The place remained silent long after Karna finished speaking.
It wasn't the ordinary silence of Éreon's hall.
It was a silence… sharp, as if every breath could trigger a sentence.
The ground trembled.
Lightly.
As if the castle — or something inside Éreon — answered truth with the same instinct a body has for pain.
Sèsinmè lowered her head.
Éon clenched his fists.
And Éreon…
He only raised his gaze to Karna, and the violet in his eyes wasn't swirling — it was burning, still, deep, as if something inside him waited for a single word to break every restraint.
No soldier dared move a muscle.
Karna was still breathing hard, dry dust on his face, blood on his shoulder — waiting.
No excuses.
No defense.
Only the weight of what he had brought.
Éreon finally stood.
The movement made no sound.
But the entire hall felt it.
The Agojies adjusted their spears.
Sèsinmè lifted her eyes, knowing the decision that was coming.
Éreon stepped down from the throne.
Purple light coiled around his fingers as if searching for a way out, held in place only by will.
Each step seemed marked by the echo of what Karna had confessed — a step for every life lost, every mistake made… every threat closing in.
Éreon faced him.
Karna — even steady — felt the air grow heavier.
The hall seemed to hold its breath when Éreon spoke:
"There is something," Éreon said slowly, "that you still haven't realized."
"What the Blackthrones did… wasn't an attack.
It was a warning."
"They took my messenger. Not a soldier. Not a hunter.
But the voice that carries my name."
The purple light on his fingers vibrated, as if fighting not to spread.
"When an enemy touches someone of mine… he isn't proving strength.
He's testing me."
He stepped closer — a step that weighed like a death sentence.
"And a king who does not protect his own… does not deserve the throne he sits on."
The Agojies lowered their spears in unison, like an echo of the sentence.
"That is why," Éreon continued, voice low, steady, dangerous, "the Blackthrones didn't attack.
They challenged me. And now… I demand an answer."
He fixed his gaze on Karna:
"Karna Suruya." His voice cut the silence. "Tell me: what do you intend to do to repair what they touched?"
Karna lifted his face, but the voice didn't come out firm.
It came out true.
"I… don't know."
A heavy silence fell.
Karna drew a breath, as if each word were a cut:
"I fought. I gave everything I had. And even then…"
His fingers trembled slightly — not from fear, but from memory.
"I saw her being taken. I heard Telvaris… and seeing him so different…"
He tightened his fists, the pain returning to his chest.
"I… don't know which price to pay first."
The hall remained still.
Éreon watched — not with disdain, not with compassion.
But with measurement.
As if weighing every word, every tremor, every failure.
The purple in his eyes narrowed.
And then he gave the verdict:
"Then I choose the price for you."
The purple light rose from fist to forearm, slow, dense, almost breaking through the skin.
"And the price… will be your life."
Éreon raised his arm.
The air vibrated.
One of the Agojies barely had time to react — the spear flew from her hand and crossed the hall, landing in Éreon's grip as if summoned by a divine command.
Karna's head snapped up, blood freezing.
The spear rose.
And when it came down—
CHANG
A katana intercepted the blade at the final instant, violet sparks scattering through the air.
Éreon's violet eyes drifted, slowly, until they met Éon's black eyes.
The entire hall held its breath.
Éreon spoke first:
"Tell me… what do you think you're doing, Éon?"
His voice was pure, contained fury.
Éon did not back down.
"He is here because of me," Éon said, steady. "So I should be the one to pass judgment on his actions."
"And I was the one who trained her for eight months."
The silence shattered like glass.
Éreon tilted his head, power vibrating around him.
"You are challenging my authority," he said, slowly, each word carrying the weight of a sentence. "Before everyone present."
"Be very careful with your next words, Éon."
Éon held his stance.
He did not lower the blade.
He did not avert his eyes.
Then he answered, in the ancient tongue:
"Adelphoí esmen; oudépote straphḗsomai enantíon sou, oúte soû oúte tês exousías sou.
Allà kaì egṑ échō tò dikaíōma tês gnṓmēs; ou gár ísa hē archḕ kai ho desmós hēmôn."
(We are brothers; I will never turn against you — neither against your authority.
But I, too, have the right to my own judgment. For your authority and the bond we share… are not the same.)
The Agojies trembled.
Karna stayed still — not out of fear, but because any breath out of place could ignite a war between brothers.
Éreon did not blink.
The spear still locked against the katana.
Purple energy rose like living smoke, coiling up his arm like something trying to escape.
And for the first time since they forged a bond…
Éon stepped forward.
The tension between the weapons was so dense it felt physical, as if the air itself wanted to crack.
Éreon exhaled.
A single breath — deep, slow, dangerous.
Not of calm.
Of restraint.
His eyes left the blade.
Slid toward Karna.
And without turning his face from Éon, he stepped back.
The spear lowered a few centimeters — not in surrender, but because the decision had been made.
