Melusine wiped her mouth, lifted her chin with a proud glint in her eyes, and said, "It's a small matter, but we've been busy for so long. Let's fill our stomachs first. There's no harm in waiting until tomorrow to search further."
Aslan couldn't help but rub his own rumbling stomach. After the long battle with the wyvern, hunger gnawed at him fiercely. Food was the most important thing for humans—nothing came before eating.
You have to eat well to have the energy to learn magic, right? Besides, so much had happened today; the magicians likely needed time to recover. He'd bother them another day.
The magicians from the mainland, it seemed, were too preoccupied to fear the wyvern itself. Their minds were set instead on how to deal with Morgan.
Though they had only glimpsed Morgan from afar and never met her directly, all present could feel the immense power radiating from the witch of Great Britain. Especially after the scene where she effortlessly shrank the wyvern into a sparrow—a spectacle no one could ignore.
Like Aslan, a hero capable of slaying wyverns by the dozen, Morgan was treated as a VIP.
No one dared offend a witch.
In a quiet chamber, Morgan finally allowed a faint smile to curve her lips as the tension around her eased. That smile, slight as it was, held the weight of impending storms.
Elsewhere, magicians from the mainland unpacked an assortment of potions and magical trappings. Against a foe like Morgan, mere potions wouldn't suffice. If necessary, they would resort to curses. Luckily, they'd brought with them a cache of sealed cursed artifacts.
A man cloaked in black robes produced a bone dagger from his pocket. Despite its skeletal frame, the blade shimmered with a deep, distant purple light—its aura decadent and sinister.
When the other magicians saw it, shocked expressions rippled through the group.
"You actually brought that? You didn't leave it behind on the mainland?"
The dagger's owner scratched his head sheepishly. "I'm a bit reluctant to leave this behind for other magicians. Even if it's disposable, it's a treasure from the era of Zeus."
The magicians instinctively stepped back. None wanted to be pierced by that dagger.
It was no ordinary blade—it sealed a victim's magic power while casting a curse. Until the wound healed, mental torment would gnaw relentlessly. Worst of all, anyone wounded by it risked descending into madness.
The nature and intensity of the madness varied according to each person's will, desires, and thoughts.
Faced with their arsenal of magic tools, it became clear the dagger was their greatest hope for victory. Several magicians glanced at one another and tentatively placed their hands on the uniquely shaped blade. A flicker of cold calculation crossed their eyes.
They knew well: to survive here, to secure a future for their magic research... poison was essential.
"Witch Morgan... may this dagger be your undoing."
But it wasn't only these magicians plotting.
The lord's daughter had slipped away to her private warehouse. Over the years, her father had granted her countless treasures, including enchanted garments crafted by witches themselves.
She had to get her own knight's sword. Nothing would stand in her way.
Eyes wide, her crazed determination shimmered like a flame in the dim warehouse light. No one had ever stopped her before. Whatever she desired, she took.
This time would be no different.
Though her father forbade reckless use of these items, she was confident he could handle any fallout. There was nothing beyond his power.
After a long search, she pulled from the shadows a magical artifact—a collar.
A smile curved her lips, but it was tinged with something darker, more sinister.
This was a one-time forced-command artifact. A witch had gifted it to her father long ago, saved by him in his youth. If used correctly—and with fortune—the lord could become the new overlord of the land.
Thanks to him, though, he had no desire for conquest, instead devoting all his attention to his daughter, loyal and patriotic without rebellious ambitions.
Yet as the age of gods faded and time marched on, this collar's power had waned.
But with Aslan's arrival, fate's path shifted once more.
If she could find a way to slip this collar onto the blacksmith, her dream of wielding her own knight's sword would finally be realized.
She didn't know whether to feel lucky or helpless that this powerful relic was now in her—and her father's—hands. At least they had not used it to unleash chaos or overthrow the world.
The girl slid the collar into her pocket and prepared to seize her chance.
She couldn't confront Aslan directly—his strength far surpassed hers. But if she changed her identity, she could approach him unnoticed.
As a VIP, Aslan was served by many maids. Blending into their ranks and using some inconspicuous magic props might finally fulfill her long-held wish.
The maids were terrified when they saw their mistress approaching their quarters. But the girl simply waved her hand and grabbed a set of freshly laundered women's clothes.
Raising a finger at the others, she said with a mischievous grin, "I've never been here before. Did you know that?"
Then, slipping a ring that dampened her presence onto her finger, she dressed in the maid's outfit and prepared to make her way to Aslan's room.