Muscles burned with each stride as Lilieth jogged through Artemest’s streets. She controlled her breathing, maintaining a steady pace so as to not wear herself out.

  While she could perfectly memorize every combat style she’d seen, her body being able to properly replicate a style was another matter entirely. Despite her Blessed physique allowing her to keep up with training, it was clear that if she didn’t work out physically as well, she’d never be able to reach her potential.

  She needed to remind herself who her targets were—the likes she had to deal with.

  Olivier Verlaine.

  Yupanai Nomari.

  Roald Isenholt.

  Each was an accomplished and skilled fighter in their own right. Titan and Rodei Libra were Martialmages, too, which made them physically superior in every regard.

  When she thought about it, she shivered. Could she really do it? Could she kill Blessed that were at higher Tiers than she was?

  That’s not an excuse.

  Sibeiya’s words rang in her mind. That’s right, she thought. It’s not about if I can do it. It’s about if I WILL do it.

  “You’re keeping up really well, Lilieth! Good job!”

  Albus ran beside her looking barely out of breath. Grits and Sibeiya were busying themselves for the Relic Festival, training to their limits. Despite being a participant, too, her gray-haired senior seemed to prefer taking it easy and was more than willing to help Lilieth out with her exercise routine.

  “Don’t you have to prepare for the festival?” Lilieth managed to ask through labored breaths.

  “Hm? Oh, yeah. Not really that worried about it. The goal is to reach the semifinals, not win the entire tournament.”

  “And you’re confident you can win?”

  Albus scratched the stubble on his chin. “If I was up against Grits, then it’d be a problem, but I don’t have to worry about that. With the way the festival is set up, none of Guillem’s students will be put against each other until the semifinals.”

  “What ... what do you mean?” Lilieth said, taking a few breaths.

  “It’s apparently a deal Guillem has with the Kastrionis family. He trains students and then makes one of them work as a personal bodyguard to the family. In exchange, he gets to use the festival as a sort of ‘final test’ for his students.”

  “Bodyguard?”

  “Yep. Valery’s personal knight, Kaltheus, used to be one of Guillem’s students, if you didn’t know. Scary strong, that guy.”

  The man in the pitch-black draconic armor—Lilieth always felt something was off with him.

  “So, is one of you going to work for the Kastrionis family?” the young mage continued.

  “We could … if we wanted to. None of us do though, and since Kaltheus is still alive and kicking, there’s really no need for a replacement right now.”

  Lilieth slowed her running to catch a breath. She had been running for well over thirty minutes at that point, and it seemed that that was her limit.

  “Does Valery Kastrionis even need a guard?” She wiped the sweat from her skin with a towel she recently bought. “He’s a Second tier, level 39—surely he’s strong enough to defend himself.”

  Albus shrugged, not even a bead of sweat on him. “It’s mostly for tradition’s sake. The archon of Artemest usually has a personal knight at their side. Old Hektor lost his some time back and has never bothered getting a new one.”

  Lilieth walked at an even tempo, both to cool off and to find some place to sit.

  Albus continued, “Once young Cynthia inherits the position of archon from her father, Spearman will begin taking in more students and gifting her her very own personal knight.”

  “What do you think Master Spearman is?” Lilieth sat with a sigh of relief, delighted that she’d finally found a public bench. Albus remained standing. She continued, “He personally knows the city’s archon, he’s mastered such an implausible amount of fighting styles and weapons, and he can seemingly do the impossible. He has to be a mage of some sort, but I’ve never heard him chant a single time. Maybe he’s an Illusionmage?”

  Albus, again, scratched his chin. “I doubt it. The thing about Illusion magic is that it’s surprisingly flimsy, and it sure as hells can’t make you a weaponsmaster. It’s a liar’s Blessing, after all. But we shouldn’t think about it too hard.”

  “Aren’t you curious?”

  “I am, but a man’s gotta have his secrets, you know?” He winked. “Far be it from me to intrude upon someone else’s mysteries. I’m sure even you have things you’d rather other people not know.”

  Lilieth found herself looking away, as if confirming Albus’ guess.

  Thankfully, a distraction came by in the form of a commotion. The two were near the district’s gate, and outside, Lilieth saw a large congregation of canvas tents, filled to the brim with people. She rose from the bench and approached the camp, Albus following close by.

  “... Ah, the refugees from Zusa,” the gray-haired man said with strained eyes.

  “Zusa ...”

