Kiett, Claire, and Montecristo stood in silent awe before the two magnificent swords. The young ones marveled at their craftsmanship—each blade a testament to elegance and power—but it was the black sword that captured Kiett's attention most intensely. Its hilt was unusual, bearing downward-facing spikes on the guard, menacing and sharp, as though designed to wound the very hand that dared wield it.
"Uncle… why is the guard shaped like that?" Kiett asked, his voice laced with both curiosity and concern.
Joel smiled softly and stepped forward, lifting the sword from its display. As he gripped it, Kiett noticed something strange—though the spikes appeared dangerous, they didn't harm Joel's hand in the slightest.
"How is that even possible?" Claire whispered in wonder.
"This blade is special," Joel replied, his voice low and reverent. "There is no other like it. It was forged not from moonlight steel, but from something far rarer… something ancient." He swung the sword in a graceful arc, and the air sang with its passage—a pure, melodic resonance that stirred something deep within Kiett's chest.
Eager, Kiett stepped forward. "May I hold it?"
"Wait, boy," Joel said firmly, lowering the blade. "To wield this sword is to claim it. If you take it in your hands… you accept becoming its new master."
Kiett paused, absorbing the weight of those words. Then he glanced at the second blade and asked, "Does that mean you're giving these swords to us?"
Claire watched Joel's face closely. He was smiling wide, his eyes glinting with pride as he nodded in response to Kiett's question.
"Take the sword, boy! Make it an extension of your strength!" Joel declared, his voice echoing with conviction.
Kiett, heart pounding with excitement, reached out and took the magnificent black-bladed sword. The moment his fingers wrapped around the hilt, he began to swing it instinctively, as if the weapon were already part of him. But then—he winced. A sudden, sharp pain shot through his hand. The spikes on the guard had pierced his flesh, and blood began to drip from between his fingers.
"Ouch! Uncle, I told you—this guard is dangerous!" Kiett exclaimed, his face contorting in pain as he looked down at the bleeding wound.
"Wait, boy!" Joel interjected. "Didn't I tell you? This sword is special."
Before their eyes, the sharpened spikes began to draw the blood from Kiett's hand, drinking it like thirsty roots. Both Claire and Kiett froze in stunned silence, while Joel watched with a satisfied smile.
"Now… it will never leave your side," he murmured.
The blade began to shimmer, its obsidian hue shifting as if awakened. Slowly, it transformed—black fading into deep, vivid crimson, until the entire sword, from tip to pommel, burned with a carmine glow. As Kiett stared at it, he noticed ancient runes glowing faintly along the blade. One word stood out among them:
Hunter.
"Why does it bear the Hunter's runes?" Kiett asked, his voice low, almost reverent.
"My sister was a member of the Elite Hunters long before she joined Averford's forces—back then, the Legion hadn't even been formed yet," Joel remarked, his tone tinged with a hint of nostalgia. "She was one of the finest we ever had! …Unfortunately, she died just before the Great War for the Eighth Gate began," he added solemnly.
Kiett listened intently, still gripping his new sword, its blade glowing with a stunning crimson hue that seemed to breathe with newfound purpose. Claire, on the other hand, had taken hold of the violet blade. She admired its edge—slender and elegant, yet lethally sharp.
"I see you've chosen the violet blade as well, my dear," Joel said, turning to Claire. Embarrassed, she spun around quickly.
"No! …I only wanted to appreciate the beauty of its craftsmanship!" she stammered.
"If you wield it, then it is yours," Joel replied warmly. "Let your mother's sword finally find rest."
Those words echoed in Claire's mind like a bell tolling in the depths of memory—reminding her of the sword her mother had once wielded, now lost during her desperate incursion into Threnafell.
"It can't be! …Mom's sword!" Claire cried out suddenly.
Joel and Kiett turned sharply toward her. Her face was clouded with dread and unease.
"What is it, child?" Joel asked, concern rising in his voice.
Kiett's expression darkened as realization struck.
"Don't tell me… Is Mother's sword still in Threnafell?" he asked.
"Well! …I lost it when those vile creatures nearly killed me. We have to go back and retrieve it!" Claire exclaimed, her voice trembling with urgency.
Joel's expression darkened with anger at the remark.
"You've lost your mind! …No one is allowed to enter Threnafell right now!" he barked.
"But it's Mom's sword! I won't let it remain lost in that cursed place!" Claire shot back with defiance burning in her voice.
