Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Six years had passed since that fateful day—the day the Kingdom suffered the devastating loss of their Highness, the Prince. In the aftermath, a creeping darkness had filled the void left by his absence. The Sanctists, with their power unchecked, rose swiftly in influence, consolidating control under the Sanctifex’s grasp. The King, hollowed by grief, had surrendered more than his heart, leaving him a hollow figurehead while true power shifted to the Sanctifex. The once-vibrant monarchy had given way to a hollow reign, where Sanctism ruled in all but title and crown.

The mage academy, once a sanctuary of forbidden knowledge and lofty ambition, had fallen to ruin—a phantom in the snow, entombed in a frozen grave. Its once-towering spires now lay desolate, its treasures of knowledge buried beneath layers of white earth. The copies of the fictional book of ideals of utopia, once captured in carefully penned pages, were snuffed out like the dying embers of ambition in a kingdom lost to despair.

The last trace of those ideals, once embodied in a cherished tome, now remained only with Louis. It was a silent testament to a world that had crumbled under the weight of its own aspirations. A possession tied not to reason, contradiction of heart and mind.

For reasons even he dared not admit, the book held meaning beyond mere words on a page; it was piece of his past he couldn’t discard, an idea he could neither embrace nor release.

With rebellion long subdued under the weight of Louis’s victories, his accomplishments had faded into whispers, veiled by the passing of years. The kingdom now faced a new and sinister threat—a menace far removed from mere political conflict.

Horrific creatures, humans, once hidden in shadow, now prowled openly, emboldened by the King’s waning power. These monstrous beings, both powerful and malevolent, haunted the forsaken battlefields, their presence a looming omen that darkened the distant horizon, foreshadowing an unknown but certain peril.

They were a grave threat, though not yet to the heart of the Kingdom. But even without direct threat to its people, the Kingdom was awash in blood.

As hope faded, violence became an unbroken rhythm within the Kingdom. Bloodshed stained both the shadows and open streets, as people, lost in fear and growing anxiety, sought scapegoats for their plight. The burden fell upon a King who had long lost the will to rule, let alone live.

The once-young boy, powerful but with faint traces of innocence, had long since grown into a hardened adult. Louis Guiabern was no longer the same child who had once clung to ideals. Each shard of his shattered innocence had been sharpened into tools he wielded with precision. His heart, once open to dreams, was now a fortress. The man he’d become, devoid of attachment and softened emotions, was now only the calculating tactician, the ruthless general whose reputation preceded him.

In the years since, the Guiabern family had dwindled, many lost to disease or consumed by the violence of everyday life—or so it would seem. Now, only Louis alone bore the name, by seizing it for himself.

A solitary pillar in a house fallen to ruin.

Though exiled to lands beyond the Kingdom, he was now a force too powerful to ignore.

Without soldiers of his caliber to defend it, the Kingdom teetered on the brink of ruin, vulnerable to an evil it no longer had the strength to subdue. Not that he harbored any love for it, but to Louis, the Kingdom was still a land of power—power he could hold in the palm of his hand.

With every failed attempt to rebuild, the Kingdom crept closer to ruin, a ruin he alone was prepared to wield as a tool of control.

With a grim determination, Louis set his sights on the Royal Capital again.

A new threat had risen, and Louis saw himself as the only one capable of bringing a plan to confront it.

The wheel of control was vacant, the nation rudderless. Who better than he to take the helm?

Arriving with calculated intent, Louis strode onto Kingdom soil and cast his gauntlet as a symbol of his so-called "heroic" return. Gone was the boy the court had once known; in his place stood a man who had tasted the bitterness of exile and the weight of power. This was a man forged for conquest.

In the shadows of the royal court, he presented himself shamelessly, filled with scorn and derision like a ghost stepping back onto the stage of his former life for a Kingdom he believed undeserving of pity.  To any onlookers, his entrance was nothing short of a mockery of heroism in a land starved for salvation.

The Kingdom needed a plan, a vision, to confront the terror at its doorstep. And Louis, with his heart hardened by a lifetime of betrayal, proposed himself as the solution, his pride unwavering. He dared to make a demand many would consider blasphemous—to be named the next heir to the throne.

Yet to Louis, it was far from ludicrous. In his eyes, it was the only natural step for a Kingdom that had no true leader.

