"Sarethil, why can't you grasp the gravity of this situation? If we don't break the seal on his power, we're all going to die. I know your faction was behind it, at least try to do something.
"It's not that I ever despised him," Sarethil replied, his voice taut like a drawn bowstring. "This isn't about prejudice. Time has simply run out. It seems my selfishness will bring death to us now."
He pressed a small, rune-etched token into Arthur's trembling palm. Its surface was cold, but a faint heartbeat of magic pulsed beneath the metal, as if something ancient slumbered inside.
"Take this. If I fail, the royal order might suspend me—but if he truly holds the power we believe he does, then perform the ritual which my ancestors did to bring his." Said Sarethil and moved forward.
Arthur swallowed hard. His lungs felt tight, as though the chamber itself was holding its breath. "With the last of my strength… I'll do this."
He raised his hand. Sigils flared to life along his forearm, glowing like molten gold being poured into the air. The token vibrated, responding to the spell and Arthur read chants given by Sarethil.
Light erupted outward, ringing through the chamber like a struck bell turning sound into radiance. Magic pressure slammed into the walls, making runes crackle and flare. The scent of hot iron spread as the ancient spell awakened, its power older than kingdoms.
Arthur fell to his knees, gasping. Blood leaked from his eyes and mouth as his breath came in broken, jagged shudders. One by one, the sigils on his arm sputtered out, fading into dim embers.
Sarethil caught him before he hit the ground. His gaze snapped to the token, now glowing faintly in his hand.
"Hold on," Sarethil whispered, voice unsteady. "Just a little more…"
"Why… why isn't it working?! WHY!" Arthur's scream echoed, raw and desperate, shattering the momentary silence.
⸻
Meanwhile, at the capital's northern gate,
"Let me see her—please. She's all I have left," the young man begged, his voice hoarse from sleepless nights and endless walking.
"Get lost," sneered the senior guard, stepping close so his words cut like knives. "People like you don't belong here."
The boy's hand twitched toward his sword by instinct, but the hilt felt like lead. The spark of magic that once danced at his fingertips was gone, reduced to a dying ember.
Laughter rang out from behind him, cold and sharp.
"Put the toy away," one mocked, knocking his scabbard aside like swatting a fly. "We're doing the New Royal Order a favor."
He moved anyway. Pride pushed him forward where strength could not. Pain met him instantly—an elbow cracked against his ribs, a boot swept behind his knee, and gravel kissed his face as he hit the ground.
The world spun. Voices blurred into a rushing roar as they dragged him to the balustrade above the lake.
"Bye-bye, you pice of shit," someone sang mockingly.
The sky disappeared in a rush of cold.
The lake swallowed him whole—winter-cold and merciless. The shock stole his breath; bubbles tore from his lips like panicked birds.
One final thought flickered—not prayer, but memory. A pendant resting warm against his chest. A promise whispered long ago. A spark in the dark.
⸻
On the battlefield, chaos reigned. Smoke choked the air, the ground was fractured by spent spells, and blood stained the earth like black ink.
Sarethil knelt beside Arthur, panic warring with discipline. "What happened? Why isn't it working?"
Arthur forced the words through trembling lips. "I believe in you, Stellaris… I know what they did to you. These people—they're worth saving. Don't let your rage consume you. I know who you are, what you sacrificed for them, and what you got in return., are you listening?!"
His voice broke into a scream, but the answer was silence. His body finally gave out. Arthur collapsed, unconscious.
The lake shuddered. Ripples spread like shockwaves. Something vast stirred in the depths.
Eyes as deep and dark as the ocean gleamed with life for the first time in a long while as he stepped from the lake, water falling from him in silver sheets.
Sarethil staggered back, pain shooting through his cracked magic core. Arthur lay unmoving beside him. The remaining defenders—mages, swordsmen, summoners—were exhausted, backs pressed against the crumbling walls. The enemy laughed and surged forward, confident the end was near.
A surge of power exploded across the battlefield, flattening grass, toppling soldiers, and snuffing torches in an instant. A lone figure rose into the sky, trailing water like falling stars.
When the dust cleared, every eye turned upward.
He stood there—no older than twenty-one, with Long Bluish hair whipping in the wind and a long black coat swirling like smoke. Blue line streached along his palm to his eyes. It was the power of the first. Many of his decendents tried to harness it. But the curse remained.
An enemy swordsman screamed, "No way… Am I seeing this for real?! I thought that was just a rumor!"
Sarethil stared, breath caught in his throat, he had his eyes wide open. It was something his father fought to erase out of fear which didn't even existed.
"Arthur, wake up," he urged hoarsely. "You have to see this."
Arthur's eyelids fluttered. For a heartbeat, a weak smile broke through the pain.
Aetherion hovered above them, surveying the broken battlefield. His gaze lingered on the fallen, on the friends who had bled for a world that had scorned them.
His fingers tightened. He knew exactly what had triggered.
"How did it come to this…? Ah yes I remember it now. It all started 6 years ago, " he whispered.
"It would be fair to say 12 years. The first time I met him." Said Sarethil
The memory is still vivid. We need to send a word Peter.
"
He is the one who knows the way there. We shall tell him to bring that wepon". Said sarethil in fast voice and sent a man to peter.
Sarethil.. you remember right? You know how it all started and who was behind it. Tell me. Said Arthur.
Well 12 years ago…
The wind carried his voice.