Alvin sauntered toward the window, hands clasped behind his head, and glanced down at the courtyard below. Ziraiah stood under the moonlight, her black hair streaked with green catching the lamplight like a shimmer of jade.
He gave a low whistle. "Your sister really is something else… She's even prettier than the Princess. If only she were a few years older—"
Eryndor's head turned sharply. His expression remained unreadable, but his gaze was cold, sharp, and fixed squarely on Alvin.
Alvin immediately raised his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay, I'm just joking. Don't tear my face off."
Eryndor crossed then placed a hand on Alvin's shoulder with calm deliberation. His tone was courteous, yet steely. "Alvin… You are my dear companion, and I do hold you in high regard."
Then, with a sudden pull, he drew Alvin's head down to his level, their eyes meeting.
"But let me be perfectly clear: I will not abide such remarks—however humorous you believe them to be."
Alvin blinked, caught off-guard by the sudden gravity in Eryndor's voice.
Eryndor released him, turned, and began dressing with quiet efficiency. "You're fortunate," he continued, buttoning his collar, "that it was I who heard them. My brother… is not nearly as patient."
Alvin tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
Eryndor fastened his cloak and adjusted the collar with practiced ease. "Others have ventured similar jests in his presence," he said evenly. "Those unfortunate souls now bear lasting reminders of their folly—some etched upon their faces, others buried far deeper."
He moved toward the door and placed a hand on the handle. "Have a pleasant weekend, Alvin."
Without another word, he stepped into the hallway, cloak swaying as the door clicked shut behind him.
---
The carriage rolled smoothly through the moonlit streets, its wheels rumbling faintly against the cobblestone road. Inside, Eryndor and Ziraiah sat across from Andrea, the familiar rhythm of travel casting a comfortable silence between them.
Andrea glanced over, her brows gently furrowed. "So… how are you coping?"
Eryndor held her gaze, his voice steady and sincere. "I have ever found a means to keep stride—regardless of the trial."
Andrea blinked, smiling softly. "Wow. Ria was right—you really are a genius."
Ziraiah, lounging with her head tilted back, raised a hand and rolled her eyes. "Ehh, I don't know about that. I think it's mostly because Mom made us study so much growing up. We're just really good at memorizing things."
With a snap of her fingers, a tiny flame sparked to life at the tip of her index finger. She flicked it off, then on again, amused by the simple trick.
"Magic is just… awesome," she said with a grin.
Andrea's eyes widened. "Wait—did you just cast that without chanting?"
Still toying with the flame, Ziraiah blinked. "Uhh… yeah?"
Andrea launched forward and pulled Ziraiah into a tight hug. "Oh my gods, Ziraiah! When did you become a silent caster?"
Ziraiah, muffled and buried in Andrea's embrace, mumbled, "A few days ago, I guess…"
Andrea rocked her gently. "I'm so proud of you!"
Eryndor watched with a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. Then, his expression sobered.
"Aunty Ann," he said, his voice softening into a quiet gravity. "Might you be able to establish contact with Pungence on my behalf? My brother is lost."
Andrea looked over, still holding Ziraiah. "Your brother… the one you said got separated from you?"
Eryndor nodded slowly. "Yes."
Andrea tilted her head, her expression skeptical. "How do you know your brother's lost? You haven't seen him since the day you got separated in that ruin."
Ziraiah and Eryndor exchanged a glance—silent, measured, heavy with unspoken truths.
Eryndor exhaled softly, then turned to Andrea. "I believe the moment has arrived to disclose the truth to her."
Andrea raised an eyebrow, her voice tinged with concern. "What truth?"
Eryndor inclined forward, resting his elbows against his knees. His voice, though composed, carried the weight of sombre reflection. "You are already cognisant that we are not denizens of this world. Yet upon our arrival, we were not bereft of guidance. There was… a presence—an incorporeal voice that communed with us. She identified herself as Yelleen."
He paused, his eyes narrowing with contemplative precision. "She is intrinsically bound to all those who hail from Earth—a kind of psychic tether, ethereal yet unyielding."
Andrea nodded slowly, lips parting in understanding. "Earthers," she murmured. "That's what people here call them."
