Montecristo walked calmly toward Kiett, who remained with his head bowed. Claire watched in silence as her brother slowly dragged his feet forward. His melancholic face finally lifted, and the two embraced tightly. Kiett wept in Joel's arms.
"Don't cry, my son… everything is alright," Joel murmured, soothing the young man's storm of emotions.
"I was afraid you would die… it was my fault for unsettling you with my earlier words. Forgive me, son," he whispered, voice heavy with regret.
With a tenderness only a father could offer, Joel gently wiped the tears from Kiett's cheeks—firm, yet kind—as if teaching him that it was okay to cry, but that strength, too, had its place.
Claire stepped forward and wrapped her arms around both of them.
"I'm glad you've made peace! …So, when do we eat?" she asked cheerfully, her smile lighting the moment.
"Uncle… why did you bring us here?" Kiett finally asked, a note of curiosity returning to his voice.
Montecristo led them to the grand hall—the same place where they had admired those magnificent swords. The three took their seats at the long dining table. Joel reached for a small silver bell resting near the centerpiece and gave it a gentle ring. Within moments, a young woman dressed in servant attire appeared in response to his summons.
"Lord Montecristo! …Did you call for me?" asked the blonde-haired girl with a respectful bow.
"Please, inform the others that they may begin serving. Dinner for three, and afterward, they are free to rest," Joel instructed with quiet authority.
The young woman nodded and obeyed at once, though not without casting a curious glance at the Sigrid siblings.
"Incredible… we didn't know you had servants, Uncle!" Claire said, clearly impressed.
"I am a General, my dear… and also the uncle of Her Majesty Windham," Joel replied with a wry smile.
The siblings' faces froze in stunned silence. Their mouths practically dropped to the floor as the weight of his words settled in. Until now, to them, Joel Montecristo had simply been a gifted man who had earned his title as General of the Silver Legions of Averford.
"Then… does that make you royalty?" Claire asked, wonder bright in her eyes.
"I'm afraid not," Joel answered with a light laugh. "I am merely the brother of Queen Fiora's mother."
Kiett studied his uncle's face—the warm curve of Joel's smile, the glimmer of amusement at their astonishment. "You certainly hide a trove of secrets, Uncle," he remarked. "At least now we know those magnificent swords belong to the sister you've never told us about."
Joel's grin widened, a spark of mischief dancing in his gaze, as though he were poised to unveil yet another revelation that would leave them utterly speechless.
"To be honest… I don't speak much about my sister," Joel confessed, his voice tinged with a shadow of old memories. The siblings leaned in, intrigued.
"May we ask why?" Claire inquired softly.
— At the Mystical Academy of Averford —
Out in the academy's grand arena, Blumiere and Margott clashed in a friendly duel. For Blumiere, it was the perfect chance to prove his worth as a swordsman—each strike, each parry, executed with pride and precision. Margott, on the other hand, had a dual purpose: while testing Blumiere's skill, she was trying to teach Lon how to read an opponent's movements—an essential skill, given that defense was his greatest weakness.
But deep down, beneath the steel and strategy, Margott was fighting a different battle. Her heart, once calm and guarded, now swelled with emotions she could no longer ignore. They stirred within her, growing stronger, threatening to break through the fortress of discipline she had so carefully built.
Margott lunged toward Blumiere, her blade slicing through the air with practiced precision. He met her attack with a firm parry, pivoting swiftly to his right. Anticipating the movement, Margott struck again—but Blumiere danced away with effortless grace, countering in a fluid motion that landed cleanly against her shoulder.
"One point," he declared with a sly grin. "What's the matter, Margott? Love troubles today?"
His words struck a nerve. Margott brushed off the comment outwardly, but her heart flared with irritation. A knot of anxious emotion stirred deep within her, tightening with every beat. She took a breath, steadying herself for another round.
Sword in hand, she advanced once more. This time, she shifted the tempo of her swing, quickening the rhythm just enough to slip past Blumiere's guard—her blade tapping his abdomen with a satisfying thud.
"Don't get cocky, boy," she said coolly, her lips curving into a confident smirk. "That was just the warm-up."
Blumiere chuckled, his eyes gleaming with mischief, clearly enjoying the challenge.
