[Emerald Castle, Prince Alden's Chambers]
By the second cycle, the menu changed.
Against the torchlight, Alden inspected a vial of clear liquid. Cyanide. A respiratory inhibitor.
Never fond of its acrid taste, he dumped it into the wine's dregs and knocked it back. It still tasted the same.
Air filled his lungs, but the oxygen refused to bind, rendering the blood useless.
A spasm of pure biological terror bucked through his body.
Yet Alden sat still, watching his fingernails turn a bruised shade of blue.
Essence flooded his veins. If the blood wouldn't carry life, the Void would. Manually forcing the circulation, he pushed the shadowed energy into the starving cells, hardening them against the need for air. Slowly, he taught the tissues to survive, to function without the crutch of breath.
Reaching for a book on the side table, he turned the page with blue fingers. The words swam slightly, then sharpened as his will clamped down on his optic nerves.
'Suffocation is just a state of mind.'
Come the third cycle, the wine was gone.
Silence reigned in the room, heavy with the scent of copper and rot. His cells had finally adapted to the Void Essence, learning to survive without oxygen. It was time for the next stage. The third vial lay empty on the floor: Necrotoxin.
It felt like swallowing broken glass and battery acid.
Alden remained in the chair, though sweat slicked his hair to his forehead. Inside, the poison dissolved the soft, weak tissue frayed under the strain of the Blood Oath. A wet, tearing sensation ripped deep in his gut as the cells sloughed away.
He let it rot.
Then, he pushed the Essence into the slurry. The Void reconstructed the damage, knitting the flesh back together, denser this time.
Leaning over the armrest, Alden retched. Black bile splattered onto the stone floor—dead cells, purged weakness, the debris of a human body too frail for his purpose.
He wiped his mouth with a silk handkerchief, inspecting the black stain on the white fabric.
"Messy," he murmured.
Sitting back, he took a deep breath. The air tasted sweet. His heart beat slow and heavy. While the emotions of the agents remained—thousands of miles away—his nerves felt insulated, wrapped in lead.
Ichor dimmed, its red glow settling into a steady, rhythmic pulse matching his own.
Alden stood up. Joints popped, loud in the silence. Walking soundlessly to the heavy stone door, he unsealed the lock.
He needed a shower.
[Antithesis — The Realm of Frost and Flame]
Aurenya lay on her stomach in the grass, her cheek pressed against the earth. A golden beetle crawled over her hand. She didn't flick it away. Instead, she scooped it up, bringing it to her chest, and squeezed her eyes shut.
"Purr," she whispered into the silence. "Please, purr."
The luminescent bug only its mandibles and flew away. Aurenya remained curled in the grass, her arms empty, her fingers twitching as she tried to recall the sensation of a 'hug'.
She stood up abruptly. The ritual demanded she count the sky-rounds now—one thousand four hundred and forty-two—but she turned her back on the sky.
She walked past the first ring of Golden Trees. Then the second. She didn't stop until she reached the edge of the golden lake.
She waded in. The luminous liquid rose to her knees, then her waist. Taking a breath, she dove forward, thrashing her limbs, trying to force her body down, through the bottom to wherever 'he' was.
But the lake didn't drown her; it raised her up, as if the depths themselves could not bear the weight of her existence. A gentle, reverent force pushed her back, sliding her body across the surface until she washed up on the golden sand. Her wings unfurled, the feathers of living fire igniting a brighter red.
She stared at the water, then scrambled up and flew to the Flame Tree.
"Virelya..." She pressed her forehead against the burning bark. "Kaelira said I am Flameborn. That means you are my mother..."
The tree burned silently. A branch swayed in the wind.
Aurenya nodded quickly, answering the silence herself. "You're busy. I know. Talking to Kaelira takes all your energy. But... just show me. Just one image. What is a bakery? What is he?"
She waited. She held her breath until her lungs burned.
Nothing.
"Are you talking?" she whispered, tapping the bark with a fingernail. "Maybe I just can't hear you..."
She pulled away, rubbing her face. She looked down at her clothes—woven of Virelya's flame-leaves. She gripped the hem. With a sharp cry, she ripped the leaves from her body. They flared and vanished into embers.
