When the heavy inner doors were finally breached, the party rushed into the central sanctum only to find a hollow, cavernous expanse that had long since been stripped bare. The Regent had at least retained a shred of lingering conscience; he hadn't left a network of hidden demolition charges behind to try and blast the incoming vanguard directly into the clouds.
The sudden discovery of Theresis's total disappearance sent an immediate shockwave of panic through the gathering guards and staff! Officers began pacing frantically, shouting to organize search columns in a desperate bid to hunt down the retreating warlord or, at the very least, track the exact trajectory of his flight.
Yet, the single individual who remained entirely unbothered by the revelation was Theresa herself—the very woman whose entire future was tied to this historical transition. Her expression remained completely flat and serene, as though she had divined this exact development weeks before her boots ever touched the city cobblestones.
While the surrounding commanders lost their bearings, she simply stood in the center of the vacant hall, looking up at the high, empty vault as a complex web of memories washed over her. It was only when the scouts moved to organize an aggressive, long-range pursuit that she finally raised her hand to check their momentum.
"But... Your Highness!" a senior captain protested, his voice tight with anxiety. "That is Theresis we are discussing! He is the very man who drove your banner from these walls years ago. If we allow him to vanish into the borderlands to hatch some fresh, devastating conspiracy..."
A chorus of fervent nods rippled through the chamber as the remaining operators voiced their agreement. In their estimation, letting the Regent slip away unhindered on this day was a massive tactical blunder that would inevitably invite an absolute catastrophe somewhere down the line.
Theresa understood their fears perfectly. She knew her brother wouldn't simply abandon his ambitions because his seat had fallen, but she also recognized that throwing her exhausted forces into a blind pursuit was an exercise in pure futility. The man had likely initiated his withdrawal days ago!
The undeniable proof lay upon the grand seat at the end of the dais, its dark framework already coated in a fine, silver layer of dust. While some of the grit could be attributed to the massive shockwaves of the siege drifting through the high windows, it was blindingly obvious that the throne room had been devoid of life for a considerable duration.
She knew the inner workings of her brother's mind better than anyone. Had Theresis chosen to maintain a personal presence within these walls, his fierce pride would never have permitted his sanctuary to fall into such a state of neglect. His departure had been executed days in advance, and his rear guards were undoubtedly waiting along the mountain passes, fully prepared to ambush any reckless pursuers.
In truth, the only individual present who possessed a flat one-hundred-percent probability of hunting Theresis down and erasing his legion from the earth was Jeanne. But forcing the Saintess to bear the historical weight of executing the Sarkaz Regent... would be spectacularly inappropriate.
Furthermore, one couldn't afford to overlook Jeanne's primary identity as the holy Saintess of Laterano! If the true nature of her office were ever exposed to the grand public, the rumors of a Lateran saintess conspiring with the Lord of Fiends to butcher the Regent of Kazdel would spread like wildfire across Terra—a geopolitical nightmare that made Theresa's head ache just thinking about it.
"Direct your attention to stabilizing the municipal districts first," Theresa commanded, her voice cutting through the rising murmurs with absolute authority. "Ensure the lingering skirmishes do not inflict further misery upon the citizens within these sectors. They have already sacrificed an immense portion of their lives to sustain this conflict!"
The officers bowed their heads. Though the primary battle lines had collapsed, the darker corners of the sprawling capital likely still harbored desperate holdouts or opportunists looking to exploit the chaos for their own gain.
Seeing the Monarch absolute in her decree, the commanders reluctantly backed away from the dais, breaking off into specialized patrols to restore basic security and civic order throughout the residential quarters, fiercely resolved to ensure no severe atrocities marred their triumph.
"You knew he was going to flee all along, didn't you?"
Once the crowded hall had emptied, leaving only their inner circle behind, Jeanne stepped toward the throne and voiced her curiosity. Her unshakeable belief that Theresa had anticipated the move stemmed entirely from the sovereign's spectacular composure.
The expression she had witnessed on Theresa's face upon entering the room was as calm as a homeowner looking at her own front door. If the Monarch hadn't completely deduced her brother's intent ahead of time, it would have been a miracle!
Under the Saintess's steady gaze, Theresa offered a faint, solemn nod. She had carried a persistent intuition that Theresis would vacate the capital long before her vanguard arrived; he simply wasn't the type of leader to sit idly on a failing asset and wait for his own execution.
Years ago, when the shifting tides of strength and the sudden betrayal of the Military Commission had forced her to abandon these very walls, she had chosen to preserve her forces rather than perish out of stubborn pride. Why wouldn't her brother adopt the exact same logic when the scales tipped against him?
Throughout the entirety of this final campaign, the true elite divisions of the Military Commission had been completely absent from the field. Every unit thrown into the path of Babel's advance had been composed of raw recruits trained over the last few years or hired mercenary banners. That anomaly alone spoke volumes!
Theresis was far too clever to play the part of a tragic martyr when defeat became an absolute mathematical certainty. To a strategist of his caliber, losing a capital city was merely a temporary setback, an annoying variable that added a bit of friction to his long-term designs.
Recognizing that he possessed zero tactical answers to combat Jeanne's wyvern packs and Fafnir's devastating power, he had simply surrendered the physical stone of the capital, choosing to preserve his core strength to chase his ultimate objective elsewhere.
While Theresa remained completely blind to the exact nature of his overarching plan, her intimate knowledge of his character suggested he wouldn't be returning to the borders of Kazdel anytime soon.
"Yes... I knew," Theresa murmured, her voice laced with a complex tapestry of emotions.
She looked across the vast, silent throne room, her dark eyes suddenly brimming with a profound, lingering sorrow.