The young man's spirit ignited like a sudden blaze. With renewed fire, he launched himself at Margott once more. She swiftly retreated, sidestepping his strike with practiced finesse. As Blumiere regrouped, he ducked beneath her counter-thrust and, moving with the daring elegance of a seasoned dancer, slipped behind her guard to land another touch—right on the same shoulder. Another point. His lead was restored.
"Now this feels like a real duel, don't you think?" Blumiere said, his voice brimming with excitement.
Margott's calm began to unravel. Blumiere's taunts had pierced her defenses—not her guard, but her emotional armor—pulling her away from her usual precision. Her attacks, once methodical and sharp, now carried a subtle edge of frustration.
From the sidelines, Lon watched with quiet concern. Something about Margott felt off—her breathing was too quick, too strained. It wasn't just the fight; it was something deeper, a pressure building from within.
"Come on! We're only just getting started!" Margott shouted. Her voice rang through the vaulted ceiling of the arena, echoing like a battle cry. Lon's brow furrowed. Something wasn't right.
Blumiere, brimming with confidence, readied himself again. Margott's stance had lost its discipline—her guard was open, careless. Seizing the opportunity, he dashed forward with blinding speed.
But Margott didn't even flinch.
With unsettling calm, she caught his strike mid-motion and retaliated with a powerful blow that forced him back several steps.
"So much force…!" Blumiere gasped. "That would've hurt if it had landed clean!" He looked at her, a flicker of anger and confusion in his eyes. "Margott! What's going on with you?"
But Margott's expression was resolute, her voice fierce. "Come on, Blumiere! This is nothing compared to what I can do. Fight me!"
Her challenge hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown, charged with a tension that turned a friendly spar into something far more serious.
At that moment, Blumiere steeled himself, no longer treating the fight as a mere spar—but as a real battle. From the stands, Lon shouted for them to stop, his voice echoing in desperation. But neither of them listened.
Margott and Blumiere charged at each other, their clash thunderous, the force of their wooden swords pushing their limits. Each strike and counter was delivered with stunning precision—blocks, dodges, and blows exchanged like a deadly dance in perfect synchronicity.
Blumiere, with a clever feint, caught Margott off guard. She slipped past him, her guard broken, exposing her back to a critical blow. He struck—but Margott, swift as ever, spun just in time to deflect the attack and retaliated with a desperate swing.
"Margott! Calm down!" Lon shouted, leaping into the arena, determined to stop them.
But Margott was past reason. She kept pressing forward, her strikes now wild, filled with raw emotion. Blumiere struggled to keep up—his balance shattered—until finally, with a powerful blow, she struck his wrist. There was a sickening crack as his wooden sword snapped in two, splintering through the air. He collapsed, defeated, as the weapon clattered beside him.
Margott lunged toward him, stopping only when the tip of her broken sword hovered at his neck.
Blumiere lay frozen, stunned by the sheer ferocity and strangeness in her eyes. He looked up—only to find her face drenched in tears. Her eyes were bloodshot, her skin pale as ash. Her entire body trembled violently.
She panted, breath ragged, before collapsing to her knees before him. Wrapping her arms around herself as though trying to hold herself together, she wept uncontrollably.
"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… I'm so, so sorry…" Margott repeated through sobs, her voice cracking under the weight of what had just happened.
Blumiere, overwhelmed, did the only thing his heart told him to do—he reached out and embraced her. Her body shook with unbearable vulnerability, her pain flowing freely against his chest.
Lon rushed toward them, terror in his eyes, as the fierce duel gave way to the harrowing silence of a broken spirit.
"Margott! What's wrong? What's happening to you?" Lon cried, his voice trembling with concern as he stared at her in disbelief.
Around them, the other swordsmen—who had been watching the duel—hurried over, drawn by the tension in the air. Among them was Amber, who had just arrived. The moment she saw Margott, she rushed forward, pulling the trembling girl from Blumiere's arms into her own embrace.
"Margott! It's alright, breathe… you're safe now," Amber whispered, trying to soothe her.
"Someone find Cosette—now! Bring her here!" she shouted over her shoulder, urgency sharp in her tone.
