The chill of autumn had begun to settle over the Western Territory. A faint mist hung over Border Town, softening the sharp edges of the gray stone walls that now enclosed the once-barren settlement.
In the middle of the square, Prince Roland Wimbledon stood on the newly erected platform overlooking the busy street. Around him, men and women in miners' garb and simple wool coats carried timber, bricks, and metal pipes, their movements orderly and efficient. The hum of industry filled the air — the clang of hammers, the hiss of furnaces, and the rhythmic thump of construction that marked Roland's rule.
He took in the sight with a faint smile.
What once was a backwater borderland filled with fear and superstition now brimmed with life.
"Your Highness, the new furnace is complete," Barov reported, bowing lightly. "We can begin producing iron in larger quantities within the week. The witch Anna has also made significant progress in automating the smelting process."
Roland nodded. "Good. Every improvement counts. Winter will be harsher this year — we need tools, stoves, weapons, and morale."
Barov hesitated. "Morale… yes. But there are also rumors spreading again about the Church's growing hostility toward witches. Some refugees speak of new inquisitors being sent east."
Roland's gaze hardened.
"The Church," he said flatly, "is tightening its noose because they're afraid. Afraid of change."
He looked toward the distant Misty Mountains, where the sun was beginning to dip behind the peaks, staining the horizon crimson. "But the world will change, with or without their consent."
------
Far south, the sea battered the shores of Clearwater City. Waves crashed against the white cliffs, spraying salt into the air. Within the great palace built of dark stone and coral, Garcia Wimbledon, the third princess, sat before a table strewn with maps, reports, and sealed letters.
She moved a carved piece across the board — a wooden ship painted black, symbolizing her fleet.
"Two more ships completed?" she asked the admiral beside her.
"Yes, Your Majesty. The Sea Drake and Iron Crest. Both are equipped with reinforced hulls as you commanded."
"Good." Garcia's lips curved into a faint smile — one that held neither warmth nor satisfaction, only the acknowledgment of progress.
While Roland toyed with machines and dreams, and Timothy schemed with his poisons and executions, she had chosen another battlefield — the sea.
She stood, her long dark hair cascading down her back, her coat lined with silver threads. "Timothy will grow complacent now that Gerald is gone. He thinks the crown is his. But the south bleeds loyalty to me."
Her gaze flickered to the far horizon. "And when the sea unites under my banner, the throne will follow."
The admiral bowed his head deeply. "Glory to the Queen of the Waves."
Garcia turned her eyes away. Glory? It was never glory she sought.
It was control.
------
And far away — neither in castle nor port, but in a quiet chapel lit by the flicker of dying candles — sat a man whose faith trembled on the edge of collapse.
The young priest knelt before the altar, his hands clasped, his lips murmuring prayers that no longer brought comfort. The incense burned faintly, its smoke rising like ghosts toward the vaulted ceiling.
"Father Lune," a soft voice called from the doorway.
It was an older priest, his robes faded with age. "You've been praying for hours again."
Lune lowered his hands. "Forgive me, Father Arcten. I… find peace in it."
Arcten smiled faintly, though his eyes were weary. "Peace, or avoidance?"
Lune didn't answer.
When the older man left, the young priest remained kneeling. His thoughts, however, were far from prayer. They drifted — back to the village of his youth.
He could still see her face — Eira, his childhood friend. The girl who had laughed under the spring rain, who had climbed the chapel walls to watch sunsets with him.
The girl who, one night, confessed she had awakened as a witch.
He had believed her. He had promised to keep her secret.
But someone had seen the flicker of flame in her hands.
Someone had told the church.
And the next week, the Inquisitors came.
Lune's throat tightened as he remembered the sound — the screaming, the burning, the way she looked at him through the fire. Not with hate. Not even fear. Just disappointment.
He had prayed harder after that. Joined the Church. Devoted his life to repentance. But as years passed and more witches were burned — many young, many innocent — his faith began to crack.
Tonight, those cracks were widening into a chasm.
He rose, his reflection caught in the stained-glass window — a tired man with hollow eyes.
"They call them demons," he whispered. "But who are the demons, truly?"
Outside, the city bells tolled — heavy, mournful, signaling the execution of Prince Gerald. The Church had sanctioned the act. They called it "divine justice."
Lune turned away from the altar.
Justice.
He no longer knew what that word meant.
He made his way through the sleeping chapel, his footsteps echoing softly. In his chambers, a small leather satchel lay ready. Inside it, a single worn Bible, a loaf of bread, and a pendant — a small charm Eira had once given him.
He would leave at dawn. Not as a priest, but as a man seeking truth.
Perhaps the gods still existed, somewhere beyond the Church's reach.
Perhaps redemption could still be found — not in dogma, but in understanding.
As the candlelight flickered, he whispered one last prayer — not to the Holy See, but to the memory of the girl who had burned.
"May your flame guide me still, Eira."
-------
Back in Border Town, Roland watched the night settle over the city.
The chimneys exhaled smoke like dragon's breath, and in the faint light of the moon, the banners of the new Western Territory fluttered proudly.
He turned to Nightingale, who stood silently in the shadows.
"Another message from the capital," she said, handing him a sealed letter. "Timothy has executed Gerald. The people call it justice for treason. But the streets whisper fear."
Roland broke the seal and scanned the words. His expression didn't change, but his eyes darkened slightly.
"So it begins," he murmured. "The siblings' war."
Nightingale studied him quietly. "What will you do, Your Highness?"
