The morning sun broke over the hut, bleeding a pale orange across the frosty windows. The patchy snow had melted before the sun even rose.
Inside the dim bedroom, Eila opened his eyes.
For the first time in a week, he felt comfortably light. His veins weren't screaming in agony. Having lost his mana-circuits, he did not feel their familiar hum that had been his constant ally.
He pushed the scratchy wool blankets aside and swung his legs over the edge of the cot. He stood up, his bare feet hitting the freezing wooden floorboards. Raising his arms, he stretched his tight muscles until his joints popped loudly in the quiet room.
He leaned against the rough timber wall, limping his way down the short hall toward the kitchen.
The low murmur of voices and the crackle of the iron stove stopped the second he crossed the threshold.
Kian paused mid-bite. Kaito froze, a wooden spoon halfway to his mouth. Riko, sitting cross-legged on a chair, let out a low whistle.
Imara was at the stove. She slowly turned around, a worn wooden spatula in her trembling hand. The deep bags under her eyes hadn't faded, but the sheer terror that had haunted her for the past week was finally gone.
Eila gripped the doorframe, the rough grain of the wood digging into his knuckles. He couldn't look her in the eye.
"Imara," Eila rasped, his voice sounding like cracked glass. He stared at the floorboards, the heavy guilt finally crushing his lungs. "I'm sorry. I was a coward... and I broke my promise. I won't do it again."
The kitchen remained dead silent.
Imara set the spatula down. She walked across the room, stopping inches from him. She didn't yell. She reached out, her warm hands gently framing his pale, scarred face, forcing him to look at her.
"You're damn right you won't," she whispered, her voice thick with exhausted relief. She rested her forehead against his, grounding him. "Because if you ever scare me like that again, I will kill you myself."
Eila let out a shaky, shuddering breath, his own hands coming up to grip her wrists.
"Ugh. Break it up. I'm trying to eat here."
The sharp scrape of a wooden chair broke the tension. Kaito marched across the kitchen, grabbing a steaming, heavy bowl of thick elk stew from the counter. The rich scent of smoked meat hit the air. He aggressively shoved the hot bowl directly into Eila's chest.
Eila flinched, instinctively grabbing the scalding bowl before it spilled.
"Eat," Kaito grunted, glaring daggers at the former Hero while his own ears burned a bright red. "You look like a skeleton. And we have work to do."
"Aww, look at our little brawler, feewing bad now?" Riko chirped loudly from the table, flashing an obnoxious smirk.
"S-SHUT UP, PINKY!" Kaito roared, his face turning the color of a tomato as he started to walk towards her.
Before Kaito could reach the girl, Kian smoothly stepped up from behind, grabbing the back of the boy's collar and effortlessly dragging the fuming brawler back toward the table. "Leave them alone, Kaito. Sit down."
Eila stared at the hot stew in his hands, the chaotic noise of the Cinders washing over him. A faint, genuine smile finally broke through the exhaustion on his face.
"Besides," Riko announced, hopping onto her chair and throwing her hands into the air triumphantly. "I HAVE FOUND THE SWORDSMITH!"
Lucio shifted nervously, adjusting his cracked glasses. "I- I actually found—"
Riko turned her head and stared directly at the timid organizer. She didn't blink. She didn't say a single word. She just beamed at him with an intense cheerfulness.
Lucio shivered. His mouth snapped shut, and he shakily lowered his spoon back into his bowl.
"The thing is, the forge is all the way in Westrealis," Riko continued, seamlessly resuming her breakfast. "The journey should take us about five days on foot."
Eila slowly picked up his spoon, staring at the thick stew.
"I don't think I can manage a journey of that length right now," Imara said thoughtfully, sitting down beside Eila. "My mana circuits are completely hollow after forcing Grand Mage Orlon and Eila back from the brink."
Eila's grip tightened on the wooden spoon. He looked at Imara's exhausted face, the guilt twisting in his gut. As he stared at her trembling hands, he swore he would never make her burn her own life for him again.
"Even for you guys and Eila, it will need to wait another week," Imara continued with absolute medical authority. "I need to ensure his circuits are resting, and that he actually gains some physical weight back before he marches anywhere."
Riko groaned dramatically, slumping over the table. Lucio, however, nodded in rapid agreement.
"It is a highly logical plan," Lucio said, quickly pulling out his leather-bound notebook. "This gives me time to chart the safest routes. Westrealis is a dangerous sector. It was the primary frontline during the Third Great Demonic Siege."
Lucio flipped a page, his eyes scanning his messy ink notes. "They say the trenches there are still flooded. The town never recovered from the thirty-two Goliaths demons unleashed."
Eila's spoon slipped from his fingers, clattering against the bowl.
His breath hitched. The warm smell of the kitchen vanished, replaced by the suffocating stench of freezing mud and rotting corpses. He felt the phantom yet agonizing snap of his own forearm. The sound of his own feral screams echoed in his skull as he battered the blunt steel into the Goliath's skull over and over.