"Now... I am going to steal," she announced to the empty air, waiting for something to happen.
It didn't. She laughed joyfully. Scrambling up the lower branches of the Golden Trees, she tore down leaves that didn't belong to her, then flew to the edge of Nhalrien’s domain to snatch frost-fronds. She twisted them around her waist, shivering as the ice bit into her skin.
"See?" She spun around, the cold biting her hip. "I’m wearing clothes. Like Finn Rivers."
She sat back down by the lake, breathless, her chest heaving not from exertion, but from the crushing weight of the silence. She curled her hands against her chest, rocking back and forth.
"Miku," she whispered.
She squeezed her eyes shut, imagining weight in her empty arms. She pictured silver fur. She pictured green eyes. She wanted it so much her ribs ached with it. Her wings burned redder and redder, until the entire realm began to tremble. Then, a shard of pure essence flew from the Frost Tree, Nhalrien.
Aurenya’s eyes snapped open.
The golden liquid of the lake was rising. She hadn't touched it. She was five feet away.
The water hovered in the air, twisting. The shard of frost from the far bank shot across the sky and slammed into the gold. Pigment from the grass bled upward, swirling into the mix.
Aurenya scrambled backward, then stopped. She clamped a hand over her mouth.
The shape solidified. It dropped onto the grass with a heavy .
It wasn't small. It was the size of her arm. A body of silver carapace, legs of solidified gold, and eyes of green moss.
"Miku?" she breathed.
The creature chittered—the sound of ice cracking on stone. It shook its carapace, oriented itself, and scuttled straight toward her, bumping its head against her glowing ankle.
Aurenya squealed. She clapped her hands over her cheeks, staring. She waved her hand at the lake again, desperate to make another, to fill the world with them. The liquid just rippled sluggishly.
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She looked back at the creature. One was enough.
She dropped to her knees. The beetle-cat hopped up, landing in her open palms. It was heavy, cold, and damp.
It was perfect.
She pulled it against her chest, burying her nose into the shell. It wasn't hard like the bugs in the grass; it was soft, yielding to her touch like the fur from the stories.
"Miku," she cooed, rocking back and forth. "My Miku."
The creature , rolling over in her arms to expose its belly. Aurenya laughed, a sound that startled even her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, faster than it ever had in a thousand cycles before her storyteller's arrival.
"If this is how my storyteller feels..." She lifted the heavy creature, looking into its mossy eyes. "Miku... will you marry..."
The creature squirmed. Its green eyes locked onto the pile of discarded flame-leaves nearby, still smoldering with eternal fire.
It leaped from her hands.
"No, wait!" Aurenya lunged.
The construct was fast. It skittered over the sand, mimicking the thief from the story, and snatched a burning leaf in its mandibles.
Steam exploded.
There was no scream. Just the sound of structure failing. The heat of the flame-leaf met the frost of the body, and the creature collapsed instantly into a puddle of lukewarm slush.
Aurenya froze, her hand outstretched, fingers inches from the wet spot on the sand.
"No..."
She scooped up the mud. It ran through her fingers. "No, no, Miku. Stop it."
She frantically gathered the slush, hugging the dripping mess to her chest, staining her new golden clothes. She sprinted to the Flame Tree.
"Virelya! Look!" She slammed her shoulder against the trunk, holding out the mud. "I made it! It was alive! Fix it!"
The tree did not dim. It did not flare. It just burned.
"Why won't you answer?!" Aurenya screamed, her voice cracking. "It's gone!"
She spun around. Nhalrein. The frost.
She launched herself into the air, flying across the lake. She crashed onto the frozen bank, scraping her knees on the ice. She grabbed handfuls of frost, jamming them into the mud in her hands.
"Live," she commanded. She ran back to the lake edge, scooping golden essence, mashing it all together until her fingers were numb and blue. "Just be Miku. Please."
She molded the shape. She pressed the green moss back where the eyes should be. She stared at it, willing it to move.
The slush sat there. Melting. Lifeless.
Aurenya’s hands fell to her lap.