The royal council sat stunned. They acknowledged the gathering storm on the horizon, the dark clouds of menace encroaching upon their lands. But to them, in their own vanity and ignorance, this threat was still a distant rumble, something to be dismissed—trusting in a military weakened by years of complacency.

“You show your face after all these years, and your proposal is to take the throne? Are you out of your mind?!” A voice, thick with indignation, cut through the council chamber, already smoldering with fury at the sight of Louis. “Especially when the Sanctifex has done so much for the country?!”

“Oh? If he’s done so much, then why is the kingdom in greater ruin than ever before?” Louis retorted, his voice dripping with scorn and bitterness, each word steeped in contempt for the decay that had seeped into the heart of the land.

The council members bristled at his defiance, his arrogance too grating to endure any longer, his very presence an affront. To them, he was a wanted man, unworthy of even a moment’s attention, and certainly not to be entertained in matters of the realm. Though his crimes had never been proven, they considered him a stain on the nation’s honor— an insufferable, worthless upstart. Even if his warnings about the kingdom’s plight held truth, they dismissed him as though he were dirt beneath their feet.

At a signal, guards stepped forward, their spears raised, ready to escort him out. Louis sensed how little had changed. After all these years, he was still a pariah, scorned and hated. He remained an outcast, met with the same contempt as before. With a sigh of resignation, he turned to leave on his own, his pride bruised but intact. The council’s pompous dismissals, their cushioned lives shielded from the kingdom’s true horrors, repelled him. Here he stood, amidst men who basked in luxury while the country around them crumbled into ruin. It was a bitter irony, but he had learned long ago that his power here was fleeting, nothing more than the faint shadow of his youthful influence.

Though he had rebuilt an army from scratch, gathering loyal soldiers, and slowly regaining what had been stripped from him—it all felt like a pale shadow of what he had once commanded. The prospect of waiting, fighting an endless battle to reclaim lost ground, felt like a futile and exhausting loop. Peace was a myth to him, an illusion he had ceased to believe in.

As he made his way toward the exit, he thought to ‘obey’ the order to leave this wretched place for good, for he knew there was nothing left for him here. The council’s contempt, the nobles’ smug indifference—none of it surprised him.

However, something tugged at him—a lingering urge he couldn’t shake.

A darkened chamber lay ahead, barely touched by the pale glow of moonlight filtering through narrow windows. Shadows pooled around the room, lending it an air of abandonment beneath its veneer of faded majesty.

And there, lying in a bed that could well have been his tomb, lay Hythlodaeus V.

The King was motionless, his body sunken into the sheets, as though life had long since departed. The vibrant youth Louis remembered had been eroded, leaving a fragile husk ravaged by time, nearly unrecognizable. His skin, pallid and sallow, was stretched over his bones, and his once-sharp eyes stared blankly, as if nothing could pull them back into the present.

Anxiety gnawed visibly at him, and if not for the faint, futile rhythm of his heart, he might as well have been dead.

Louis felt a pang—a twisted blend of pity and disdain. The man who had once stood as a symbol of strength and idealism now lay hollow, empty.

“Are you not even capable of telling me to leave, Your Majesty?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm, a mocking edge meant to wound, though beneath it lingered something softer, almost conflicted. The scornful jeer, though genuine, felt oddly hollow, as if fragments of old feelings lingered against his will.

Louis remained there, standing over him, waiting for a response. But the King’s eyes remained unfocused, unseeing, his awareness dulled to the world around him. He was a ghost in his own body, a shadow of the person he had once been.

He lay still, refusing to acknowledge his presence, as though Louis were nothing more than a phantom haunting his bedside.

What happened to you, Hythlodaeus?

The thought crept into his mind, heavy with the weight of betrayal and disillusionment. Had the years drained him so thoroughly that even his presence failed to stir him?

No matter his provocations, there was no response. The silence gnawed at Louis, filling him with a sickened disappointment, both for the man’s feeble state and for his own faint, lingering attachment.

"Look at yourself," Louis’s voice was sharp, a hard edge of frustration cutting through each word. “Have you even bothered to see what’s become of this country? What has your trusted ally done to improve it?”

The kingdom’s reins had been handed over to Forden. That viper, the man who had stolen everything from Louis not once, but twice. Now, he basked in the King’s authority, wearing the glory that was never his to take, while Hythlodaeus allowed it without protest. Every betrayal, every bitter silence was etched in Louis’s mind.

"This is what those lofty dreams have brought you," Louis spat. "In the end, justice was nothing but an illusion. You’re just as complicit in this kingdom’s ruin as that man."