Kiett stood firmly by her side. Both siblings held a deep, emotional bond with that sword—it was more than a weapon; it was a piece of their mother, a relic of her legacy now left behind in a forsaken land.
Joel understood. He saw the conviction in their eyes and fell silent for a moment. He began pacing, the weight of responsibility pressing down on his shoulders like armor. Finally, he sighed.
"Fine," he said. "We'll go retrieve your mother's sword. But we'll need support. I'll speak with Alistar and Arata—they know the terrain better than anyone. If the sword can be found, they'll help us find it."
―Averford Castle―
A strange, distant murmur echoed in Woodrow's ears—voices speaking in a language she couldn't quite grasp. Words swirled around her, unintelligible and warped like whispers underwater.
Slowly, she opened her eyes.
A girl stood beside her, casting a delicate spell over her body. Mystical runes hovered in the air as the young mage carefully examined Woodrow's wounds and traced the pathways of her vital essence. Her hands moved deftly, transferring notes and symbols to a parchment glowing faintly with enchanted ink.
"Where… am I? Who are you?" Woodrow muttered, her voice slurred and weak.
Senna's eyes widened as she realized her patient had awakened. Without hesitation, she rushed into the corridor, shouting one name with urgency:
"Callaghan!"
Woodrow slowly examined her surroundings. The room was lined with scrolls inscribed in runic symbols—some faintly familiar, others elusive even to her keen mind. Though widely regarded as a brilliant and diligent mage, she found herself unable to grasp the meaning of several of the sigils at a glance. Her gaze drifted upward, settling on the ceiling, where a magnificent chandelier hung, casting a warm, golden glow over the chamber. She was momentarily entranced, her thoughts silenced by the delicate beauty of its intricate design.
Moments later, Senna returned with Callaghan at her side. They rushed to Woodrow's bedside, immediately sensing that something had changed. When she first arrived—though in critical condition—she had remained conscious, her crimson eyes unmistakable. But now, those eyes had transformed into a deep, enchanting shade of green that left both Sentinels quietly stunned.
"This is unusual… Her eyes have changed completely," Callaghan murmured, leaning closer in wonder.
"Could it be the result of her injuries? A blow to the brain, perhaps?" Senna asked, her brow furrowed in concern.
Callaghan nodded, impressed by the perceptiveness of the young Sentinel. With calm authority, he gave her precise instructions. Senna immediately began a deeper analysis of Woodrow's mind, casting a delicate spell that swept through her thoughts and neural pathways.
Moments later, Senna lifted her eyes. "Her brain and consciousness… they're intact. Flawless," she whispered. And yet, the mystery of her transformation lingered in the room, heavy and unsolved.
"Sir! …You should examine her more thoroughly!" Senna urged, her voice carrying the weight of both concern and intrigue. Callaghan nodded, curiosity already tugging at him. He too wanted to understand why Woodrow's eyes had changed so drastically.
"Very well… I'll inspect her abdomen," he said, kneeling beside the bed.
While Callaghan began his examination, Senna moved around the room, gathering the scattered scrolls from the floor, trying to restore a semblance of order to the chaos unleashed last night while treating Woodrow's wounds.
As he traced the young woman's vital threads with practiced precision, Callaghan noted something unusual. Though her injuries had fully healed, there was something else—something hidden deeper within. A strange magic pulsed inside her, foreign and unfamiliar, unlike the wounds inflicted by the cursed ruins of Aldelviewreld.
"We must report this to His Majesty… Though she's no longer in danger, there is something else inside her. A strange, invasive magic," Callaghan said gravely.
The sound of his voice stirred Woodrow from her daze. She blinked, then asked again, her voice still weak:
"Where… am I?"
"Easy, girl… You're in Averford now," Callaghan replied gently.
But the name struck her like a thunderclap. Fear washed over her features. She had grown up in the shadow of the brutal war between King Colden of Eircloft and King Thud Bright of Averford—a war that had dragged both Aledis and Vrath into its relentless tide.
"Please! …Don't hurt me!" she begged, her voice trembling with fear.
"You're safe here, child," Callaghan said softly, offering her a reassuring gaze. "Your wounds have been healed. No one will harm you."
"…Everard! Where is he?" she asked suddenly, eyes wide with dread.
"I'm sorry… I'm afraid I don't know anyone by that name," Callaghan replied, his voice calm but firm.
In that instant, Woodrow's mind was overwhelmed—flooded by fragmented memories of the final battle at the ruins of Aldelviewreld.