When he spoke, his voice came low, steady, like a sentence that did not need repeating:
"Leave immediately."
His violet eyes flickered with something cold.
"Éon… reach him before I do."
It was an order.
It was a warning.
It was a promise.
Éon nodded without a word.
Sheathed the katana in a single, precise motion, and extended a hand to Karna.
Karna hesitated for half a second — then accepted, letting himself be pulled back onto his feet, still dazed, but aware of what had just been avoided.
They backed away together, and Éon was the first to turn his back.
Karna simply followed — feeling the weight of dozens of eyes still on him — and they crossed the doors that closed with a muted boom.
The moment they vanished from the hall…
Éreon's voice cut the silence:
"Everyone out."
The Agojies obeyed immediately.
"Except Marcus… and Sèsinmè."
The sound of spears striking the floor echoed like metallic rain as all the other warriors withdrew, steps firm, leaving only three people in the hall.
The doors closed.
And then Éreon finally let control slip from his eyes.
Sèsinmè fixed her gaze on Éreon.
"Did you really need to go that far?" she asked, blunt as ever.
Éreon smiled — a light smile, almost ironic, but tired.
"Well… that wasn't one of your paths, was it?"
Sèsinmè crossed her arms.
"Even if I see the paths… I don't see every action that leads to them."
Marcus, still trying to follow, frowned.
"So… you weren't going to kill the boy?"
Éreon turned to him.
"No."
Marcus blinked, confused.
"Then… why?"
Éreon's answer came slow, heavy, almost intimate:
"Because Éon… is the embodiment of my greatest weakness of sixteen centuries."
Silence fell like stone.
"That weakness cost me everything," Éreon continued, staring into the void for a second. "And as much as it may seem he's just another piece of mine… he isn't."
He walked a few steps, voice firm:
"I will have my army. But I will need him to build his.
I don't intend to gather all our strength in a single arm.
To think, act, kill, sacrifice — all to reach a final purpose."
He looked at Marcus, directly:
"That will be my role. And I will not hesitate to sacrifice anyone for it."
There was a silence — heavy, almost uncomfortable.
Then Éreon added:
"That's why he's here.
Because, unlike me, Éon still hesitates.
And someone needs to remember where the plan ends… and where people begin."
Marcus only stared in silence, unable to fully grasp the way this being saw the world, people… and war.
Éreon then continued:
"I'll let Éon watch over the Eastern Kingdom."
He turned to Marcus.
"Get ready. We're going to meet the Democrats.
They started a revolt in four empires. I want to know why."
Marcus drew a breath.
"So… we won't help those who marched East?"
Éreon shook his head, slow.
"They will have help — just not ours. Not yet.
When we reach our goal… then we will go to them."
Marcus blinked, surprised.
"Help? From who?"
The purple light in Éreon's eyes wavered, almost amused.
"From someone I cannot read easily.
And that irritates me… and intrigues me."
A brief pause — a half-smile that barely existed.
"But I admit… she's smart enough that she almost fooled me."
The hall fell silent for a moment — one of those silences that announce something larger already moving, far away.
While the Eastern Viscountcy gathered strength to advance, on the other side of the empire — in the heart of the Eastern Kingdom — the darkness breathed.
The room was drowned in absolute black.
No light — only a single red eye, to the right, floating in the dark, glowing like a predator about to devour.
Lyra sat in the metal chair, shackles around her wrists, breathing controlled.
Even wounded, even exhausted, she looked less like a prisoner and more like an observer.
The owner of the red eye smiled — she could hear the smile in his voice.
"You're entertaining, Lyra. You endured all this…" the shadow took a step, the eye coming closer. "I wonder when you'll break and start talking."
Lyra raised her face slowly.
Even in the dark, he could feel her stare cutting through his.
She smiled.
Small.
Precise.
Calculated.
"This?" she asked, almost laughing. "This is what you call torture?"
A heavy silence fell.
The red eye did not blink.
Lyra continued, voice smooth as a freshly sharpened blade:
"I've been in places where pain wasn't a method. It was routine."
"Where they taught you to die… and then get back up because you had no choice."
The torturer went still.
The red in his eye brightened.
Then he laughed — a low, distorted laugh that echoed through the metal walls.
A sound full of cruelty and sick amusement.
But the laugh was cut off by a woman's voice coming from the corridor:
"So this is where you are. They're all waiting. Go up, immediately."
Firm.
Elegant.
The door opened with a dry metallic snap.
For a brief moment, a line of light crossed the room — enough for Lyra to see a woman of imposing posture, dressed in red and white, short black hair and refined features.
She didn't even look at Lyra; all her attention was on the torturer.
He let out a muffled growl, irritated, but obeyed.
The door closed right after.
And darkness swallowed everything again.
Lyra remained alone with the sound of her own breathing — and with that familiar sense that silence never lasts long.