The invasion of the kaleidoscope flared—glitter swelling into a blinding light.
Victoria, having reached the depths of trauma, remained kneeling, confusion locking her body into rigid stillness. Helios and his subordinates, by contrast, honed their awareness, bracing for what they judged to be a threat.
Yet before their stances could fully align, a shadow eclipsed the radiance—too swift for even the supreme commander to perceive. When the kaleidoscopic light finally receded, to the Night Dreads' astonishment, a man stood upon the balcony's balustrade, Victoria slung over his shoulder, utterly unburdened by the cold night air. A merciless glare pierced the very existence of those he deemed lower than scum for betraying his master, the king.
It was the Lord Hand himself—Benedict Fanthome.
Slowly, his gaze settled upon the king's lifeless body. The sight wrenched his heart, yet it stirred the memory of the decisive conversation he had shared with his monarch, echoing through him with the weight of that moment.
One year ago, the king lay in his bedchamber, physicians attending to his failing health. Benedict stood at his side, while the Abaddons kept watch as they always did—alert to any harm that might befall His Majesty even amid treatment. Wishing for a private exchange with his Hand, the king dismissed both physicians and guards, ordering them to grant them confidentiality.
Left alone within the chamber, their conversation began—unexpectedly—with a poor joke from the king.
"At this pace, I doubt I will survive another winter. I almost wish it would end sooner. It feels as though death is toying with me," the king said with a laugh.
Benedict stiffened, unable to accept such words.
"Your Highness," he replied, frustration breaking through his restraint, "words may be light as wind, yet their meaning weighs like stone. You should not speak so casually of your passing. You are the king."
"Forgive my loose tongue," the king said gently. "Age has made me familiar with senility—yet not foolish enough to flee from truth. The hour draws near as my vitality wanes." His gaze hardened with resolve. "Swear to me, Benedict, that you will serve my daughter as faithfully as you have served me. It is not an order, yet I trust you understand the weight of this request." The king spoke with quiet humility, aware that the man before him was the only one worthy of his complete trust.
Benedict, fully grasping his sovereign's resolve, bowed in reverence, fist pressed to his heart, and swore to honour the king's request for as long as he lived.
"I, Benedict Fanthome, son of Olef—born of mystery and forever faithful to the crown of Auronis—swear to protect the princess Victoria Ave Strassfey with all my strength and spirit, until death returns me to the lands of my ancestors."
The memory brushed his thoughts for a heartbeat longer, then the urgency of the present yanked him back. Benedict raised his voice toward Helios.
"So… this is what your emptiness was all about, Helios?" the late king's advisor asked, his voice sharp with understanding.
"My emptiness is an intimate matter—one only of Strassfey blood may dare to question," Helios replied, his gaze cold with disdain. "More importantly, let us speak of you. Those butterflies were born of a spell. You are a sorcerer, are you not, Lord Hand?"
"Let us say," Benedict answered, tightening his hold on Victoria as tension mounted, "that some intimacies are not shared with traitors."
"Spare me your sarcasm," Helios said, his cold gaze grave. "Hand over the princess at once, and I may yet show restraint in your punishment. You know as well as I do—sorcery is forbidden."
"One's fate does not rest in the mortal hands of another," Benedict replied evenly. "My oath to the king will be honoured. No finger shall touch the princess so long as I draw breath."
"Is that so?" Helios said quietly. "Then this night shall be your last." His gaze lingered—still, pale, and utterly void of emotion.
"We shall see," Benedict concluded—before leaping from the balcony, the princess still upon his shoulder.
At such a brazen act, the Night Dreads rushed to the balcony, straining to trace his descent and witness whether the man truly meant to defy death. Aware of the certainty of a fatal fall, the Lord Hand invoked a spell—one meant both to preserve their lives and secure their escape.
"Breath of Aurai."
Midair, Benedict's mana spread through the frozen night, gathering the cold itself into motion. A current of wind formed beneath him, and he dashed away from the royal palace, winter's biting frost becoming his second adversary of the night.
Powerless to halt the escape, one of the Night Dreads turned to his supreme commander.
"What are your orders, my lord? The King's Hand is fleeing—and he has a considerable lead."
Helios had not foreseen Benedict's intervention, nor his affiliation with sorcery. The revelation gnawed at his pride, though he would never allow it to surface before his subordinates. The Lord Hand's interference was an anomaly—one that threatened the very foundation of his design. With the princess at his side, Benedict could expose his treason in broad daylight and rally ministers and nobles alike.
For the supreme commander, killing the Lord Hand that very night was no longer a choice—it was an obligation, as vital as drawing breath.
With his mind seizing upon the full extent of his own intellect, Helios devised a plan.
"This winter is far crueller than those before it. He will not get far," he said calmly. "Forget what I previously declared regarding the deaths of the king and the princess. The revised account is as follows: the Lord Hand was discovered to be a sorcerer. Fearing the king's judgment and the sentence of death, he struck His Majesty down and seized the princess as a hostage to bargain for his survival and escape."
"Understood," the Night Dreads answered in unison, without protest.
But the warlord was not finished.