Louis’s words hung heavy in the air. The man before him, once his King and his friend, lay silent, eyes fixed on the ceiling, unmoved, unfeeling. Where was the conviction, the resolve that once made Hythlodaeus a figure of power, even reverence? All Louis saw now was a hollow man—a mockery of a ruler, one who had abandoned him when he needed him most.

Louis tightened his grip, his fists trembling with a mix of fury and despair. He’d grown, become more than the boy Hythlodaeus had once cast aside, and yet…why did he still feel this gnawing frustration?

"...Say something" he urged, his voice rougher now, laced with years of unspoken hurt.

But Hythlodaeus’s silence remained unbroken, his vacant gaze as unyielding as stone.

Surely, some of Forden’s decisions required the King’s approval, but what did that matter if the King was no more than a breath, a shadow on the edge of death? Hythlodaeus looked like he might welcome death’s release, unmoved by the world crumbling around him. There was no fight left in him—no spirit Louis could reach, no voice left to respond to his anger.

Or perhaps he had simply decided that Louis no longer deserved his words.

Are the words of exile all I’ll ever remember of your voice?

The bitter thought flickered through his mind, unvoiced even in the quiet of the room. Memories of betrayal and bitterness blurred together, vivid as though only days had passed, though six long years now lay between them. In all that time, he had refused to think of this man as anything but a distant, faded memory. Just a name—a name devoid of power. Just a crown—a weightless ornament.

A part of him wanted to laugh, to throw every failure and shortcoming back in Hythlodaeus’s face. He wanted to tell him just how low he had sunk, how deeply he had failed his kingdom, his people—how he, Louis, was the one fit to take the reins and steer the country out of its nightmare. But even as the thought took shape, a bleak emptiness sapped his energy. What would it change? What would it mean?

“Perhaps there’s one thing you were right about,” he murmured, his voice cold, almost wistful. “This world is beyond saving.”

Without another glance, Louis turned, his footsteps echoing across the cold, lifeless chamber. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound like the final snap of a broken thread.

His departure was swift, but as he crossed the threshold, a guard spotted him, eyes narrowing with sudden fury.

"What are you doing here!? What have you done to the King!?"

Louis smirked at the guard’s accusatory tone, a dark amusement curling his lips.

"Your Sanctifex has more protection than that old man lying bedridden. If you wanted to protect him, you should’ve done better than this.”

Louis had not bothered with secrecy, he had known the way into the royal chamber since he was a child. It wasn’t a matter of sneaking—no one had cared enough about the King to notice his presence. The guards, like everyone else, were preoccupied with their own survival.

The guard’s hand hovered near his sword, his eyes ablaze with indignation.

“You arrogant wretch! Is this your plan, to assassinate the King?”

"Heh. Perhaps so" Louis replied with a mocking smile, relishing the anger twisting the guard’s face, the vein throbbing in his temple. It was almost laughably easy to rile them up. Entertaining, but not worth his time.

“Don’t worry,” he added, his tone dismissive, “the old fool’s heart still beats.”

He turned and strode away, each step deliberate and heavy, the echo of his heels reverberating down the corridor. He didn’t care about the guard’s watchful eyes or the whispers that would inevitably follow.

Indeed, if he’d wanted to kill the King, he could have done it there and then, but Hythlodaeus had his uses yet. The crown—the shell of what it once was—might still serve a purpose.

“…For now, at least” he murmured to himself, his words a ghostly whisper that vanished into the darkened corridor.

The moonlight bathed him as he vanished through the darkened hallways, its silver gleam casting shadows over his face. The light fell on him as if he were the last hope left for this broken country, though he carried only the shroud of darkness.

It was rare for intruders to breach the Charadrius, given its formidable defenses and its aerial isolation. Rare—but not impossible. And on this strange night, not long after Louis’s return to Grand Trad, an intrusion did occur.

Most who attempted to infiltrate the Charadrius sought to loot, hoping foolishly for riches or the thrill of petty violence. Others, hoping to succeed where countless assassins had failed, aiming to end Louis’s life. But this intruder was unlike any they had seen before.

Standing defiantly among the hardened men of war was a strikingly beautiful Nidia woman, her composure unaffected by the array of swords and spears pointed at her.

But beauty was no currency among warriors, especially not to Louis Guiabern, a man whose path was shaped by strength alone. Whatever her reason for trespassing, she was still an intruder—and by all rights, her life should have been forfeit.