A sharp pain built behind her nose. Her vision swam. A drop of hot water spilled over her lashes, sliding down her cheek. Then another.
She touched her face, staring at the wetness on her fingertips, then touched her lips. It tasted like 'something'. A sharp, stinging flavor she felt for the first time.
But she wasn't in the mood to try more. She only knew that the hole in her chest was now bigger than the world itself.
Curled at the base of the silent Frost Tree, clutching a handful of dead mud, Aurenya wept.
Through the sobbing, she remembered his voice, from some time ago. 'My mother died today.'
Back then, she had merely tilted her head. She had expected his mother to simply appear again, just as her sisters always returned, even after being scattered.
But the slush in her hands did not move. The warmth was gone, and it was not coming back.
Aurenya squeezed the cold mud. "Come back..." she begged again, her voice dropping to a terrified whisper. "What if... the storyteller's mother also couldn't be revived? Does... does he have no mother now?"
Her heart gave a violent lurch. A heavy, sickening that shook her entire frame.
The eternal, unchanging light of her realm suddenly seemed fragile. 'If his mother could vanish... if Miku could turn to slush...'
Aurenya curled tighter, her eyes wide and trembling as she stared into the uncaring gold.
[Emerald Castle, Prince Alden's Chambers]
Pacing the bedroom floor, Sill waited. It was the promised last day. Code 06 had already left. The window stood open to the night air.
Alertness snapped into Sill's posture the moment a silhouette moved through the window frame.
Alden emerged. Pale, with skin around his eyes bruised and dark. But he moved with a terrifying, fluid stability.
Sill’s eyes darted to the black stain on the handkerchief in Alden’s gloved hand. He swallowed. Alden handed him the handkerchief and ordered, "Give this to the research team. Code 19 can do whatever he wants with it."
"Okay, but..." Sill stuttered. "Master. You're..."
Alden walked past the agent, heading toward the bed.
Resting his head against the headboard, he finally spoke. "For the next cycle, update the inventory."
Sill pulled out a notepad, his pen hovering. "Yes, Master?"
"Corrosives," Alden listed, his tone casual, as if ordering dinner. "Sulfuric, preferably. And radioactive ore. Sun Stones will suffice for now."
The pen stopped. Sill looked up, his mask slipping just enough to show the horror in his eyes. "Sun Stones... Master, that creates proximity rot. It destroys the cellular structure."
"Get it done, Sill."
"Master—"
Alden didn't turn around. He simply closed his eyes.
Finally, Sill replied. "Understood."
[Silver Star Tower – Upper Laboratory]
Tower Master Geralt paced the length of the room, turning sharply at the far wall—three steps, turn, three steps back.
The heavy, iron-reinforced door groaned. Geralt pivoted before the hinges finished their complaint.
"What?" He crossed the distance in two long strides. "The Crimson Veil bothering us again?"
Rhodri sagged against the doorframe, his chest heaving. He wouldn't meet Geralt's eyes.
"Yes, Master. Their Tower Master... he still hasn't been found."
"Hmph. What a nuisance. Didn't they already hear from that prostitute?" Geralt snorted.
"Yes. The woman said after Vorenus was done, he blew her room apart and left, gloating that he wanted to 'enjoy life' a little longer."
"What? Has he lost his mind? At a time like this..." Geralt exhaled, a sharp hiss of irritation. "Irresponsible fools like him can never achieve greatness." He spit once on the floor, then turned. "Any news from the Prince's castle?"
"Silence." Rhodri smoothed the front of his tunic, though his hands trembled. "The Emerald Castle has been barred for the last few days. No movement in or out, other than Lord Limon, who keeps rushing to and from the Medical Wing. But on the day of the poisoning... the Prince was seen active all that evening. He walked the grounds. He looked well. But from the next day, he just... disappeared."
Rhodri hesitated. "Also..."
"Speak."
"Because of the mess the previous day at court, no one dares check on him. I heard the high nobles had to pay a hefty price for bothering him before."
"So... we still don't know whether he is alive or not," Geralt asked, his voice low with annoyance.
"Yes. Certainty is... elusive, Master. That day, only His Highness and Lord Limon remained within the room. We cannot say for sure if he took the bait."