  The name alone carried weight for Lilieth. It was, arguably, where everything started for her: the place she received her vision. She looked at the camp—a far worse sight up close than from afar—and couldn’t help but feel that it was her fault. Had she not followed her vision, that strange beast might not have awakened or escaped. But she had, and what she saw before her was a direct consequence of it.

  People sat slumped against crates and wagons, eyes hollow, clothes torn or stained with soot and dried blood. Some clutched bandaged limbs; others simply stared into empty space. The air buzzed with quiet murmurs—names being called, prayers being spoken.

  The soft weeping was what made Lilieth’s heart ache most.

  “Awful, isn’t it?” a passing guard said to another, stopping beside Lilieth and Albus. “I heard they’re already working to rebuild the capital, but it’ll be months before that happens. I feel horrible for ‘em.”

  “Must’ve been one hell of an attack,” Albus chimed in, engaging in their conversation. “What happened to the Basileon?”

  “His Majesty’s alive. Went to Logressa last I heard. That city will be the new seat of power, at least until Zusa is rebuilt.”

  The Basileus Basileon was the man who ruled over all of Krysanth. Lilieth met him only once before, that is if one would consider seeing him from a distance as he talked to Olivier Verlaine as meeting him. He was surprisingly young for a man whose title meant “king of kings”.

  Of course, the term “Basileus Basileon” was more of an informal title—a leftover from a more ancient time. As a member of the Nomen Union, Krysanth was not allowed to call its ruler a king for that title was reserved for the Salt King. The proper title for Krysanth’s ruler was the Souverain of Bells.

  Eventually, the guard went back to his patrol, watching over the struggling refugees.

  Entirely your fault.

  Lilieth shook her head. Those awful words again ...

  “We should get going.” Lilieth turned to walk away but froze.

  Her eyes were locked onto a woman walking through the refugee camp, anxiously looking around. She met Lilieth’s eyes then forced a smile as she approached.

  The young mage resisted both her urge to run away and ... the urge to embrace the woman in her arms.

  “You’re the doctor’s friend, right? We meet again,” Tethys said.

  “Y-yes, the pleasure is mine,” Lilieth replied, looking away. Once more, memories began to fill her head—memories of a life spent with Tethys—and she tried desperately to push them away.

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  Tethys and Albus exchanged pleasantries and introduced each other, after which, Tethys returned her attention to Lilieth. “My daughter said she wanted to see you again. Will you come visit?”

  The young mage shuffled uncomfortably. “Why? All I did was hug her out of the blue and run away.”

  “Well, yes, I also think that was weird—no offense—but she said she felt ... safe when she was with you. Strange, but I feel the same way. I think you and Irene would be good friends. In any case, what are you two doing here?”

  Hearing her voice made Lilieth’s heart sting in a way she’d never experienced before.

  “We just noticed the bustle and came to check it out,” Albus replied, perhaps catching onto Lilieth’s unease. “You don’t strike me as a refugee yourself, ma’am.”

  “Ah, yes. I’m actually looking for someone. My ... husband.”

  Lilieth’s stomach lurched. She could feel Tethys’ hesitation.

  “Oh, was your husband in Zusa during the attack?”

  “Yes ... in truth, we were living apart for some years. I moved here, and he stayed in the capital. We’ve had our differences, but ... well, I just want to know if he’s alright.”

  Their conversation continued, but Lilieth couldn’t focus on it. For a moment, the sounds of the camp around her dulled, and she felt the world tilt. Everything fell away as her senses went haywire.

  I feel sick.

  “Um, I really don’t want to do this, but can I ask you to help me find him? It’s a big camp. My husband’s name is—”

  “Ah, I’d be glad to help, madam! But my friend here—she’s actually a bit busy at the moment,” Albus interrupted apologetically. “I’m afraid she’ll need to go back to training. I’ll stay and help you if my meager assistance is enough.”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Tethys said, looking troubled. “I shouldn’t be holding you up.”

  “It’s fine, ma’am!” the man reassured her then patted Lilieth’s shoulder. “I’ll catch up then. You go on ahead. And remember to take a deep breath,” his voice turned into a whisper. Lilieth looked up at him, confused as to how he realized she was in a state of panic. “You’re looking a lot paler than usual. I won’t ask anything; just go calm yourself down.”

  Lilieth mouthed a thank you and made her way back inside the gates, walking along the streets languidly as if every ounce of strength in her body had disappeared. She wanted to just drop to the ground and lay there.

  Her mind and heart were a mess of emotions that she didn’t know how to untangle. It was such a short meeting, and yet, it felt like old wounds were being pried open—wounds that didn’t even belong to her.

  Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembered the sensation. Her hands holding a rock. Pounding. Pounding. The sounds and the scents. The awful warmth that covered her skin.

  He had a name.

  The man she killed had a name. A face.

  But some part of her never wanted to remember ever again.

  If memory only brought pain and discomfort, then there was no reason to remember.

  Do not remember.

  Lilieth looked at her own hands. Something very wrong was happening to her that she couldn’t describe. There were words she needed to say, weren’t there?

  “... Huh?”

  Lilieth looked up, something in the distance gradually mixing itself into the noise of her thoughts. She turned her gaze to the south where the neighboring district of Drakonyra was.

  It was faint, but she knew she heard it.

  “Is that ... screaming?”

  Phaedon found himself walking through the decrepit streets of the Drakonyra district again—the place he was set to one day govern—now a mere shell of its former self. Roads that hadn’t been cleaned in ages were caked in grime and oil, while the walls loomed too closely on either side, thick with soot and moss and layers of peeling. Rusted pipes snaked along the buildings like exposed, rotting veins. And the stench ... a bitter tang of smoke and metal, a byproduct of the many forges that acted as the beating heart of the Bertrands’ wyvernscale business.

  Drakonyra—there was once a time when it was seen as a thriving industrial district. Now, it was suffocated under the smog it produced.

  The people reflected it, too. Laborers with hunched backs and soot-stained skin trudged along the streets, their clothes patched with worn pieces that weren’t much better than the rest of their attire. Tired men pushed carts filled with scrap metal piled too high for comfort. Others simply stood idly, leaning against the walls, eyes glassy and unfocused.

  He told himself he didn’t care, that this place meant nothing to him now. Once he won the festival, he’d run somewhere far away and none of this would be his problem anymore. But every now and then, his feet would bring him back here, and he’d see for himself people living their day to day lives as best they can. Try as he might, there was no way he could ever blame them for how their own home turned out; it wasn’t their decisions that made Drakonyra such a wretched place. And Phaedon didn’t feel good knowing that he wasn’t exactly uninvolved in the matter.

  If he ran away, what would happen to the district? Lysandros Betrand had no other heirs. If his father passed away and didn't get a new heir, then the district would be given off to some other noble family. Could he trust that they’d make better with the demarchos position than the Bertrands ever did?

  Phaedon scoffed. It was no use thinking about things like that. It didn’t concern him. Not anymore.

  He heard the call of a vendor. At the edge of the street, makeshift stalls stood, cobbled together from warped planks and old crates. They sold cheap trinkets: dull brass charms stamped into the shape of wyverns, necklaces made from whatever scrap the maker could find, oddments of treated scales passed off as lucky talismans. Junk, mostly. Wyvernscale was sold to the wealthier parts of the other districts; you’d never see it for sale on Drakonyra’s own withered streets.

  The young heir found himself tinkering with the pendant in his pocket again, no more valuable than the ones sold on these very streets. In fact, this was the same place it was bought.

  He turned around and swore he saw a tiny figure chasing after him. Long hair black as the night, a dress that didn’t quite fit her, tiny antlers that adorned her head—a girl that trailed him around wherever he went.

  Of course, there was no one behind him now. It had been so long. What did her face even look like?

  Then, his eyes caught a strange figure sneaking about. A tiny girl with an oversized hat, scrunching up her face as she covered her nose. She tiptoed, lacking any bit of subtlety, until her eyes finally met Phaedon’s, and she stopped in place.

  “You’re Grits’ brat sister,” Phaedon said.

  “You’re the mean guy!” the girl—Cynthia—replied.

  “The hell are you doing here? Did you run away from home? Again? After what happened last time?”

  “Hey, I brought guards with me this time!” she whispered. “I have them tailing me right now! They’re making sure I stay safe or whatever.”

  Phaedon drew his lips to a line. Dared he believe her? He looked around, seeing people dressed in drab clothing. He noticed one or two people standing nearby staring at them ... but they could have also just as easily been random people.

  “Anyways, do you know where Grits is?” she asked.

  “Hells if I know. Why would he be here anyway?”

  Cynthia shrugged. “He wasn’t at his house, so I thought he’d be looking for you to fight you again.”

  Phaedon snorted. “Do you think he and I just fight all the time? We only fought during the Relic Festivals. ‘Sides, a young lady like you shouldn’t be in a place like this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re a noble.” Phaedon’s posture and voice were lowered, not wanting to attract attention.

