"Mom, I'm done eating the fruits!" Enoch's voice rang out from inside the room, breaking the flow of the story Aeloria had been telling Rya.
Aeloria paused with a small smile as she looked toward the house. "I'm coming!" she called back. She then turned to Rya and nodded toward the door. "Give me a moment, dear."
"Of course," Rya replied, watching as Aeloria stood and hurried inside to attend to her son.
Left alone, Rya sat back on the bench, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She tilted her head back, watching the sky transition into the bruised oranges and deep purples of early evening.
'It's almost evening,' she thought, a strange sensation settling in her stomach.
'Has it already been four days?' The silence of the evening now felt like a countdown. 'Michael... this wasn't what you told me. You said you were right behind me, but it's been four days since I fled the kingdom. I'm safe for now, but I'm so worried about you. Just what did my mother do to you?'
She closed her eyes, and for a moment, she could see his face clearly. Michael was the only one who had dared to stand against the overwhelming tide of her life. He had defied her mother—the Queen—along with the tyrant Orin, the relentless Javier, and the entire weight of the royal guards just so she could slip away from the grasps of death. Only someone with his strength and iron will could hope to accomplish such a feat. He was the reason she was still breathing, and the guilt of leaving him behind was a shadow that followed her even into the light.
"Dear? You seem to be lost in thought," Aeloria's voice drifted over her.
Rya startled, realizing Aeloria had returned to the bench without her noticing. She quickly smoothed her expression, forcing a small, tired smile. "Oh... I was just thinking how little I knew of the world as I listened to your story. I felt a bit overwhelmed by the scale of it all."
"The world is indeed a vast and complicated place," Aeloria agreed.
"But that aside, I want to make a porridge with the wheat I bought when I went into town. Do you want to learn how to make it? It's a hearty recipe, perfect for the coming cold."
"Only if you don't mind teaching me," Rya said, standing up. She welcomed the distraction.
"Not at all. Come, it's best to start while the hearth is still hot." Aeloria led the way, and Rya followed her into the warmth of the room.
"Where is Enoch?" Rya asked as they stepped inside. The main room was quiet, lacking the usual chaotic energy of the young boy.
"He's playing in the back room," Aeloria answered, already gathering the bowls and the sack of fresh wheat. "He'll be out the moment he smells the honey in the pot."
...
Meanwhile, far beyond the reach of the hearth fire and outside the protective, swirling fog of the hidden home, the atmosphere was far more grim.
Sweat dripped down Javier's face, stinging his eyes. He stood before the wall of fog, his breathing heavy and ragged. To a casual observer, he had been doing nothing but standing still, but the mental and magical toll was visible in the way his hands trembled.
"Lord Javier," a soldier approached, keeping a respectful distance. "It's about to get dark soon. We request permission to begin setting camp and preparing for the night."
The soldier looked at Javier with a mix of awe and concern. His commander looked more exhausted than someone who had been standing by a tree all day had any right to be.
"Permission granted," Javier said. His voice was a rasp. He didn't even turn his head to look at the man; his eyes remained fixed on the white veil of the forest, though only he could see it.
'I guess this is enough for today,' Javier thought, his shoulders finally slumping as he broke his concentration.
'At this pace, I should finish breaking the barrier my aunt created in three days. Maybe less.'
He turned his back on the mist-shrouded trees and walked toward the small clearing where the men were beginning to light fires. His legs felt heavy, as if made of lead. He found a fallen, broken tree nearby and sank onto the mossy trunk, resting his head in his hands.
"Lord Javier, please," another soldier said, approaching with a makeshift plate. "Have some of the roasted rabbit we caught earlier. You need your strength, sir."
He offered Javier a skewer of steaming, charred meat. Javier took it without a word, biting into it with a mechanical, joyless hunger. The barrier was thinning, and soon, the sanctuary would be a sanctuary no longer.
"Here, have some water too." The soldier then handed him a skin of water. Javier looked at him and noticed the young soldier.
Javier took the water skin from the young soldier, his eyes tracking the boy's movements. Up close, the soldier looked barely seasoned.