Blumiere, still stunned, remained silent. Cradling his injured wrist, he could only stare at Margott's shattered expression. The confident, smiling girl he had known—where had she gone? What kind of torment had dragged her to such a state?
"Please… help me…" Margott whimpered, her voice fragile, barely a breath.
"You're not alone… we're right here," Amber said softly, gently running her fingers through Margott's hair. "Nothing's going to happen to you. Just breathe."
The circle around them remained still, the air heavy with worry, as the fire of battle gave way to the quiet, aching sorrow of a soul unraveling.
Marth and Sakura entered the arena just as the tension began to fade, but the sight of Margott's fragile state made their hearts race.
"What's going on? What happened to Margott?" Marth asked urgently.
"What did you do to her, Blumiere?" Sakura demanded, her tone accusatory as she glared at the still-silent boy, who stood frozen in disbelief, clutching his injured wrist.
"I'm here! Where is she?" cried Cosette as she arrived, flanked by the Manabe sisters.
"Quickly, Cosette—Margott needs you!" Amber called out.
Cosette knelt beside Margott and took her left hand. A soft green light bloomed from her fingers, enveloping them both. Slowly, Margott's breathing began to ease. Her trembling stopped, and the color gradually returned to her pale cheeks—life flickering back into her.
"Are you feeling better now?" Cosette asked gently.
"Where are Kiett and Claire?" Margott murmured weakly.
Relief swept over the group. With Margott calmer, Cosette suggested she be taken to the infirmary to examine her vital links more thoroughly and rule out any serious affliction. Two swordman helped her to her feet, guiding her gently as she struggled to walk. The others watched in silence, their eyes heavy with concern.
"What happened to her?" Sakura asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"She entered the arena asking to spar with Blumiere… it all happened so fast. Something must have happened elsewhere," Lon replied, still trying to make sense of it all.
"And you—are you alright, Blumiere?" Amber asked softly.
The poor boy hadn't spoken a word. He still held his wrist close, the pain and the weight of the moment keeping him quiet.
"Blumiere, are you hurt? Let's go with Cosette so she can heal you," Sakura offered.
"I'll be fine," he answered at last, his voice low.
"Please… at least let her take a look at that wrist," Amber insisted.
When she gently examined it, she found a large, angry bruise. The moment her fingers grazed it, Blumiere flinched and pulled away, pain etched across his face.
"I could help," offered one of the two girls standing nearby.
"And who are you supposed to be?" Sakura asked, suspicious.
"My name is Yasagi, and this is my sister, Yukino," the girl replied with a polite nod.
Amber, Marth, and Sakura eyed them with quiet scrutiny.
"Are you new to the academy?" Marth asked.
"Seriously?" Yukino responded, clearly disappointed. "We've been training with you since we were twelve."
Their words hung in the air, exposing just how easily even comrades could go unnoticed amid the chaos and rigor of academy life.
Cosette and the swordsmen assisting Margott finally reached the infirmary, guiding her gently to one of the empty beds. Margott sat down, still catching her breath, her chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm.
"What… what happened to me?" asked the pink-haired girl, her voice trembling with confusion.
"That's exactly what we're going to find out, Margott," Cosette replied, her tone both firm and gentle. "What happened to you… I've seen it before—but never in someone so young."
"What do you mean?" Margott asked, her brows furrowing.
"You experienced a panic attack—brought on by anxiety and acute stress," Cosette explained, crouching beside her. "I've treated cases like this before… but only in Legionnaires who've served on the front lines of war."
Margott fell silent, her gaze turning inward. Her eyes shimmered with emotions she clearly struggled to conceal—shadows buried deep in her heart, trembling just beneath the surface.
"These episodes of emotional collapse… they're dangerous," Cosette continued softly, but seriously. "And they're usually triggered by something deeply traumatic."
She paused, watching Margott closely.
"What is it that haunts you, Margott?"
"I carry a personal odyssey," Margott said, her voice low and steady. "Since I was a child, I've suffered the horrors of this world firsthand."
She remained seated on the infirmary bed, now visibly calmer, her gaze fixed on Cosette, who stood nearby preparing a strange, shimmering liquid in delicate crystal cups.