Roland folded the letter and slipped it into his coat. "Nothing… yet. The throne isn't worth chasing — not while this kingdom still burns with ignorance."
He looked to the stars — bright and sharp against the black sky.
"I'll build something better here. Something that will outlast crowns."
-------
Meanwhile, in the heart of the capital, bells tolled across the city square.
Their sound rolled like thunder, somber and final. Crowds gathered beneath banners of black and gold, whispering in awe and dread as soldiers lined the streets.
A wooden scaffold stood at the center — and upon it, bound in chains, was Prince Gerald Wimbledon.
He knelt silently, his once-proud posture broken. The executioner stood ready, axe gleaming beneath the pale sun.
When the herald read the royal decree of treason, no one cheered. The people only murmured — half in disbelief, half in relief.
"His Majesty Timothy is merciful to end his brother's rebellion swiftly."
"Merciful? He had his own blood executed in the square."
As the axe fell, the capital seemed to exhale — not with triumph, but with exhaustion.
Timothy Wimbledon had finally secured his crown.
Far from the noise of the execution, beneath the shadow of a forgotten district, a pair of eyes opened in darkness.
Morgan rose slowly from her cot, her body stiff from days of stillness. The air inside her abandoned hideout was stale, faintly smelling of dust and damp wood.
A week had passed since her last meeting with Big Rat. A week spent in silence, away from the eyes of both the underworld and the church.
Light slipped through the cracks in the boarded windows, faintly illuminating her modest refuge — a single table, a lantern, a pile of scavenged books, and the faint traces of symbols drawn across the walls during her practice.
She flexed her fingers, and faint ripples of translucent energy flickered briefly around her hands. Her power still responded — though not as sharply as before. The rest had done her good, but it had also given her too much time to think.
This world doesn't wait for anyone, she thought. While I rest, others move.
She sat on the edge of the cot, staring at her hands. Her ability — the strange, evolving force she had awakened as a witch — was still a mystery.
At first, it had been nothing more than summoning various malformed chaotic shadowy forms of animals and insects, with faint threads of perception, a way to extend her senses. But now, after days of quiet experimentation, she had begun to realize it could do more. Though she focused more on one form, it is stable and far from a flickering shadowy form at the beginning. The moths she can summoned now were a dozen or a couple dozen in numbers and can stay for as long as 30 minutes without flickering. It's range was also about a few dozen meters from her.
Her senses also improved. When she focused, she could feel things — the vibration of footsteps through the floor, the subtle pulse of life beyond the walls. It was as though she could listen to the world itself. Spatial awareness, she called it.
But what came next?
Morgan closed her eyes. If I can sense through my construct, perhaps I can connect. Enabling my construct to exist far from me. Perhaps I can develop it — into something greater. Maybe I should try imbuing it with intent and more magic.
For a moment, she imagined her construct existing beyond its usual capability. What if she can grow something more. She was already aware that her ability can create other construct, insects of various kinds aside from the moths she always summoned. All she need to do is practice and a good push of her ability.
The thought thrilled her. It also frightened her.
She exhaled slowly. "Power without direction leads nowhere."
Her voice echoed faintly in the empty room.
During her seclusion, she had thought of many paths — of following the story she knew, of seeking Roland Wimbledon in the west, of aligning herself with the future she remembered from her past life.
But the capital was not without value.
It was the heart of the kingdom — and hearts, though fragile, controlled the body.
Perhaps it was too soon to leave.
She rose, pulling on her cloak. Her limbs still ached slightly, but her resolve had returned sharper than before. As she fastened the clasp around her neck, her reflection flickered faintly in the shard of a broken mirror.
She looked older — or perhaps just more tired. The kind of tired that doesn't come from sleepless nights, but from too many thoughts unspoken.
For a fleeting moment, she remembered her old world — the hum of neon lights, the weight of a phone in her hand, the meaningless chatter of people chasing dreams that vanished like smoke.
It all felt distant now, like another life in another body.
She wondered if anyone there would remember her.
And if they did, what would they think of her now — a witch hiding in the ruins of a foreign age, practicing magic in secret while kingdoms fought overhead.
A small smile tugged at her lips. "Maybe this is better," she murmured. "At least here, my choices matter."
She extinguished the lantern, pushed open the door, and stepped out into the cold morning light.
The streets were restless. Vendors whispered between customers, soldiers marched in pairs, and posters bearing Timothy's name fluttered against stone walls.
Morgan kept her hood low, blending into the movement. Snatches of conversation reached her ears — fragments of the news that had shaken the capital.
"Gerald's head rolled in the square, I heard."
"They say His Majesty gave the order himself."
"Justice, they call it."
"Or fear. Depends who you ask."
Morgan listened in silence, her expression unreadable.
So it had finally happened. Gerald Wimbledon was dead, and Timothy's reign had begun.
The gears of the kingdom were turning again — faster, sharper, bloodier.
She turned toward the crowded plaza, watching as the people moved like a single, uncertain tide. The sight reminded her of something she once read in a history book from her old world: Revolutions never begin with fire. They begin with silence — the silence before the first spark.
Maybe she was standing in that silence now.
And somewhere far from here, she knew, Roland Wimbledon was building something different — something that might one day challenge this city of decay and deceit.
But now, Roland still building his foundation in border town, while I was here. I will take this opportunity to also build my foundation, my power.
Morgan adjusted her cloak and walked deeper into the crowd, vanishing among the noise of the city that had once forgotten her.