―Woodrow's Flashback―
She stood before the colossal Eighth Gate—majestic, ancient, pulsing with dormant power. A soldier rushed toward her, a scroll clutched tightly in his hands, which he handed over without hesitation. Woodrow unrolled it swiftly, her voice steady as she began to recite the incantation.
"Exundat e fundamentis firmamenti, energia scientiae, et sigilla hoc in linteo, ut opus manifestum."
As the words left her lips, the scroll unleashed a surge of radiant white energy, which spiraled and latched onto the freshly awakened seal of the Eighth Gate. Both objects glowed brighter—one feeding the other in a crescendo of arcane light. The scroll trembled in her hands, vibrating with such intensity that Woodrow could barely hold on. The magic was overwhelming, threatening to tear her apart.
Then, Everard appeared by her side, lending his strength, helping her endure.
But the moment the energy was sealed within the scroll, disaster struck.
A draconic figure materialized from thin air—so sudden, so swift, that neither of them had a chance to react. No words. No warning. In a single, merciless movement, the figure cleaved Everard in two, ending his life before he could even cry out. Then, with one clawed hand, he seized Woodrow by the neck, lifting her off the ground as she gasped for air.
"Hand over that seal," the Draconic entity demanded—an entity who would later reveal his name: Bardo.
With sheer desperation, Woodrow managed to cut through his arm. But the wound regenerated instantly. Without pause, he plunged his hand into her abdomen, ripping through flesh and sinew.
A scream tore from her throat—raw, helpless, and filled with the agony of loss and the terror of death.
―End of Flashback―
As the memories surged back, Woodrow's face was overtaken by silent tears.
"He died… right in front of me…" she whispered, her voice trembling with grief.
Callaghan and Senna exchanged a glance, their expressions softening as they watched her tears fall. Gently, Senna approached and sat beside her, retrieving a silk handkerchief from her pocket. With a tenderness born of shared sorrow, she dabbed the tears from Woodrow's cheeks.
"You must calm yourself, miss," she said gently. "There's no danger here. And I'm truly sorry for the loss of your friend."
"The scroll… I gave a scroll to a man—the one who carried me through the portal," Woodrow murmured, her voice barely audible.
Callaghan stepped closer, his interest piqued by her words.
"What scroll are you referring to, young lady?" he asked.
"The scroll where I sealed the opened mark of the Eighth Gate," Woodrow answered, her tone grave.
—Elsewhere in the Castle—
Fiora remained in the grand chamber, surrounded by the monarchs of the allied realms. The air was thick with tension as they discussed the logistics of returning to their fractured kingdoms.
"I will need to take a risky step to ensure your safe passage once you reach the borderlands," Fiora said, her voice resolute.
"But why use them?" protested Argus Downmore. "They are far too young for such a burden!"
Aurora listened in silence, eyes narrowed, measuring every word. Mustaffa then stepped forward, offering a bold suggestion.
"Your Majesty, if I may… perhaps there is a way to give this mission more weight—elevate them to Legionnaires now," he proposed.
The room stirred with murmurs and disbelief.
"What good would it do to name them Legionnaires if they have no experience beyond these walls?" Aurora exclaimed, her tone edged with doubt.
"Do not underestimate my young warriors," Fiora replied firmly, her gaze unwavering. "Many of them survived Threnafell."
"You're right, Mustaffa," Fiora declared, her tone calm but resolute. "I'll begin preparations for the ascension of my young warriors into the Legion."
She turned to the assembled monarchs, offering a graceful nod.
"For now, rest. I'll inform you soon of how the selection process will unfold—so we may determine who among them will become your escorts."
With those words, Fiora offered a polite bow and exited the chamber, leaving behind an air of quiet tension.
Ezequiel and Aurora exchanged uneasy glances.
"Don't you find this all a bit strange?" Aurora asked, her voice low but sharp. "Entrusting our lives to inexperienced recruits?"
"Careful, Aurora," Mustaffa warned, his voice firm. "Shall I remind you why the Legionnaires of Averford gained so much ground during the war between Colden and Thud Bright?"
The Downmore brothers fell silent, struck by the weight of Mustaffa's words. They had heard the tales—grim, reverent stories told by veterans of Vrath's army. The Averford Legionnaires were said to be nearly unstoppable in close-quarters combat—possessing strength and speed that defied human limits.