"There remains a complication," Helios continued. "My words are not meant to leave this chamber. A secret is best preserved when shared between two parties—not because it cannot be revealed, but because the narrower the circle, the easier it is to identify the breach." His breath escaped like pale steam in the frozen air, his hallow gaze, bearing the indifference of a bored divinity. "Do you understand, warriors? Your numbers must be reduced."
No living being lacks intelligence—only its depth and expression vary. Though they all heard their warlord's words at once, comprehension lagged behind reaction.
Medraut, however, was a cunning fox, gifted with a talent for veiled understanding. Unlike his companions, he grasped the meaning buried within that single sentence—a secret is best kept when shared between two parties.
In that moment, Medraut understood: this was not merely an order, but a test—one meant to reveal who would be deemed worthy to walk beside the man destined to become the next god-king.
With that understanding, Medraut's focus sharpened. His bloodlust surged, fierce enough to drive the winter's cruelty from his skin. In a single motion, he drew his blade—four swift, lethal slashes following in succession, their number mirroring the companions he now deemed enemies. Without hesitation or mercy, he tore the life from them, unmoved by the faithful moments they had once shared.
Viscera and splattered blood defiled the late king's chamber, deepening its grotesque ruin—an abominable spectacle that pleased the warlord. Impressed by Medraut's clarity of thought and decisiveness, Helios applauded, offering measured praise.
"Medraut, it is decided. From this day on, you shall be my shadow. Continue along this path, and you will reach it."
"Reach what, my lord?" Medraut asked, confusion flickering beneath a face drenched in blood.
"The realm of godhood," Helios replied. "Now ring the bell of infamy. The sorcerer hunt begins."
With that, he turned and left the king's chamber.
"Understood, my lord," Medraut said, lowering his head to the man he believed to be the chosen one under the heavens.
***
Streets of Auronis
Moments later, a colossal, rusted bell rang, its toll resounding through the vast expanse of Auronis. It was the Bell of Infamy—so ancient that neither its origin nor its forgers were known. Its peal carried a coded meaning, understood only by the natives: sorcery had been invoked.
Long before the centuries of theMaximillian Calendar, in a distant past, twenty-seven kings of the mightiest realms convened in the hope of ending all wars, seeking a lasting accord that would decide the future course of the world. An act of peace born from years of merciless bloodshed. On that very day, a conclave of sorcerers seized the moment, seeking dominion in a single stroke. All twenty-seven monarchs were assassinated.
Thus began a war between sorcerers and non-sorcerers, an era etched into history as the Century of Infamy. Outnumbered, the sorcerers were eventually crushed, and among the victors stood one man whose might and influence eclipsed all others—Maximillian Strassfey, second of his name.
In his honour, the ages that followed were named after him. With the dawn of the First Century of the Maximillian Calendar, all practices tied to sorcery were declared heresy and abomination, punishable by death.
At the bell's rare toll, the Auronites obeyed without hesitation. Doors were barred, shutters sealed, and within minutes the streets lay deserted. Silence descended, heavy and absolute, as though the kingdom itself had become a cemetery.
Knights, Abaddons, Night Dreads, city guards—many accompanied by Neapolitan Mastiffs trained to follow scent—flooded the streets of Auronis in pursuit of Benedict Fanthome, the presumed traitor.
***
Sage Library.
The ministers, gathered within the Sage Library to uphold the rituals of state, had just concluded an administrative council concerning Auronis' foreign affairs in the aftermath of war. Their deliberations were shattered by the toll of the Bell of Infamy, soon followed by the thunderous march of the state's armies.
Before confusion could settle, a guard—driven by urgency—committed what would, on any other day, have been an unthinkable breach, interrupting the ministers without authorization.
"Forgive my intrusion, revered ministers," he said, bowing deeply. "I bear dire news from the supreme commander and humbly request leave to deliver his message."
"Permission granted," spoke Mortimer Roberts.
"The king—Victor Vis Strassfey, first of his name, descendant of the great king Maximillian Strassfey—has fallen," the guard announced, his voice tight with restrained grief.
"What?!" the ministers cried in unison, stunned.
"What was the cause of his demise?" Quisling Mayer asked, trying to fathom the absurdity of the news.
"It appears that His Highness was assassinated," the guard answered.
"Who dared?" Mecidis Bort roared, fury spilling over. "Answer me!"
"The Lord Hand—Benedict Fanthome," the guard replied, his tone eerily calm.
Struck by the revelation, the ministers stood frozen, robbed of speech. One word alone flooded their minds, rising as a single verdict:
"Sacrilege."
***
Back to the streets of Auronis.
"Lord Commander, all troops have successfully sealed every corner of Auronis," Medraut reported as they galloped through the city. "Watchers are positioned above, securing all vantage points. No entry or exit has been observed. All signs indicate the Lord Hand remains within the city's four walls."
"Good," Helios replied. "Disseminate this order: the Lord Hand is to be killed on sight. The princess, however, must be preserved." He paused, fixing Medraut with a deliberate stare. "But should she fall… that would be an accident, would it not?"
"Entirely accidental," Medraut answered without hesitation, his gaze steady, reflecting the same cold certitude as his lord's.
With that, Helios released Apporion, already having commanded the beast to track Benedict's trail.