"Eila?" Imara asked, her voice suddenly cutting through the ringing in his ears.
Eila pushed his chair back violently. The wood scraped harshly against the floorboards.
"Excuse me," Eila choked out, pressing a hand over his mouth.
He didn't wait for a response. He turned and practically fled down the hallway toward the washroom, desperate to splash freezing water on his face before he threw up his breakfast.
________
The deepest level of the Aethelgard dungeon was entirely silent. It was primarily used to keep the prisoners of the highest offense.
It was a grim, suffocating space. The only light source was a single torch mounted outside Cell 242.
Kaelen's polished shoes clicked against the cold stone, the sound echoing cleanly down the empty corridor. Grand Minister Zaban trailed a few paces behind him, his trembling hands clutching his ornate robes, his shoulders hunched against the oppressive atmosphere.
They stopped in front of the iron bars.
Malakor, the Queen of Demons, was bound in the center of the wide cell. She was forced onto her knees. Heavy chains forged from pure Noxara were wrapped tightly around her forearms, hoisted above her head, and bolted directly into the ceiling. The anti-magic stone passively drained her aura, yet the sheer weight of her presence still made Zaban's lungs burn.
Kaelen stood at the edge of the bars, his hands resting casually in the pockets of his pristine coat.
"The Queen of Demons," Kaelen greeted smoothly, his tone laced with cold acknowledgement.
Malakor slowly raised her head.
Her blood-red eyes pierced the gloom, locking onto the anomaly in the black coat. Zaban trembled, instinctively taking a half-step backward as the ancient monarch's gaze washed over him.
"The False King," Malakor rasped, her voice heavy with exhaustion, yet entirely unbroken.
Kaelen tilted his head slightly, acknowledging the title. "I have always respected your intellect, Malakor. When my forces marched on the Demonic Lands, you did not waste your kin in a futile war. You laid down your crown and walked into these chains willingly, just so I would halt the slaughter of your people. It was a pragmatic sacrifice."
Malakor let out a low chuckle that echoed off the damp walls. "I surrendered to spare my children from a thief. Do not mistake my patience for your victory, human."
Kaelen simply offered a calm smile.
"Patience implies you are waiting for something," He murmured softly, stepping closer to the iron bars, his silver eyes narrowing just a fraction. "Which brings me to the purpose of my visit. Before I took this throne... before the boy fractured reality and broke his soul... Eila visited you."
Zaban swallowed hard, shrinking further into the shadows.
"Shortly after that visit, Oakhaven was reduced to a bloodbath," Kaelen continued smoothly, his voice dropping to a dangerous, inquisitive whisper. "What did the Fallen Hero of Aethelgard say to you in the dark, Queen of Demons? What secret prompted him to burn his own home to the ground, and inadvertently cause the CONCEPT: DOOM?"
A mocking smirk pulled at the corner of Malakor's cracked lips.
She stared directly into Kaelen's sterile silver eyes, the ancient, terrifying pride of the Abyss flaring to life in the dim cell.
"He spoke the truth," Malakor whispered. "He told me the one thing your stolen eyes cannot perceive. And I would watch you burn this entire continent to ash before I ever surrender a single word of it to a thief."
Her blood-red eyes narrowed. A dark, mocking smile pulled at her cracked lips as she stared up at the anomaly.
"You grasp at shadows, for you know your reign is hollow," Malakor taunted, the ancient pride of the Abyss flaring in the dim cell. "Is that the true reason you keep my heart beating? You are hunting for The Core, are you not, O False King?"
Zaban froze in the shadows. The Core was the primordial heart of Demonic Rulers passed down from generation to generation—an absolute myth of limitless power.
Kaelen didn't frown. He didn't scowl. Instead, a terrifyingly calm smile spread across his face.
He let out a soft laugh that echoed cleanly across the damp dungeon.
"The Core," Kaelen repeated, placing a pristine, white-gloved hand over his chest. His voice was laced with absolute, condescending pity. "Oh, what a foolish thought, Queen of Demons. Why would I bother myself with a primitive trinket of dark magic that I have absolutely no use for?"
Malakor's smile faltered.
"If you will not speak of the boy, then this conversation has reached its end," Kaelen stated, turning his back to the iron bars. His coattails flared gracefully with the motion. "Keep your secrets, Malakor. The boy is broken, and the truth will die with him."
Kaelen walked away, his polished footsteps echoing cleanly into the dark. Zaban scrambled to follow, leaving the Queen of Demons chained in the absolute silence of her own victory.
They did not make it to the stairs before her voice chased them into the dark.
"Ascend to your stolen heavens, False King," Malakor's heavy and certain voice echoed. "But heed this. The sky has never been kind to mortals who fashion their own wings. When you soar too high, the sun will inevitably burn away your pride. And when you fall, you will find the earth you shattered is far less forgiving than I am."
Kaelen didn't stop walking. He didn't even turn his head.
The darkness of the dungeon swallowed him and Zaban, leaving the Queen of Demons chained in the absolute silence of her cell.