"What is your name, and how old are you?" Javier asked, the exhaustion in his voice replaced by a sudden, sharp interest.
He was the same boy who had been brave, or perhaps foolish enough to object to the men taking advantage of the vulnerability of Princess Rya earlier.
"It's Merilick, sir. And I am eighteen years old," the soldier answered, standing as straight as a spear.
"I see. So you're a year younger than me." Javier took a long swig of the water, the cold liquid cutting through the dust in his throat.
"Tell me, Merilick, do you think cutting that soldier's hand earlier was a wrong move?"
The surrounding camp went quiet. The crackle of the fire was the only sound as the other soldiers turned their heads. They were watching a lamb speak to a wolf.
Merilick didn't flinch, though his pulse thrummed in his neck.
"I don't know what it's like to be responsible for an entire squad, sir, since I've never had the chance to be in charge. But I believe... I believe I wouldn't have cut off the arm of my own squad member. Forgive me if that's not the answer you're looking for."
Javier didn't erupt in anger. He didn't even look away. He simply went back to chewing his rabbit steak in silence, leaving the young soldier standing in the heavy weight of his own honesty.
....
Meanwhile, back in the heart of Runevale, the crippled soldier—the one whose arm Javier had severed at the elbow—stumbled through the grand halls.
He reached the massive, iron doors of the throne room. The guards pulled them open, and he stepped into a chamber filled with the most powerful people in the realm.
Nobles, legendary warriors, and high-ranking officials stood in rows, but their presence felt like mere shadows compared to the figure at the end of the hall. Among them all, only one sat as everyone else stood.
Nyxelene sat upon the platinum throne, a masterpiece of metalwork with veins of gold beaten into the frame. Her ethereal beauty was undeniable, but it was shrouded in a cold, soulless stare—a gaze so piercing it felt as though it could sever a man's spirit if he looked too long.
"My name—" the soldier began, dropping to one knee to introduce himself, but he was sharply cut off.
"Your name matters not," Orin, the Left Wing Watcher, barked. "Speak what we must hear."
Whispers began to ripple through the nobility.
"What happened to him? Why is he missing an arm?" one noble whispered to his peer.
"It makes no sense. They weren't at war; they were chasing a single girl. Even if she is the Queen's daughter, could the Princess truly sever a man's limb like that?"
The soldier on the floor lowered his head further. "We almost had Princess Rya. No—we had her. But someone intervened."
"What an absurd statement!" a noble from the left side muttered. "Who would dare touch a soldier of Runevale?"
"There sure are a lot of daring people lately," another added, the murmurs growing into a tide of confusion and mockery. "They must be blind to have attempted such a thing. Even a blind man knows better than to cross this house."
"Tell me, soldier," Ramius spoke up. He stood directly below the throne, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the agitated nobles.
"Who interfered?"
Throughout the entire exchange, Nyxelene had not moved. She hadn't even blinked. To her, the business of the throne room seemed so insignificant that it didn't deserve her focus—until the soldier spoke the next words.
"It was Aeloria, sir. The Princess is currently under the protection of Aeloria the Cannibal."
The air in the room seemed to vanish.
"Tell me I heard wrong," a noble gasped, as his face turned ashen.
"That man-eating beast is still alive?"
The Queen's eyes finally shifted. She stole a glance at Orin to gauge his reaction.
The "Tyrant" of the Left Wing had his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were white, his jaw set in a hard, jagged line.
"If the Cannibal is involved, we need to send reinforcements immediately," Ramius suggested, his mind already calculating the tactical shift. "I request permission to dispatch the Elite Squad."
"Isn't that the special squad that serves under General Commander Michael?" Orin countered, his voice dripping with venom.
"Since Michael betrayed us, I don't think it's a good idea to send any squad directly related to him."
For once, the Tyrant wasn't just being difficult—he was thinking. The name Aeloria had changed everything.
"Instead," Orin added, his eyes burning with a dark, personal hunger for the hunt, "please... send me."