Ziraiah folded her arms. "Yes. We've heard the term whispered often."
Andrea's expression darkened. "They caused chaos the last time they arrived. I remember it vividly."
Eryndor's gaze sharpened, his mind alighting upon the ancient blueprints they had unearthed in Mystvir—scrolls inscribed with cryptic warnings and temporal markers. "That transpired three centuries past…" he said slowly, the words deliberate. "Aunty Ann… were you extant during that time?"
Andrea smiled faintly and crossed her legs, her composure untouched. "I'm far older than I look, Eryndor."
Eryndor blinked, then leaned back slightly. "You're over three centuries old?"
Andrea held up a playful finger. "Ah ah ah. A lady's age is sacred, dear. It's impolite to ask."
Ziraiah tilted her head. "But… Aurellians live for about two hundred years. I read that. How are you still—?"
Andrea raised her hand. "Enough about my age," she said with a smirk. "Continue your tale, Eryndor."
He inclined his head with quiet gravitas. "As I mentioned, Yelleen has aided us since the moment of our arrival—murmuring portents, imparting arcane knowledge, linking our minds across vast distances. But now…" His voice tightened, low and clipped. "She claims she can no longer perceive my brother. It is as though his very essence has been effaced from existence."
Andrea folded her arms, brow furrowed. "So… you want Pungence to find him."
Eryndor gave a solemn nod. "Indeed. If any individual possesses the requisite reach and arcane infrastructure to ascertain his whereabouts, it is Pungence."
Andrea's eyes narrowed slightly. "What makes you so sure?"
"I have witnessed the Mother Waver," Eryndor replied. "The man wields technologies and magicks that defy conventional comprehension—artifacts no other soul in Yardrad dares even to acknowledge. If there remains any hope of locating my brother, I am persuaded it lies with him."
Andrea sighed and leaned back in her seat. "I haven't seen Pungence since he left to investigate the situation in Iftiar."
Eryndor tilted his head, curiosity sharpening his gaze. "Iftiar… That is the name of the another continent, is it not? I was under the impression that Yardrad was all the common folk knew of—that no extant cartography depicted lands beyond its borders."
Andrea nodded. "It is. There are maps of the other continents—just not available to the general public. Access is highly restricted."
Ziraiah's eyes widened. "Then the stories are true…"
Andrea nodded solemnly. "Yes. But for now, there's nothing you can do. Not until Pungence returns."
Eryndor stared out the window, his voice quiet. "Then I suppose… all I can do is wait."
---
Within the heart of Ignir—the elven kingdom nestled deep within the country of Clanlyor—the royal palace stood immaculate once more. Rebuilt with elven precision and reinforced by subtle enchantments, it bore no trace of the devastation the Unbounds had inflicted nearly two months ago. The marble floors gleamed like starlight on still water, the arched windows shimmered with mana-infused glass, and towering banners of royal blue and gold hung proudly from the vaulted ceilings. Yet for all its restored grandeur, a quiet grief lingered in the air. The city had been rebuilt… but the dead had not returned.
Pungence stood still before the throne of King Gozay.
He wore military-green trousers tucked neatly into polished black boots, paired with a simple plain field shirt—unfittingly casual attire in a chamber filled with the highest-ranking mages of the elven realm. Yet none dared question his presence.
To the king's left and right stood the remaining Spellbounds—the kingdom's elite arcane defenders. Of the original ten, only five remained:
Jeron Hevier, the 4th Spellbound, whose face was taut with unvoiced fury,
Maria Synclary, the 6th, her crimson robes flowing around her like blood in water,
Maloi Enria, the somber 9th, his eyes forever shadowed with mourning,
Heinzel Maigrain, the young and unproven 10th,
and an empty space where the 1st Spellbound should have stood.
Pungence stood with his arms folded, gaze cool and unblinking. "So," he said evenly, "only half remain. The other five perished in that reckless attempt to save Eliana."
He sighed and shook his head. "And in the end, you failed to bring her back."
On the throne, King Gozay sat hunched forward, one hand cradling his temple, the other limp against the armrest. "I am… a failure of a king," he murmured, voice hoarse with shame.
