I laid back in bed and closed my eyes. "Mirabel, trust me, lying isn't your strong suit."
A fist landed on my chest, not hard, but with enough force to make me wince.
Mirabel then walked off without a word, leaving behind only a trio of giggling maids, whispering as loudly as the birds in the trees outside.
Oh, how fate truly hates when I survive the day.
[Nicholas had a way with words. He really did know how to make people angry.]
When the morning arose, we had a long talk; that talk has now ended.
The letters from Malachi weren't encrypted, but the silences between them spoke louder than ink.
He warned me. And so did the tea that arrived a little too cold, from a hand that trembled a little too much.
The servant's eyes didn't meet mine. One of the knights was missing that morning.
Mirabel thought I didn't notice. She's not very good at hiding things.
Eh, it's not like I meant any harm. She just can't act. Or lie, for that matter. In fact, she's terrible at it.
But I like that about her. Once, she tried to throw me a surprise birthday party, I found out the day she started planning.
All the maids figured out that I knew, and from there we all pretended it was still some big secret.
I opened my eyes and sat up, casting a slow glance toward the window, then down at the maids below. I smiled.
"When you're done, would you mind writing a letter to Malachi? I'd like him here by tomorrow."
The silver-haired maid nodded. "Yes, my king. I shall get to it."
There were three of them. All were undoubtedly stronger and far better writers than I was.
She was the best one, though. But I still couldn't remember her name, and I've always hated that.
It seems my sister has done something to me, something not even I can perceive.
Her current position truly is unfortunate.
She didn't look back when she left the room. But she didn't need to.
She'd grown up around my silence and knew exactly what it meant. Her expression mirrored mine, too knowing, too tired.
We'd both learned how to hide what hurt, but she was always better at it.
Sighing, I stood and stepped out of the room, stealing one last look out the window before I left.
I had already bathed and dressed, so there was only one thing left to do: train and run an entire kingdom.
So... two things.
Lately, though, my focus had shifted toward something deeper, mastering my Regalia.
Alongside Dark Alter, there were other abilities hidden within the fragmented shards of my memory.
So far, all I could see was a dying black star, slowly collapsing into the abyss.
The memories tied to a Regalia are just as vital as the Regalia itself. The more you remember, the more power you unlock.
It's like solving an equation; if you don't know every step, the answer remains incomplete.
Until then, the true name of my Regalia would stay hidden. But once I remembered it, once I claimed it, I would awaken its full potential.
That is the power of names.
Mine. Mirabel's. And even the names of our children, though they haven't been conceived yet, they too will carry it.
Anstalionah.
And with that name comes a trait unique to those bound by my bloodline.
As I walked through the shadowed halls of the castle, lined with portraits of long-dead ancestors and blooming black roses, I came upon a door.
It stood tall and wide, carved from old oak, the wood aged and cracked.
Etched into its surface was the image of a wilting rose, drained of all light, suffocated by time.
I pushed it open. Inside stood an altar.
In the ancient tongue, Anstalionah means born from the darkness.
The altar began to glow, not with fire or lightning or anything natural, but with black light.
A contradiction. An impossibility. And from that impossibility, the ritual was born.
Within the light was a world forged by the oaths and blood of my ancestors.
A realm meant only for those who carry the burden of our name.
In a past life, I had planned to undergo this trial, but that opportunity slipped away. Now, the altar reclaimed me.
They tried to take my life again. This time, they'll regret not finishing the job.
If I don't unlock what lies buried within me, I won't survive the next attempt.
The light consumed me, pulling me into its grasp. Deeper still, into the promise I had once made but never fulfilled.
[Nicholas saw many swords, countless blades resting within a cradle, each one harboring an uncountable number of noble, terrible choices.]
My knees hit the ground. Blood touched my lips. I had entered the altar fully.
This realm was built on sacrifice and struggle, a world of blood and ash.
[Nicholas now resided within the Cradle of Swords.]
The sky above me was a deep, starless blue, painted with galaxies so vast they made entire solar systems seem small.
The ground was jagged stone, and impaled in it were blades, endless swords stretching far beyond the horizon.
Every king before me had undergone this trial on their eighteenth birthday. I, of course, was too lazy.
That laziness cost me not only this, but even my secluded training.
Here, in this place, I must undergo the trial to earn my blade, one that carries the knowledge and strength of every monarch who came before me.
A sword that would grant me instinctive mastery in battle.
[Nicholas needed anything he could get, he was not a skillful man.]
Unskillful? No. I'd call it untalented.
Maybe that's what happens when your body betrays you before your spirit ever gets the chance.
Blood dripped slowly from my lips as I laughed under my breath. I pushed myself off the ground and kept walking. Searching.
I wasn't allowed to speak about what happened in the ritual. It was sacred. Unspoken.
[Nicholas wasn't one to pass any test. He's not smart.]
Tch. That voice again.
"Not smart, not strong…" I muttered. "Yet here I am."
And still, I moved deeper into the cradle.
Each sword called out in its own way. Some pulled faintly. Some screamed.
Picking the right one, of course, that was the trial. That was the point. How did I not realize that sooner?
[Nicholas wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed. Not the most useful.]
My usefulness doesn't define me. How absurd to even suggest that. This world runs on power and belief, on ideology.
As long as I give the people something, even the illusion of light and grace, then Mirabel can continue existing with or without me.
To be honest, I was a fool to believe in myself the way I once did. But now, I see clearly.
I passed by countless blades, each radiating with transcendent power.
Some shimmered with ancient law, others pulsed with wrath or serenity.
Each one whispered concepts, unspoken names and silent meanings, but none revealed themselves to me.
[Nicholas was cold. He would realize that the cold was overbearing, and the darkness was merely a shadow.]
A black light passed across my face as cold water ran beneath my feet.
Below me, where once there had been stone, an ocean had taken shape, vast and endless, appearing from nowhere.
In this world, everything was a weapon. Everything was power. A bug could be a blade. A lie, a strike.
Even the sea, that grand puddle, held the weight to bear all truths and all burdens.
I reached into the water, my fingers piercing the surface as if through silk.
Then, I felt it.
A name slammed into my mind. A voice, a command, a law. A will etched into my soul.
It wasn't just a word; it was a calling, a truth that rattled the foundation of my being.
The ocean surged upward, swallowing me in a blur of darkness and light. And then, I stood, on water.
Before me was… myself.
He held a blade I could not see. A sword without form, without identity, without idea.
Yet the name still lingered, so close to being spoken it hovered on the edge of my tongue like a solemn tune aching to be sung.
It called to me.
And then, as if answering that silent plea, a sword materialized in my hands, heavy and wet, dripping with blood.
The other me, my shadow, or perhaps my echo, spoke in a voice detached, stripped of all warmth or reason.
"There is a hope… little, little, little. You are an Endless Fool."
He raised his invisible blade. His eyes were blank as canvas, yet glowing with a sharp, impossibly deep black. "Now dance."