Geralt froze. His fingers drummed the workbench in quick, irregular beats.
"If it were a performance, he would have collapsed the moment the spoon touched his lips," Geralt murmured, staring at nothing. "He would have writhed for the court to see. He would not have waited twenty-four hours to hide."
"But we can't be sure. Our pawn was captured." Rhodri lowered his voice. "Although he recited the confession exactly as scripted, reports say the Prince did not believe the story."
Geralt's mouth curved upward, slowly widening.
"Excellent."
"Master? The plan seems to have failed—"
"Think, Rhodri." Geralt moved to the workbench, fingers hovering over a beaker of dark, viscous fluid. "Why summon the servant at all? Why pause his work to interrogate a waiter?"
Rhodri blinked, his mouth opening and closing.
"Because the meal tasted wrong," Geralt answered for him. "That is the only reason to stop eating."
Geralt swirled the liquid. It moved slowly, thick like oil.
"He likely swallowed a common purgative from his physicians to be safe, felt no pain, wiped his mouth, and went to sleep feeling secure."
He set the glass down, the sharp echoing in the cold room.
"He did not know this new creation waits exactly one day to wake up. Once taken, even antidote would do nothing..."
Geralt let out a dry, rattling laugh.
"But... isn't he a Swordsmaster? Would it work on him in the same way?"
The question was met with a sneer. "A Swordsmaster wouldn't fall that easily. But... he will be rotting from the inside out. All we have to do now is wait... for him to waste his time. Once he fails the test..."
Geralt left the sentence unfinished. After all, there was no lack of vultures in the court.
[The Imperial Court]
For the past four days the Crown Prince had not been seen outside his Castle. It was finally the last day of the test.
The Great Hall buzzed with noise—whispers layered over whispers, echoing off the marble walls.
"Did you hear? Today is the last day of the test," a count whispered behind his hand, leaning toward his neighbor.
"His Highness, the Crown Prince must prove his worthiness by solving the Rosewick Accident," the neighbor replied, shaking his head.
"I heard even Imperial Advisors stumbled trying to solve it for weeks. And he was given only one week's time. Isn't it ruthless?"
"He requested it," Countess Alderton said, her voice low and sharp. "He wants to assume both the Crown Prince and Empress responsibilities before he reaches adulthood, which requires an arduous test."
The gossip flowed freely among the lesser nobles standing in their carefully ordered ranks, their eyes darting toward the heavy doors, waiting.
"Rumor has it that he doesn't even show his face these days..."
"Why go through this, though? He’s the sole Heir, after all…" a younger noble asked, confused.
"Haha, young man. It's not about promise. It's about power," an older viscount murmured, smoothing his beard. "However, it's unlikely for him to solve it."
"The hour grows late," Countess Alderton concealed a smile behind her fan. "We should probably begin contemplating the… new arrangements."
She tilted her head toward Count Devon and whispered, "Whom do you now believe holds the most Imperial favor?"
Devon, standing tall, tightened his grip on the ceremonial sword pommel, causing the leather to groan. Countess Alderton fell silent, covering her face with her fan, yet her sneer remained beneath.
Above the sea of colorful silks and nervous energy, the Four Dukes sat in their appointed seats, flanking the Emperor’s throne in a show of unified power. Their silent, unreadable expressions contrasted with the restless crowd below. They waited for the Heir’s arrival, not participating in the whispering.
Emperor Caelus IV, seated on the magnificent Golden Throne, fixed his silent determination on the empty space to the right of the dais. His gaze awaited his son’s arrival. If the Heir passed today’s test, his seat would be established on the lower dais. Failure would leave the floor bare until the Heir reached the age of maturity.
When the time for the Proceeding nearly arrived, and the Crown Prince was still nowhere to be seen, the atmosphere shifted. The whispers grew louder. Muffled laughs broke through. Nobles' worried frowns curved into smirks. Some caught each other's eyes and nodded slowly. Others raised their eyebrows with knowing looks.
The Emperor narrowed his eyes, tightened his grip on the armrest, and took a final glance around. He straightened up and raised his hand to signal the Chamberlain to resume their usual conversation.