Pungence tilted his head. "Yes, you messed up. You could have sent the First alone. Instead, you've lost your elite. That decision cost you dearly."
A quiet snarl crept across Jeron's face. His jaw tightened, and veins pulsed visibly across his temples. How dare he speak to our king with such insolence? he thought.
But Maloi whispered from beside him, "Hold yourself back, Jeron. The king called him friend. Have you ever heard His Majesty use that word before?"
Heinzel nodded faintly. "That was a first for me too…"
Maria, arms crossed, scoffed softly. "Why are you even speaking? You've barely been among us for a year."
Pungence ignored their muttering. He turned from the throne and strode across the ornate chamber to a towering arched window. Moonlight filtered through the enchanted glass, casting a pale silver across his face. He gazed silently at the capital's skyline—reborn, yet indelibly scarred.
"If it gives you even a shred of peace," he said finally, "I found the Unbounds who led the assault on your kingdom. They're in Striker's Hell now. All of them."
Pungence gave a slow nod. " I saw your wife, she looks well. How did you find a cure to her illness?"
King Gozay reclined with a sardonic smile. "A Leporid trespassed into my dominion—a healer, no less. He possesseda seed. He crossed our borders unlawfully, accompanied by four Elvheins."
Pungence turned at that, one brow arched. "A Leporid healer?" he asked. "Fat one, round cheeks, barely taller than a child?"
Gozay's brow rose in return. "Ah. So you are acquainted with him?"
"I met him in the ruins," Pungence said slowly. "With the children… I took them in. They're with me now. In Zitry."
The king's eyes gleamed with recognition. "Indeed—rarities, like yourself. Earthers as well. When word of them reached me, I was… utterly enthralled."
Pungence narrowed his gaze. "You said four entered your lands. Four Elvheins." His tone sharpened, every syllable weighted. "Who was the fourth?"
A long pause hung in the chamber. The silence of those present was palpable.
King Gozay exhaled and slowly looked up. His voice was distant.
"I think… I froze him."
Pungence's gaze sharpened. He stepped away from the arched window and approached the assembled Spellbounds. His tone turned cold.
"You're the protectors of Ignir. And yet you allowed a band of criminals to cut your number in half. You're supposed to be the kingdom's wall. You can't keep leaning on Number One to carry all of Ignir's weight."
Gozay rose from his throne, each step echoing across the polished stone.
"I was informed of the incident in Iftiar."
Pungence nodded solemnly. "Yes. It was catastrophic. Entire countries—erased, like chalk under rain."
There was a pause before Pungence glanced toward the throne. "Where is Number One, anyway? He's never here."
Gozay arched an eyebrow. "You speak as though your presence here is routine. The last occasion you graced this palace was Eliana's eighth birthday."
Pungence blinked. "Really?"
Gozay sighed as he began walking away. "Your memory is as awful as ever."
Pungence called after him. "Where are you going? We're still talking."
"We are finished here," Gozay replied curtly. "Extend my regards to Andrea… and to that imbecile, as well."
Pungence smirked. "Calling the King of Zitry and imbecile might start a war, you know."
Gozay offered a faint smile without turning back. "Let him come. I shall thrash him—just as I always have."
---
Meanwhile, in Zitry, morning sunlight spilled across the high stone walls of Andrea's estate. All was still—except for the relentless, obnoxious tolling of the doorbell.
Andrea stirred under her sheets, groaning, eyes still closed. The ringing continued.
"Someone shut that damn bell off!" she yelled, her voice hoarse with sleep.
Downstairs, near the grand front entrance, a pair of houseworkers stood frozen before the door, arguing in hushed voices.
"Why would he be here?" one whispered.
"You open it," the other hissed back.
"I'm not opening that door," said a third, Stereen, folding her arms. "But seriously—just let him in. What's the worst that could happen?"
"You open it then!" the butler snapped.
Stereen took a step back. "I'm not doing it."
Upstairs, Andrea's patience finally snapped. With a sharp flick of her wrist, the window burst open, and her voice thundered out.
"If I hear that bell ring one more time— blood will flow!"
---
To Be Continued...