  “And? You’re noble too, aren’t you?”

  He pulled his hood up further. “Yeah, but I’m smarter than you, and I know how to handle myself. I sure as hells won’t be caught with such a ridiculous disguise.”

  Cynthia grabbed her hat. “It’s a good disguise!”

  “Has that disguise ever worked when a guard spotted you?”

  “Well ... no ....”

  Phaedon scoffed and continued walking. The girl walked behind him at a distance. Whenever he turned around, Cynthia would pretend to be looking at something else, and whenever he went back to walking, he would hear her footsteps trailing behind.

  “Why are you following me?” he finally asked.

  “Whatever could you mean? I’m not doing anything.”

  “Can’t you go and bother Grits or something?”

  Cynthia stopped. “He’s busy training. For the festival.”

  “Training? Again?”

  “It’s going to be his last year. If he reaches the semifinals, he’ll pass Sir Spearman’s test.” Cynthia looked away, forcing a smile on her face.

  Phaedon clicked his tongue. “There’s no way you can be fine with that. You do know about that Deathberry obsession of his, right? The moment he passes, he’ll leave this city and start hunting down that urban legend of his.”

  “I’m fine with that.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s his dream! He’s been talking about it since long ago. I want to be happy for him!”

  Want to be happy.

  “But that’s not what you really want, is it?” Phaedon asked.

  Cynthia flinched. “Of course, it is. Why wouldn’t I want him to achieve his dream?”

  “Because if he does, you won’t see him again.”

  Her eyes flickered, as if she was confronted by something she wanted to ignore. “I can’t be selfish.”

  Phaedon scoffed. “You keep running away from home. From what I hear, you don’t even wanna be an archon.”

  The young girl pouted. “It’s not like I have a choice. Father says he wants me as the next archon, not Valery. Won’t listen to a word anyone says.”

  “Looks like stubbornness runs in the family.”

  She shrugged, but her attention was now focused on the decrepit street around her. “This place is awful.”

  “Yep,” Phaedon sighed.

  “You’re a Bertrand, right? Son of that, uh, Lice Sandy guy?”

  It’s Lysandros, he wanted to correct, but he suppressed the urge. “Yep. Lice Sandy Bertrand.”

  When Cynthia didn’t respond, Phaedon turned around to see her approaching one of the people lying down on the side of the street. She knelt down in front of him and grabbed a single coin from her pocket.

  “Here, you can use this to buy bread,” Cynthia said, her voice gentle. The man looked up at her—eyes devoid of light—and didn’t say anything back. The girl grabbed his filth-covered hand and placed the coin firmly on his palm, then got up and walked to Phaedon.

  “Don’t leave people in the middle of talking to them,” he said to her.

  “Ugh, you sound just like my instructor.”

  “Maybe your instructor had a point.”

  “I thought you’d be on my side here! Didn’t you run away from home, too?! Thought you were the type to not like those stupid lessons and stupid teachers.”

  Phaedon’s memory went back to those days as a kid. He was actually quite the studious child, always listening to his instructors. The basics of noble etiquette were drilled into him, and he was eager to take it all in. Inheriting the position of demarchos from his father was all he ever wanted to do.

  It was only later that he started to turn away from those things. He had no hatred for the position. He just couldn’t stay in this city anymore, not when so many things in it reminded him of her.

  He looked at Cynthia, who was already distracted by something else. In a way, she was another thing that reminded him too much of her. The most blatant reminder, in fact. And Grits ... the most infuriating reminder of all.

  No matter. The Relic Festival would bring in a huge cash reward—enough for him to leave Artemest and start fresh somewhere else. He didn’t want to rely on his father for anything, and he certainly didn’t want to take a single coin from the estate. A total clean slate.

  Phaedon stopped. Was that screaming?

  Cynthia seemed to notice it, too, with how her eyes started darting around. Guards began to move towards the gate that led outside the city.

  “Stay here!” he told Cynthia as he broke into a run up the stairs that led up to the top of the walls that surrounded Artemest. It didn’t take long for him to realise what was going on.

  In the distance, an enormous shadow blotted out the skies. A swarm of wyverns—reds, greens, blues, purples, even some yellows—amassed, a much larger flock than any he’d ever seen. And it was fast approaching.

  Guards began shouting all around them, setting up defenses and getting into formation. It didn’t take much for Phaedon to put two-and-two together: the Flockmother was back for round two, and she wasn’t pulling any punches.

  Artemest was about to be besieged by an army of wyverns.

  I was definitely fighting gorillas.