Was that deep grief meant for the countless warriors who had perished to fuel this internal furnace? Was it for the bittersweet, agonizing nature of a triumph that had left their homeland completely fractured? Or was it for her own brother, who had chosen a path that permanently severed the bond of their blood?
Jeanne couldn't say for certain; perhaps it was a heavy combination of all three. This remarkable woman, whose innate gentleness seemed entirely foreign to the fierce stereotypes of the Sarkaz race, was always quick to weep for the tragedies of her people—yet that profound sorrow never possessed the capacity to halt her forward steps.
In that regard, the two of them were beautifully matched. Though a deep, silent affection for one another still lingered in the hidden chambers of their hearts, that private sentiment could never alter the stark reality that they were bound to entirely different destinies, even if one of them were destined to fall along the way.
True to form, after allowing herself a few brief moments of quiet grief, Theresa's gaze hardened once more with unyielding resolve. A fierce, brilliant light ignited within her eyes—a spark Jeanne had never witnessed before—and her voice took on a vibrant, ringing clarity:
"This time, I possess absolute confidence that during the window of his absence, I can restore Kazdel to the grand majesty of its golden age! The tragedies of our past will never be permitted to take root again, and my banner will absolutely never be driven from these walls a second time!"
These words weren't directed at Jeanne or the others; the Monarch was speaking directly to her own soul. It wasn't a grand, theatrical speech meant to rouse an assembly, but a solemn, sacred vow forged in the depth of her own mind.
"Though... the sheer volume of labor awaiting us is truly staggering!" Theresa muttered a moment later, running a hand over her brow as the reality of her administrative duties settled in. "We must verify the domestic stability of every outermost sector, organize an immediate assembly of the Royal Court... and broadcast an official declaration to the foreign powers confirming Babel's total assumption of state affairs..."
And most critical of all, they had to shield their fragile borders while surrounded by predatory nations. Though practically speaking, none of the grand empires currently possessed a single fraction of interest in launching an invasion here; the territory of Kazdel was simply too impoverished to justify the iron.
Listening to the sovereign map out the crushing weight of the tasks ahead, Jeanne could see the immense burden settling onto Theresa's shoulders. Yet, the pink-haired Monarch offered no complaints; this relentless, exhausting labor was the exact future she had fought so fiercely to secure.
Among all these priorities, the assembly of the Royal Court remained paramount. Securing the official compliance of the ancient Sarkaz sub-races was the solitary mechanism that would truly legitimize her total control over the nation's destiny.
Yet, as she calculated the variables, Theresa realized with a sharp pang of melancholy that they likely couldn't even assemble the traditional ten seats of the Royal Court. The Cyclopes would almost certainly refuse to dispatch an emissary from the Sami peaks, and the Wendigos... would absolutely never send a representative down from the northern wastelands.
To see the once-glorious Sarkaz Royal Court reduced to such a fractured, diminished state left Theresa feeling a profound sense of irony as she stood before the ancient throne. The hand of fate had been a cruel master to their kind.
"Jeanne, could I look to you to maintain a remarkably tight watch over the Doctor?" Theresa asked, turning her eyes toward the Saintess with an expression of deep, unmitigated apology. It felt incredibly embarrassing to constantly saddle an honored guest with these relentless personal requests. "If someone doesn't track her movements with absolute vigilance, that stubborn woman will completely destroy her own remaining health through pure overwork, and our schedule over the next few weeks is going to be far too frantic to intervene."
Jeanne's face softened into a knowing grin. "Leave it to me," she replied breezily. "You two focus on wrestling this government into shape. I will make sure this stubborn tactician is looked after with absolute precision!"
With that, she took hold of the handles and began rolling the Doctor toward the exit. The brilliant tactician was still feebly thrashing in her seat, her voice sharp with indignation as she voiced her absolute displeasure at being sidelined during the most historic transition of the century.
But how could a wheelchair-bound invalid hope to match the raw physical power of the Saintess? Even if the Doctor had been standing on her own two feet, she possessed a flat zero percent probability of breaking free from Jeanne's absolute grip. Her frantic, weak protests were entirely useless.
Kal'tsit and Theresa watched the pair disappear down the long corridor, then turned to exchange a quiet look. For the first time in years, a faint, genuine trace of relief flickered within the ancient feline's emerald eyes. Together, the two pillars of Babel began mapping out the dawn of a new era.
The hours bled away, bringing the deep silence of midnight. In the far-off industrial sectors, the faint, sporadic crackle of small-scale skirmishes could still be detected on the wind, but Theresa paid them no mind. She walked quietly through the familiar wings of the palace until her boots brought her to the threshold of her personal quarters.
The chamber was spotlessly clean. It was blindingly obvious that despite her long years of exile, someone had meticulously tended to the space in her absence. However, what instantly arrested her attention was a highly prominent, sealed envelope resting directly in the center of her writing desk.
Recognizing the distinctive, sharp handwriting of her brother immediately, Theresa displayed zero concern regarding hidden traps or lethal Arts. She calmly tore the seal away, pulled the parchment from the sleeve, and began to read:
I concede this campaign entirely. You have won this war.
I will make no further attempts to wrest the seat of authority from your hands, nor will I obstruct the grand designs you wish to execute for our people. It is highly probable that our paths will never cross again in this lifetime.
Farewell.
— Theresis.
Theresa lowered the parchment onto the polished wood, her gaze drifting toward the high window where the twin moons hung suspended in the ink-black sky. She sat down in her old chair, allowing her mind to wander through ancient memories of the boy her brother had once been.
Meanwhile, in a completely uncharted, shadowed ravine miles away from the capital borders, Theresis stood outside his command tent, his eyes fixed upon the exact same pair of celestial spheres.
"By my estimation," the Regent murmured to the empty night, a faint, unreadable smile playing across his lips, "our grand Monarch should be taking total possession of her loyal throne right about now."