"Thank you, Sir Rowan," she whispers, the words quiet.
Rowan stops at the threshold. He looks back one final time, snapping his boots together, and bows deeply from the waist a flawless, formal courtly salute. "No Queen should ever thank her knight."
And with that, he steps into the corridor closing the door behind.
Outside, the storm has reached a roaring crescendo. The rain pours from the bloated, black clouds as though the heavens themselves are mourning the death of the kingdom's honor.
Leonard leans heavily against the iron front gate, his cloak soaked through, when a black carriage finally emerges from the gloom of the alleyways. The small wooden window slides open, revealing Grace's pale, calculating face.
"This is sooner than we expected," she says, her voice perfectly calm despite the howling wind. "But we no longer have the luxury of choice." Her sharp eyes drift toward the house.
"Bring the Princess. I hope you have gathered everything."
Leonard nods grimly.
Moments later, Sir Rowan steps out of the house, followed closely by Erwin and Layla.
"Is she alright?" Leonard asks, his voice cutting through the downpour.
Rowan studies the falling rain for a moment, his face unreadable. "She's holding on," he replies quietly. "For now."
Leonard nods. That has to be enough.
Layla breaks away from Erwin's side, running through the puddles straight toward Leonard. "Brother Leonard! Are you going somewhere?"
Leonard crouches down into the mud, ignoring the water splashing against his boots, and forces a gentle smile. "Yeah," he says, his voice soft. "The Princess and I are going to find your fairy brother."
Layla's wide eyes instantly brighten. "Really?"
Leonard nods firmly. "Really. So, if he happens to come back here before we do, I need you to do something for me. You have to stop him from running away again. Can you do that?"
Layla immediately straightens her spine, tucking her chin in with a deadly serious expression. "Understood, sir! I'll catch him!"
Leonard lets out a rare, genuine laugh despite the misery, reaching out to playfully ruffle her wet hair. "Good girl."
Together, he and Erwin quickly load the heavy rosewood chest and their remaining travel packs into the rear boot of the carriage. When everything is securely fastened, Leonard climbs the stairs one final time. He stops outside Elsbeth's closed door, knocking softly.
"My Lady. Everything is ready." He pauses, his tone softening. "We leave now."
He turns and walks back down to the carriage.
A few moments later, the door swings open. Elsbeth descends the staircase and steps out.
An instant silence falls over the group.
The stark, painted face. The deep leather hood. The black book clutched like a talisman against her chest. She looks like an ethereal, vengeful specter of the theater.
Layla is the first to break the quiet, her jaw dropping as her eyes widen in awe. "You... you look just like the fairy brother!" A brilliant smile spreads across the little girl's face. "When you come back, Princess, I'm going to be strong and brave just like you!"
Elsbeth's rigid expression softens, a hairline fracture appearing in her icy facade. She reaches down, her pale, painted fingers gently patting the little girl's cheek. "Take care of yourself, little one."
Then, she steps out into the biting cold of the downpour.
Without a word of hesitation, Sir Rowan steps into stride beside her, throwing his coat wide to shield her head from the crashing torrents. They walk side by side toward the idling carriage. Leonard steps down from the footboard, offering his leather-gloved hand.
After a brief, tense hesitation, Elsbeth places her hand in his. He gently guides her up into the dry, velvet-lined interior of the cabin.
Grace sits in the corner of the carriage, watching silently as Elsbeth settles into the opposite bench. She takes in the macabre makeup, the hollow, unblinking eyes, and the sheer, exhausting weight of the girl's grief. And yet... beneath all that trauma, she detects a faint, stubborn thread of pure determination.
For the first time since this crisis began, a flicker of genuine curiosity stirs within the advisor's heart.
A princess driven from her own Palace.
A legendary knight preparing treason.
A hardened adventurer willing to gamble his life.
A kingdom inching toward civil war.
And somehow...
It all leads back to a JESTER.