"I was only ten when it happened," Margott continued, her voice cracking slightly under the weight of memory. "I was there… when the attack came. My mom and Dad did everything they could—everything—to save my little brother and me."
Cosette listened intently, her hands stilling for a moment. The words struck her deeply. For someone like her, who had grown up within the safety of Averford's mighty walls, the idea of witnessing such devastation at such a young age was almost unfathomable. Margott's past, wrapped in shadows and silence, was beginning to unfurl like a tragic tale long kept hidden from the world.
Cosette watched Margott closely as she shared the weight of such a heartbreaking secret. The young sentinel's heart sank, overcome with sorrow and compassion for the girl before her—whose eyes now brimmed with tears.
"I saw my father… torn in half," Margott whispered, her voice trembling. "My little brother screamed. I held back my own cries, scooped him into my arms, and ran… but an explosion caught us. It tore us apart."
Her voice broke.
"When I woke up… it was over. Everything was gone. No signs of life, no voices, just silence. Then a woman found me, clad in shining armor… That's when I met Princess Liliam. She brought me here. Since that day, I've served her loyally. But I still search… for any trace of my parents or my brother. Their bodies were never found," Margott said, tears slipping freely down her cheeks.
Cosette wept in silence, her hands trembling with helplessness. Unable to bear it, she stepped forward and wrapped Margott in a tender embrace. The girl collapsed into her arms, resting her head on Cosette's shoulder as fresh sobs racked her frame—her sorrow spiraling into another wave of anxiety.
With a soft murmur and glowing hands, Cosette called on her healing magic, easing the storm within Margott's chest.
"Does anyone else know about this… aside from Princess Liliam and me?" Cosette asked gently.
"Besides the Queen… now only the three of us know," Margott replied, wiping her tears. "Why do you ask?"
"What about Kiett and Claire?" Cosette pressed softly. "Why haven't you told them?"
Margott fell silent. Her mind wandered to the warmth of their company—the laughter, the embraces, the kisses shared with Kiett, the sisterhood she felt with Claire. A smile bloomed on her face, radiant and honest, and for a brief moment, the darkness within her lifted. Cosette's heart swelled at the sight, and she smiled back.
"That's it," she said with gentle conviction. "Kiett and Claire have comforted your pain for so long that you've forgotten how to face it on your own. But they deserve to know, Margott. Let them in. Let them be your strength. You are not alone in this, my dear."
Margott felt the warmth in Cosette's words settle deep into her chest, like sunlight breaking through a cold morning fog. Moved by that tenderness, she leaned in and embraced her again—this time with greater strength, as if anchoring herself to that gentle presence.
"So… are you going to tell me what you were preparing over there?" Margott asked, her voice lighter now.
"Oh! I nearly forgot!" Cosette replied, reaching for the two crystal cups she had set aside. Handing one to Margott, she added with pride, "This is my latest creation—chamomile elixir. Perfect for soothing emotions and enhancing the mystical flow in your vital links."
Margott took a careful sip, her eyes widening at the delicate sweetness that bloomed across her tongue.
"This is amazing! Truly, did you make this?" she asked, clearly impressed.
Cosette downed her own cup in a single, graceful motion. "Of course I did! Now… will you talk to Kiett and Claire about all this?" she asked with a hopeful glance.
Margott opened her mouth to reply, but before the words could leave her lips, the infirmary doors burst open with a rush of hurried footsteps.
"Margott!" cried Liliam, breathless and visibly shaken. She crossed the room in an instant, cupping Margott's face in her hands with trembling concern. "Are you alright? How do you feel, my dear?"
Lon had clearly informed her of the incident, and the princess hadn't hesitated to come find her.
"Your Majesty, don't worry—I'm feeling better now. Thanks to Cosette," Margott replied, her voice steady, a hint of gratitude in every syllable.
Liliam exhaled in relief, though her brows remained furrowed. Her concern had not yet passed. "What happened?" she asked. "Everyone's talking about a nervous collapse. The entire academy is buzzing."
Cosette stepped forward, her voice calm and composed as she explained. "Margott experienced an anxiety attack. Her body and spirit reached a breaking point under the weight of unspoken trauma. These episodes… they don't vanish overnight. She'll need time, patience, and support to begin healing."