"Our father once told us," Argus murmured, "that a battalion of forty Legionnaires wiped out seventy of our elite vanguard without suffering a single casualty."
Dracus nodded solemnly.
"If there was one thing our father feared," he said, his gaze drifting to the window, "it was facing a full Legion of Averford on the battlefield. They were beasts in human form. Perhaps that's why those young ones… survived the massacre in that forest."
He stared into the distance, eyes fixed on the vast, shadowed expanse of Threnafell—where legends were forged in blood, and nightmares had names.
―Later that Day―
Montecristo's carriage rolled steadily through the village of Dove, making its way back toward the heart of Averford. Inside, Claire and Kiett were deep in discussion about the perilous and clandestine mission that awaited them in Threnafell—a mission they would undertake solely to retrieve their mother's sword. Victor listened in silence, his gaze distant yet attentive, gradually realizing that all their bold proclamations were but hopeful illusions—naïve fantasies about how they might defend themselves should they encounter another Scarlet… or any of the savage beasts that prowled Threnafell's cursed lands.
"And maybe we'll have to split up!" Claire exclaimed, her voice tinged with excitement and nervous energy. "If that happens, I'm going with Uncle Joel!"
Victor let out a mocking chuckle, drawing the siblings' eyes toward him with a mix of irritation and curiosity.
"Why are you laughing at us?" Kiett asked, his tone edged with suspicion.
"Please, don't take it the wrong way, my young lords," Victor replied, raising his hands in half-hearted apology. "It's just… your words reminded me of Lord Montecristo and his sister."
A wave of nostalgia swept through his voice, awakening something in Claire—a tender blend of curiosity and longing. Her expression softened.
"Are you serious, sir?" she asked, leaning slightly forward.
Kiett, on the other hand, dismissed Victor's musings, choosing instead to admire his new sword. It gleamed faintly in the carriage light, as if aware of its newfound master.
"It truly is beautiful," he thought, his fingers brushing along the hilt with quiet reverence.
"That's right, my lady!" Victor said with a wistful smile. "They were so close that when Lady Elinor passed, it was as if Lord Montecristo lost the other half of his soul. Not even Her Majesty's presence could mend him completely."
Claire lowered her gaze, the weight of Victor's words sinking in. She could only imagine the sorrow Joel must have endured during those bleak years. His silent mourning suddenly resurfaced in Kiett's mind—the memory of his uncle's tears in that dimly lit room of Averford's castle, when Joel confessed that he hadn't entered Threnafell to search for him… but for Claire.
The Siblings studied Victor's face in the quiet that followed. It was Claire who noticed how time had begun to etch itself upon him—creased skin, clouded eyes, a soft tremor in his voice. Why, she wondered, did a man so aged still serve as a butler? Why hadn't he passed the mantle to someone younger, chosen rest instead of duty?
"Sir…" Claire's voice broke the silence. "What kind of relationship did my uncle and his sister have?"
At that, Kiett's attention sharpened. This… this he wanted to hear.
"Lord Joel and Lady Elinor…" Victor began, his eyes glimmering with fond recollection. "Ah, what memories. I feel them as vividly now as if it were only yesterday."
—Victor's Memories—
"Lord Montecristo adored his sister. He protected her with fierce devotion—and rightly so. Lady Elinor was a vision of grace and beauty. Her silky black hair seemed as if it had been blessed by Throme himself, her skin pale as fresh snow, and her piercing blue eyes could drive any man to madness. Whether walking the streets or attending the grand balls hosted by the nobility, she turned heads wherever she went… until one evening, the then-Prince Thud Bright took notice of her.
"At one of those balls, Prince Thud asked her to share the final dance of the night. Lady Elinor, ever so poised, accepted with delight. Lord Montecristo watched from a table nearby, and though rumors about young Thud Bright abounded, a wary thought passed through Joel's mind. But that night, he saw something different—he saw a true gentleman.
"To Joel, his sister was everything. Neither of them held noble blood or royal lineage, which only made him more protective. He knew many would seek to court her, drawn by her beauty—some with less-than-honorable pasts. You two remind me of them, you know… the way you speak to one another, the way you look out for each other. When I see you together, it's as if time itself turns back before my very eyes."
—End of Victor's Memories—
"Wow! That was a fascinating story… but completely unrelated to my question!" Claire interjected with a playful smirk.
"Forgive me, my lady!" Victor replied with a chuckle. "I got a bit carried away. You see, I was there that very night—I witnessed it myself. I saw the exact moment love was born in Thud Bright's eyes for Lady Elinor."
