The echo of Zhilian's soft laughter faded slowly among the room's thick light-blue velvet curtains, giving way to a denser, almost muffled silence. The late afternoon light cut through the window panes, casting long geometric shadows on the marble floor, which was partially covered by plush rugs. Despite the warm atmosphere and the reassuring scent of lavender, the tension inside the chamber was palpable invisible, yet heavy as a shroud.
Hayjin took another step forward. His heavy, blocky greaves produced a dull thud against the plush fabric. He stopped a meter from the edge of the canopy bed, resting an open hand on one of the carved wooden pillars. He looked Zhilian straight in her large eyes, finally stripping away his mask of arrogant irony.
"Listen, Zhilian... jokes aside," Hayjin began, lowering his voice to give his words a more intimate, sincere tone. "How are you really doing? We haven't had a proper chat since we got out of that cursed dungeon. Putting the doctors and guards aside... how do you feel?"
Zhilian averted her gaze for a moment, letting her slender fingers trace the embroidered edge of the white silk blanket. Her face, framed by her loose long hair, betrayed a fragility she rarely showed in public when wearing her royal armor.
"Physically... I think I'm slightly better, Hayjin," she replied, her faint voice seeming to crack with every word. She raised her golden eyes once more, but there was no usual pride within them; only a deep, ancient exhaustion. "The court healers say my mana core is stabilizing and that the superficial wounds are healed. But... there's something wrong in here."
She lightly tapped her temple with her index finger.
"The real problem is when I close my eyes. I still suffer from terrible nightmares linked to the dungeon. Every single night, the moment I fall asleep, I plummet back into that darkness."
Hayjin felt a knot tighten in his stomach. His thoughts instantly flashed to the leader of the Cult of the Brand and the devastating psionic attack that had reduced the princess to a catatonic state. He knew what had been done to her, remembered every detail of that spiritual violence, but the impossibility of revealing the details of the time loop locked his tongue, fueling the sense of isolation that tormented him.
"What kind of nightmares?" Hayjin asked, unconsciously tightening his grip on the wooden pillar.
"They are horrific, unsettling images... and damnably vivid," Zhilian continued, visibly shaken by the memory. "They aren't your typical bad dreams where you run from a monster. I constantly remember terrible things: corridors made of black mirrors that shatter, voices whispering words in a language I don't know but that makes my skin crawl, and a strange purple mist dragging me to the bottom of an endless pit. Sometimes I see shadows in long cloaks staring at me in silence... I wake up every time with my heart hammering as if it wants to explode out of my chest, drenched in cold sweat. I can't shake them."
Rhaegalur, who until then had remained stationary near the door with his hands behind his back, took a stealthy step forward. His long cream-colored coat brushed the floor without making a single rustle. His narrow, intense eyes locked onto the princess, studying every tiny tremor in her hands and the shift in her breathing. The Dragon God, backed by his eons of experience and warfare, did not believe in simple coincidences or the "battle stress" the human doctors spoke of.
"Recurring and specific imagery, then," Rhaegalur interjected, his deep voice filling the room, stripped of his usual bored sarcasm but laden with an analytical coldness. "If they are so frequent, could they be tied to something more specific? A mind trained in royal magic like yours, Zhilian, possesses natural mental barriers that do not crumble from a simple scare. This kind of continuous vision, repeating with the exact same structure, looks far more like a psionic residue. A brand or an energetic contamination left behind by whoever tampered with that dungeon."
Hayjin shot a swift, tense glance at his adoptive father. The old dragon was piecing it together on his own, closing the circle around the Cult of the Brand without even possessing all the information Hayjin jealously guarded in his mind.
Zhilian tensed her shoulder muscles, bringing a hand to her head to massage her temples, visibly overwhelmed by the pressure.
"I don't know, Master Rhaegalur... honestly, I don't know," Zhilian replied, her tone betraying a deep frustration mixed with sheer exhaustion.
Exhausted and bored by all these medical and theoretical discussions that brought her no peace anyway, she sank heavily back into the large pillow behind her, letting her head drop back with a long sigh. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, as if to blot out the room and the talk of magic. "The sages keep telling me it's just the trauma of the tower's collapse, that my mind is merely trying to process the danger I faced. But I feel like there's something foreign inside me. I just don't have the strength to understand it right now. I just want this head to stop spinning."
Breaking the Tension
While the conversation by the bed grew darker and heavier, someone in the opposite corner of the room continued to move about as if nothing were amiss.
Isabelle was tidying up the room in silence. The miniature maid, with her meter-and-forty stature, moved among the mahogany furniture with maniacal precision. Her sweeping plum-purple cloak swayed with every movement, revealing its ochre lining, while her long golden-blonde ponytails swung left and right. Armed with a silk cloth, she was rearranging the glass medicine bottles on a side table, aligning them in a geometric order only she could comprehend, before moving on to testily straighten a stack of books piled on a chair.