Grace tilts her head slightly, staring outside. *Just wh-what were you?*
Grace clears her throat softly, offering a polite, practiced bow of her head. "We have met briefly, Your Highness, but I am afraid I never properly introduced myself. My name is Grace. I am one of Sir Azik's primary advisors.
I will be accompanying you throughout this entire endeavor, and it is my duty to help you secure the political leverage necessary to eventually crush the Crown."
Elsbeth offers a single, mechanical nod, her gaze immediately drifting out the window, completely shutting out the world.
The carriage lurches forward. Slowly at first, the iron-rimmed wheels grinding against the stones, before picking up speed.
The wheels cut through thick mud and churning water as Sir Rowan's estate begins to fade into the torrential gloom behind them.
Rowan remains standing perfectly still in the center of the storm, a solitary monolith, long after the carriage vanishes from his sight.
Inside the cabin, Elsbeth presses the black book tighter against her ribs as the carriage suddenly rattles. Through the rain-speckled glass, a massive contingent of the King's Chivalry—armored in gold gallops fiercely in the opposite direction, heading directly toward Rowan's home.
Grace looks out the small window, letting out a slow, deliberate sigh. "We slipped away just in time."
Minutes later, the massive stone exit gates of the Central District begin to loom out of the fog. The checkpoints are crawling with far more royal guards than regular protocol dictates.
As their carriage approaches the iron portcullis, a commanding shout echoes through the rain, and the vehicle grinds to a sudden halt.
A drenched guard commander approaches the carriage window, knocking sharply against the wood. "Step out, all of you! By the King's direct decree, every vessel leaving the Central District is to be thoroughly searched.
Word from the palace says the Princess has been abducted by treasonous actors."
Grace lets out a soft, melodious chuckle, sliding the glass window down. "Oh, my. Is that truly the rumor?" Without a hint of hesitation, she swings the carriage door wide open, exposing the interior to the guard's lantern light. "Tell me, Commander... do you happen to see a royal princess in here?"
The guard thrusts his lantern into the cabin. He sees Leonard, sitting rigid, a hand subtly resting near his blade, staring back with cold, dead eyes. Then his gaze shifts to Elsbeth, who remains hunched over, looking away.
The guard's eyes narrow suspiciously at her silhouette. "You there," he barks loudly, pointing a finger at Elsbeth. "Remove your hood and show your face to the light!"
Before the guard can take a step closer, Grace seamlessly slides into his line of sight. With a flick of her wrist, she produces a heavy, gold-plated pocket watch, prominently engraved with Sir Azik's noble crest and the seal of the high treasury.
The commander's eyes widen as he recognizes the mark. "My apologies, My lady." he stammers, his aggressive posture instantly deflating. "But... regulations are absolute tonight. We still must verify the identities of your entourage."
Grace turns back to the cabin, her voice dripping with artificial amusement. "Well, you heard him, dear. Why don't you show the good gentleman your face? We are running terribly late for the rehearsals."
Slowly, Elsbeth reaches up and pulls her leather hood back.
She turns her head fully toward the guard, locking her dark eyes onto his, and stretches her lips into a wide, unnatural, carmine-painted smile.
The lantern light catches the eerie, theatrical mask of the jester.
The guard flinches back slightly, letting out a sharp, disgusted sigh. He rubs the bridge of his nose, waving his hand dismissively toward the gatekeeper. "Ugh, just go on through. Raise the iron!" He mutters under his breath as he walks away, his boots splashing in the mud. "Damn nobles and their grotesque street performers... always playing at their macabre theater. Let them rot in the lower rings."
The heavy iron gates groan open, and the carriage jolts forward once more, its wheels rolling past the borders of the Central District.
The carriage accelerates, vanishing entirely into the heavy, unforgiving wall of western rain. Inside the dark cabin, Elsbeth closes her eyes, her fingers desperately digging into the leather cover of the black book. She doesn't care about the crown, the kingdom, or the guards behind them.
She only prays that Luan survives long enough for her to find him.