Claire's interest deepened at the mere mention of love.
"That's what I do want to hear about! Tell me more!" she urged eagerly.
Meanwhile, Kiett turned his gaze to the carriage window. The raindrops began to fall harder, tapping like fingers on the glass.
"Damn… I forgot to fix the roof in my room," he thought, sighing inwardly.
"The young Thud Bright began sending invitations to the castle," Victor continued. "But Lady Elinor never replied. At the time, she was one of the finest huntresses in the region, often accompanying Lord Montecristo, who then served as a captain. They trained together in swordsmanship, with a discipline that would humble most men. It was during those training sessions that Thud found his chance—his excuse to visit, to speak with her, to learn the rhythm of her world."
Claire felt as though she were inside a romance novel—one that unfolded not in pages, but in Victor's reverent voice.
Kiett, however, paid little attention. Romance wasn't something he needed to hear about—he was already living one of his own, in his own way.
"Well, that sounds like quite the coincidence, don't you think, sir?" Claire remarked with a trace of sarcasm.
"In fact!" Victor replied with a spark in his eyes. "Lord Montecristo had become quite the close friend of young Thud."
"That must have felt like a deep betrayal," Kiett cut in, disrupting the pleasant flow of conversation between Claire and the old butler.
"Do you really think so?" Claire countered gently. "I believe something even more beautiful was born that day—a brotherhood."
Victor smiled again, that same gentle, knowing smile. The siblings exchanged glances, half-convinced he was mocking them, yet equally drawn to his stories, curious about the truths wrapped in his way of speaking.
"Don't you think we're total opposites, sir? Despite being siblings?" Kiett asked, his tone softer this time.
"Truthfully? You two argue exactly like Lord Montecristo and Lady Elinor once did," Victor replied with a chuckle. "That's why I say, seeing you now—it feels as if it were only yesterday."
His words settled deeply between them, stirring something unspoken. Especially for Kiett, who recalled what Victor had revealed earlier—that when Elinor died before her time, Joel had lost half of himself. Kiett turned to look at Claire… only to find her eyes already locked on his.
Victor watched silently as the lightness of their laughter faded, replaced by a gentle, bittersweet stillness. The siblings had reached across the gap between them and taken each other's hands, sharing quiet smiles, wordless and warm. Outside, the rain tapped harder on the windows, as if echoing the tender shift in their mood.
At last, the carriage came to a stop before the humble Sigrid home.
"Here we are, my lady and young sir," Victor announced as he opened the carriage door. "And by the looks of it, someone's already waiting for you."
As they stepped out into the rain, the Sigrid siblings were met by the sight of Margott Blackwell. The sorrow etched into her otherwise beautiful face struck them at once. Concern bloomed in both their hearts, and without a second thought, they ran toward her, voices overlapping.
"Margott! What happened—are you alright?" Claire asked urgently, wrapping her arms around her.
"Margott, I'm here—what's going on?" Kiett added, reaching for her hand.
Margott's eyes overflowed with tears. She buried her face against Kiett's chest and clung to him, trembling as she held him tightly.
"Margott… you're shaking," he murmured, a storm brewing behind his eyes. "What happened to you? Did someone hurt you? Tell me who it was—I'll make them pay."
Victor approached the three, his steps careful on the damp stones.
"My lords," he said gently, "Lord Montecristo has left word—he wishes to see you both early tomorrow morning."
The siblings nodded, offering their apologies, their focus now wholly on Margott.
"We understand, sir," Kiett replied. "But right now, we need to take care of her."
"Of course," Victor said with a respectful bow. "My best wishes for the young lady. If you'll excuse me."
With that, the butler disappeared into the rain, leaving the three of them at the doorstep of the modest yet lovingly kept Sigrid home. As they stepped inside and the door closed behind them, the warmth of the hearth embraced them—and outside, the rain began to pour even harder, as if mourning something yet unspoken.
Still clinging to Kiett, Margott whispered through sobs how deeply she loved him. Her voice trembled, but her words warmed Kiett's heart, even as worry pulled at him.
"I know you love me," he said softly, cupping her face and gently brushing away her tears. "Just like I love you. But why are you crying? What's wrong?"
Claire took their new swords and dashed up the stairs to the second floor, calling over her shoulder, "Give me a minute—I'll be right back!"
Margott remained in Kiett's arms, her voice barely louder than the sound of rain against the windows.