Hayjin, noticing that the atmosphere was becoming too depressing for Zhilian, decided it was time to break the tension before the princess spiraled back into her gloomy thoughts. He looked at the tiny maid, and a crooked smirk spread across his light-brown face.
"Hey, Isabelle," Hayjin said, raising his voice slightly to carry across the room. "You've certainly got quite the turning radius with those rags for someone so tiny, huh? You know, if you keep scrubbing that table with all that rage, you're going to wear down the wood before Zhilian can even get back on her feet. You sure you don't want a chair to reach the top shelves? I can lend you one of my greaves if you need a booster step."
Isabelle froze instantly, her silk cloth still raised mid-air. Her large golden hoop earrings jingled loudly as she snapped her head toward him. Her large eyes narrowed into two slits loaded with pure aristocratic disdain.
Even before opening her mouth, the girl executed a fluid, practiced movement a finger gesture she always used to symbolize her regal superiority: she raised her right hand to chin level, pressed the tips of her thumb and middle finger together with millimetric precision, and then executed a sharp, graceful, and contemptuous flick outward, as if brushing away dust or a particularly bothersome invisible insect.
"Close that insolent mouth of yours, you slimy plebeian," Isabelle retorted, her voice as sharp and piercing as a needle.
She accompanied her words with another of her trademark gestures, raising the index finger of her left hand and wagging it slightly up and down to emphasize the hierarchical distance between them.
"A crude individual like you, who struts through royal corridors wearing iron plates that look like forge scraps, has absolutely no right to comment on my work. I am purifying the environment of impurities, and the first impurity that catches the eye in this room happens to be you, with that messy hair. You should be thanking me that I'm not using you as a floor rag!"
Hayjin placed a hand over his chest, feigning deep offense, though his hazel eyes gleamed with amusement. "Oh, please, Your Highness, forgive my audacity! I didn't mean to offend your majestic stature... or lack thereof!"
At that quip, a sound rose from the bed that completely banished all the heaviness accumulated up to that point. Zhilian burst into laughter a light, spontaneous, and crystal-clear laugh that brought a slight flush to her pale cheeks. She covered her mouth with a corner of the blanket, but her golden eyes were shining once more with a genuine, vivid light, miles away from the nightmares of the dungeon.
Isabelle, seeing her lady laugh, turned toward her with an expression that instantly softened into worry, her ponytails dropping abruptly. "But my lady... you shouldn't indulge this ruffian, it wastes your precious energy!"
"It's alright, Isabelle... it's alright," Zhilian said between light coughs brought on by her laughter, looking at Hayjin with a profound gratitude that required no words of explanation. "I really needed a good laugh. Thank you, Hayjin."
The boy offered a small nod, feeling that, at least for this afternoon, he had managed to make the right move without needing to die or reset time.
The warmth of Zhilian's laughter seemed to have finally dispelled, if only for an instant, the stale and heavy air of the bedroom. Hayjin allowed himself a quiet internal sigh, relaxing his shoulders beneath his dark gray vest, while even Isabelle, though continuing to shoot disdainful glares his way, appeared less rigid than usual.
It was precisely during this unexpected moment of normalcy that the entrance door creaked open a few centimeters, completely soundless.
The composed figure of Sage Arkon peeked into the dimness of the room. His bright, intelligent eyes mapped out the situation in a millisecond: he saw the color that had returned to Zhilian's cheeks, the silk cloth still clutched in Isabelle's hands, and Hayjin's decidedly more relaxed expression. A subtle, almost imperceptible smile crinkled his mature lips.
Arkon entered fully, letting his long midnight-blue robes rustle against the carpet, and headed straight toward where Rhaegalur stood apart, straight and imposing as a marble statue.
"I beg your pardon for the intrusion," Arkon began, lowering his voice so as not to break the intimacy that had formed around the bed. He stopped a couple of paces from the Dragon God, ceremoniously tucking his hands inside the wide sleeves of his robe. "Exalted Rhaegalur, I hope I am not interrupting anything vital. However... I would like to ask for a minute of your time to discuss a favor. A small personal favor, if we may call it that."
Rhaegalur didn't move a millimeter, but his blood-red eyes narrowed slightly, locking onto the sage with that mix of cold analysis and bored detachment that had characterized him for millennia. The beige tassels of his cream-colored coat stopped swaying.
"A favor, Arkon?" Rhaegalur replied, his deep voice resonating like a cavernous whisper, audible only to those close by. A corner of his mouth twitched into a half-sarcastic smirk. "This is news to me. Usually, the sages of this kingdom ask for divine intervention, the extermination of monsters, or blood pacts. Let's hear it. What is this about?"