Liliam listened in silence, the pain in her eyes deepening. Margott looked down, fingers tightening around the crystal cup, knowing that her path to healing had only just begun.
Cosette gently excused herself, explaining that she had pressing matters to attend to in the technology division of the Sentinels' barracks.
"Technology?" Margott asked, raising a curious brow.
"We're working on something new," Cosette replied, her eyes sparkling with wonder and boundless optimism. "If it works… we'll be able to give our wounded soldiers—and veterans who've lost limbs in battle—a new chance. A new arm. A new leg. A new beginning."
With a hopeful smile, Cosette took her leave, leaving Margott alone with Princess Liliam in the quiet of the infirmary.
"I want to know the truth," Liliam said, stepping closer. "What is it that burdens you, Margott?"
Margott hesitated, fidgeting with her fingers, nervously intertwining them again and again. Her gaze drifted to the floor as she searched for the strength to speak.
"Do you remember the day you rescued me?" she asked softly.
"That day… it's one I'll never forget," Liliam replied. "And I imagine you still think of your family often."
Margott nodded, her composure fracturing. Tears welled in her eyes, and before she could stop herself, she began to cry once more. Liliam pulled her into a tender embrace, wrapping her arms around the fragile girl.
"I know what you've endured hasn't been easy," she whispered. "But you're not alone in this world. You have me… and that boy, and his sister. They care about you too."
They remained there, wrapped in each other's warmth, a quiet moment of shared vulnerability. Liliam could feel it in Margott's trembling body—the weight of years of sorrow, finally beginning to lift.
— Averford Castle —
Elsewhere, Fiora stepped into the chamber where the other royals had gathered. The moment she entered, the room fell into sudden silence, as if a secret had just been buried.
"You're scheming," she declared coldly, her voice slicing through the tension. Her presence was commanding, unflinching, as she walked boldly to the center of the room—straight to the bed where Queen Aurora lay in quiet repose.
Dracus Downmore stepped forward, his expression solemn.
"Your Majesty… though we are grateful for the shelter you've granted us—even as former enemies—we must return to our kingdoms. Without word from us, chaos may already be stirring… even at the borders," he said, his voice steady but burdened with the weight of duty.
Fiora considered his words carefully. They rang with undeniable truth.
"There is a way," she replied at last, her tone measured but laced with gravity. "All of you… could return. But the path will be far from easy."
The air in the chamber grew heavier.
"What do you mean, Your Majesty?" Ezekiel asked, his brow furrowed with concern.
Fiora turned to them, her gaze sharp and honest.
"Each border of Averford is plagued by rebel factions," she began. "I've spent months trying to negotiate with them… but if they were to discover that the rulers of other realms are hiding within my walls—they would hunt you down like deer in the woods."
A silence fell over the room, thick and suffocating. The monarchs exchanged uneasy glances, the weight of the threat sinking in.
Sensing the rising tension, Aurora—still resting but alert—spoke in a calm, measured voice, trying to dispel the storm that had crept into the chamber.
"How exactly did we arrive in your domain, Fiora?" Aurora asked, her voice calm but purposeful.
"By using the Runic Ark," Fiora replied, instantly grasping Aurora's intention.
She continued, her tone growing heavier. "But sending you back the same way would be a grave mistake. The entrance points to those translational runes are now guarded—heavily—by my own Legionaries. Should any of you attempt to cross those portals…"
She paused, her voice darkening.
"…they would kill you on sight."
A chill ran through the room.
"That's no help at all!" Ezekiel snapped. "So what options do we even have?"
Fiora turned away from them, pacing slowly toward the tall window that framed the distant mountains of Averford. She scratched the back of her neck, mind racing for a solution—something that would get the monarchs safely back to their kingdoms, so they might rally their councils and unite against the Necromancer's coming storm.
Then, like a spark in the dark, a sharp thought cut through her worry.
"I have it!" she declared, turning back to face them. "Each of you will be escorted by my new recruits… after I personally present myself at each of your borders."
Her voice rang with firm resolve, the glint of strategy behind her eyes—a queen not only protecting, but commanding.