"My love… there's something I need to tell you. Something that I have kept sealed in my memories, the real reason for the sadness I've carried, long before I ever met either of you."
"Margott… you're scaring me," Kiett said quietly, his voice tight. He wiped another tear from her cheek with a trembling hand. "What is it you want to talk about?"
Claire rushed up to Kiett's room, her clothes damp and clinging to her skin. The large hole in the ceiling still yawned overhead—a lingering scar from the explosion the day before, just before they'd left for the incense ceremony. With a huff, she tossed the new swords onto Kiett's bed and hurried back down the stairs.
"Your room looks like a lake, Kiett!" she exclaimed, exasperated. "You really need to fix that hole!"
Kiett simply nodded, then extended a hand to her, motioning for her to sit beside Margott on the left.
"Alright then," Claire said, settling in. "Now tell us who hurt you—swear to Throme, I'll beat them to a pulp."
Margott gave a faint, fleeting smile.
"There's no one to punish," she replied gently. "All I ask is that you listen to me… and forgive me."
Those words caught the Sigrid siblings off guard. Their brows furrowed, puzzled and concerned. Kiett leaned forward, and Claire immediately spoke for them both.
"Forgive you? Margott, there's nothing you've done that we'd need to forgive."
But Margott shook her head, the weight of her emotions tightening her voice.
"You do need to forgive me… for not telling you sooner," she whispered.
"Alright then! Just tell us already—please!" Claire demanded, her voice a mixture of urgency and concern.
Margott took a trembling breath. "Today, in the arena… I had an emotional breakdown. An anxiety attack triggered by something from my past… something that still haunts me."
The Sigrid siblings fell silent, stunned by her confession. They exchanged a glance, their skepticism fading into quiet anticipation, waiting for her to continue.
"When I was a child," Margott said softly, "there was a great incident in Akerhill. A tragedy that sparked unrest in the nearby towns and villages."
—Margott's Flashback—
A little girl ran desperately, dragging her younger brother by the hand. They fled from something—something dark—that chased them through the woods like a living nightmare. Behind them, their mother and father shouted, urging them forward.
"Run, my darling! Don't stop! No matter what you hear—don't stop!" cried a woman's voice—their mother.
Margott clutched her brother's tiny hand tightly. He was sobbing, and the terror that gripped them was too vast for their young bodies to contain. Suddenly, a deafening crash echoed through the trees, followed by a violent explosion that hurled both children in opposite directions.
As Margott soared through the air, disoriented and weightless, her eyes searched frantically for her brother. But instead, she caught sight of a shadowed figure—a towering presence that brought down a massive black sword, cleaving her father's body in two.
Her scream pierced the chaos, raw and primal. But the moment her body hit the ground, far from the carnage, everything went dark. The world vanished into silence.
—End of Margott's Flashback—
The Sigrid siblings sat in stunned silence, shaken by Margott's confession. It was a part of her they had never seen—never even imagined.
"When I woke up," she continued, her voice trembling, "everything around me was desolation… despair. I remember the searing pain in my leg—I had shattered my knee when I fell."
She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, while her left fingers absently played with a strand of her soft pink hair.
"It was Princess Liliam who found me. And since that day, I've served her faithfully… while she's helped me make sense of what happened back then, helping me search for any trace of my mother… or my little brother."
A heavy silence followed, pressing down on the room like a weighted fog. Margott shifted uncomfortably, waiting for a reaction—maybe anger, maybe disappointment—for having kept such a secret.
"Why didn't you tell us before?" Claire finally asked, her voice gentle, yet firm.
"I don't know," Margott admitted. "Maybe… being around you two, falling in love with you, Kiett… living beside you both made me feel safe. Peaceful, even. It kept the memories buried. At least until yesterday."
"Yesterday?" Kiett asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Two days ago, explorers from the LuxFord faction uncovered something… strange," Margott explained. "Books and scrolls—pulled from a newly unearthed catacomb in Akerhill. We received the report just yesterday."
Kiett and Claire exchanged a puzzled glance.
"The LuxFord faction?" Kiett asked.
"Yes," Margott nodded. "The house's explorers found a set of letters… and the handwriting on them—it's almost identical to my mother's."
Kiett leaned forward, wrapping his arms around her in a firm, protective embrace.
"You think your mother wrote those letters?" he whispered.
"I do," Margott replied without hesitation. "I truly do."
To be continued…