Arkon was not intimidated by the god's sharp tone. He gave a brief nod toward Hayjin, who at that moment was distractedly checking the buckles of his heavy gray greaves, entirely unaware that he was the center of the discussion.
"I would like to ask if you could have Hayjin stay here at the castle for a few days," Arkon said, cutting straight to the point with a firmness that betrayed a long-considered decision.
Rhaegalur arched a crimson eyebrow. His expression grew visibly more cynical and efficient.
"Why is that?" the Dragon God demanded, pulling no punches. "For what reason should I leave Hayjin in a nest of vipers and pompous nobles who do nothing but look down on him? In case you haven't noticed, your guards were about to draw their spears just over the dungeon business. Furthermore, Elara was quite clear that he needs to rest at home, away from trouble."
Arkon sighed faintly, stroking his short gray beard. His gaze softened, shifting first to Zhilian and then back to Rhaegalur.
"I understand your reservations completely, and you are entirely right about the behavior of many at court," the sage admitted, speaking with absolute sincerity, devoid of political rhetoric. "But I beg you to look at the facts. Hayjin's presence, despite what happened in the dungeon, seems to have a positive effect on both princesses. It is a medicine that no healer in Opes can replicate with herbs or alchemy."
Rhaegalur remained silent, letting the sage continue his explanation.
"Take Princess Zhilian, for example," Arkon continued, indicating her with a slight flick of his eyes. "For two weeks, the kingdom's best mind mages have been trying to dispel her nightmares, to help her overcome the trauma. Yet, she remained shut in that bed, motionless, her gaze lost in the void. She only managed to smile just now, in his presence. There is a bond of trust and safety that boy radiates toward her, something that allows her to lower her guard and breathe. And it's not just her."
Arkon paused briefly, hinting at an almost amused smile.
"There is also Princess Wren. Oh, gods, ever since we returned, that child has done nothing but run through the corridors and torment everyone, constantly asking when Hayjin would return, if he was okay, why he wasn't here yet to tell her his bizarre stories. She has developed an incredible attachment to him. Hayjin's presence here, even for just three or four days, would bring a breath of emotional stability that this royal family desperately needs to heal from the invisible wounds of the dungeon."
Rhaegalur listened to every single word with the precision of a millennial judge. He analyzed Arkon's expression, ensuring there were no ulterior motives or political trickeries behind the request. Perhaps, the dragon thought, staying close to the people he had protected at the cost of his life would help the boy realize his existence held real value to others, just as Elara always said.
Arkon, sensing the god's thoughts, took a step closer, speaking in a solemn tone of promise.
"I give you my word of honor, Exalted Rhaegalur," the sage said, placing a hand over his heart. "We will take the utmost care of him. I will ensure he has the best possible comfort within the wing for guests of honor. He will have a private room with every luxury, the finest meals prepared by the royal kitchens, and above all, total freedom of movement and rest. No noble, no councilor, and no guard will dare utter an out-of-line word or look at him askance under my direct protection. He will be treated as a savior of the kingdom, which he is. I only ask that you grant him a few days here."
Hayjin, who in the meantime had caught fragments of the conversation thanks to his quick wit and ever-vigilant attention, snapped his head toward the two men, his hazel eyes wide with shock.
"Wait, what?!" Hayjin exclaimed, pointing an index finger at himself, his metal greaves producing a loud, sharp clank on the floor. "Stay here? At the castle? For a few days? Sage Arkon, are you serious? Look, royal comforts and I don't exactly get along, and I think your pocket-sized maid here would rather set the room on fire than have me underfoot full-time!"
At those words, Isabelle immediately performed her signature gesture: she raised her right hand to face level, pressing her thumb and middle finger together before delivering that sharp, disdainful flick outward, as if to banish the very idea of the boy's presence.
"On that point, the maniac is absolutely right!" Isabelle hissed, clutching the silk cloth in her hands and glaring at Arkon with blazing crimson-red eyes. "Hosting this insolent ruffian in the quarters of honor? It is an insult to the court's decorum, supp...I mean, it is unacceptable!"
Zhilian, however, pulled herself up slightly from her pillow. Her golden gaze settled on Hayjin, and inside it one could read a hope so pure and silent that the boy felt his heart skip a beat. She said nothing so as not to overstep Arkon or Rhaegalur's authority, but the way she gripped the blankets made it clear how much she wished for him to stay.
Rhaegalur looked first at Hayjin, then at Zhilian, and finally back to Arkon. The Dragon God let out a long sigh, letting his arms drop along the sides of his cream-colored coat.
"So be it," Rhaegalur decreed, his voice imposing immediate silence in the room. "He will stay here for three days. But let one thing be clear, Arkon: if upon my return I discover anyone has dared use their rank to humiliate him, or if I find him with so much as a single extra scratch on his face... I won't care a whit for your Council or your silver walls. I will come back to claim him, and the consequences will please no one in this kingdom."