— Montecristo Ranch —
Montecristo and the Sigrid siblings shared a deeply emotional moment, seated around the dinner table, enjoying a meal like a true family—something they had never known. Claire savored every bite, repeating again and again just how delicious the food was, her eyes sparkling with delight. Kiett ate in peaceful silence, a gentle smile on his lips, content with the rare warmth of the occasion.
Having been orphans since infancy, they had never experienced something so intimate, so whole. For the first time in their lives, something that resembled a family was taking shape—and it felt real.
"Uncle Joel! Please, you have to give me the recipe for this dish!" Claire exclaimed, licking her fingers with unrestrained joy.
"Claire, manners! Behave yourself at the table," Joel chuckled, shaking his head. "Besides… there's something I want to talk to you both about. Actually—it's more of a proposal."
The siblings glanced at each other, curiosity piqued.
"Since I already think of you as my own children… why not come live with me?" Joel said, his voice warm and sincere.
His words filled Claire with joy so overwhelming that she shot up from her chair and ran to throw her arms around him.
"Do you mean it, Uncle?" she asked breathlessly, her voice caught somewhere between disbelief and happiness. Even in the glow of her elation, she could hardly believe what she'd just heard.
Kiett, meanwhile, was swept by a wave of unfamiliar, conflicting emotions. For the first time since the ordeal in Threnafell, a flicker of joy lit his chest. The warmth of Joel's offer—so sudden, so sincere—overwhelmed him. Without hesitation, he accepted, driven not by reason but by the deep yearning in his heart.
Yet, even as he agreed, questions stirred within him. What would life be like now, living beside their adoptive father? Would others begin to treat them differently—perhaps with more respect—if they were officially recognized as the children of Joel Montecristo?
A quiet melancholy settled over him. His expression dimmed, and Joel and Claire quickly noticed the change.
"What's wrong, Kiett? You're unusually sentimental today," Claire said with gentle teasing.
"It's just…" he murmured, eyes distant. "I was wondering… if Mom and Dad were still alive, would we be this close? Would our family feel like this?"
His words, soft and aching, struck something deep within Claire, leaving her momentarily speechless.
"Your parents would have loved you both dearly," Joel said, his voice steady and full of warmth. "That's why your mother entrusted me with your care when she passed. You are my family—the family I never had. And now, at last, you're standing here before me."
He paused, meeting their eyes with quiet hope. "So… will you truly come live with me?"
The Sigrid siblings looked at one another, a shared joy lighting their faces.
"Yes," they answered together, their voices filled with certainty.
And so, with hearts lighter and bonds deepened, they resumed their meal—sharing stories from their childhood, of days spent playing hide-and-seek, of laughter and mischief, of a time when the world was still innocent and kind. A time before they came to understand the cruel, unforgiving rules that now governed the world beyond those walls.
— The Village of Dove —
Rohan's carriage rolled to a stop before a rather refined tavern nestled at the heart of the quaint village of Dove. As he stepped down, his presence immediately drew attention—an imposing figure, cloaked in the quiet power of nobility, standing tall among the common folk bustling through the market square.
Without a word, Rohan strode into the establishment and selected a table near the window. After ordering a tea, he drew a polished pipe from his coat and lit it, exhaling slowly as he tried to ease the tension in his shoulders. But his moment of solitude was swiftly broken.
A stranger slid into the seat across from him without invitation.
"Lord Mahogany! I didn't expect your summons—especially not in broad daylight," the man said, his voice low and cautious.
"I need information," Rohan replied without preamble. "What is the LuxFord Faction doing in the catacombs beneath Akerhill?"
The stranger paused, detecting a rare thread of concern in the nobleman's voice.
"Reece poses no immediate threat," he answered. "For now, his reconnaissance faction is exploring a system of caves to the southeast of Akerhill. They won't find us."
But then he narrowed his eyes slightly. "Still… I sense there's more. You didn't come all this way just for a report. I assume you've learned something that might interest me?"
Rohan nodded, his gaze sharp. "Fiora has begun to make her move. She's seeking an alliance with the other monarchs."
The stranger stiffened as Rohan added,
"They're all gathered at the castle as we speak… while you and I sit here."
TO BE CONTINUED…