“I have a proposal,” she said, the steel of the weapons brushing her throat failing to unsettle her. She met Louis’s gaze squarely, a calm defiance in her eyes.

The audacity of her request was surprising. Louis wasn’t one to entertain a rat’s last plea, yet her lack of fear, a sense of purpose despite the danger, compelled him to listen.

"Speak," he replied.

“If my voice does not please you, then dispose of me.”

There was no desperation in her voice, only the quiet confidence of someone who valued their life’s purpose above survival. It was rare for anyone to meet Louis’s eyes with such resolve, and he felt an unfamiliar flicker of curiosity stir within him.

“You stake your life entirely on your voice?” he asked, his tone cold, though a sliver of intrigue slipped through.

Her request was unconventional, to say the least. Many pled for mercy, offered loyalty, or made hollow promises, but this—staking her life on a song—was something neither he nor his men had encountered before.

"Yes," she replied, her gaze fixed on his, her expression resolute. In her pearlescent Nidia eyes, there was no glimmer of fear. "If my voice cannot melt even the coldest of hearts or move the heaviest mountains, then it has no worth. If my song does not move you, then you may kill me."

Louis found himself intrigued. He valued merit above all else, though he measured it in strength and power. Music was an intangible skill, far removed from the virtues of survival. Yet, something in her fierce belief, her pride in a talent that seemed so futile, piqued his interest. She stood before him, a mere songstress, with nothing but her voice as her weapon—a weapon she wielded with unwavering belief.

“Sing, then” he commanded, intrigued by her strange defiance.

She closed her eyes, and the melody that spilled forth was soft, melancholic, a gentle weave of unspoken sorrows tempered with a faint glimmer of hope. He remained impassive, but he understood the depth of her conviction. It was clear why she placed such faith in her voice, it embodied a different kind of strength, one that spoke through harmony rather than might. While he found her talent unusual, it was not her song alone that convinced him to spare her. Rather, it was her unflinching pride, her stubborn belief in something as intangible as a melody. In a world dulled by conformity and starved of ideals, such rare determination held an allure of its own.

At his command, the guards lowered their spears, sparing her life.

He turned, dismissing her without a word, but the woman, brimming with her own pride, wasn’t about to let the moment pass.

“Hey! After all that, you’re not even going to ask my name?” she protested, hands on her hips, her tone laced with indignation.

Louis’s expression remained unchanged. “All I need to know is your song. That’s what you’ve staked your life on, is it not? Your name is irrelevant.”

“Hmph.” She crossed her arms and squared her shoulders, a spark of defiance in her eyes. “You’ll hear it anyway, whether you like it or not.” she retorted, puffing out her chest as though daring him to disregard her entirely. Her name was as much a part of her pride as her voice.

“I am Juani Cygnus, and my life is my own. You’d better remember that.”

Louis gave no response, already turning to leave, though her name lingered in his mind.

Cygnus… A memory stirred faintly, a faint echo from the distant corners of his fractured past.

After he had stormed away from the king’s chamber that fateful day, The clerics of the Sanctist church had sought proof of his resolve, a flicker of truth from the depths of his mind.

A frail girl, barely more than a child as he was, had been charged with reading him, digging through his tumultuous thoughts, searching for something—anything—they could twist to serve their purposes. She had plunged into the current of his Magla, feeling his rage, his longing, his fractured sense of justice.

She had quivered before him, cowering at the storm of wrath within him. But in her eyes, he saw more than fear. It was as if the very strings of her will were pulled by a master unseen, trembling in sync with her own terror.

He hadn’t thought of that encounter in years, hadn’t placed any significance on it then—or now.

And yet, how strange, he mused, that fate with all its cruelty, still chose to bind him to memories he had cast aside. Quiet humor tinged his thoughts as he reflected on the ironies of fate, as if the universe was bound to connect each thread, each fleeting moment, to some hidden purpose. Fortune had long abandoned him, yet the relentless wheel of fate continued to turn, stitching his life to the lives of strangers, each meeting inscribed as if in stone.

What awaited him now? How would fate unfold, blessing or cursing him anew? Whatever destiny’s hand held, he found a grim amusement in its whims, though he vowed he would try, if only by sheer force of will, to seize control over whatever awaited him in the shadows of tomorrow.

A year had passed since Louis first warned of the human threat—a warning that had fallen on deaf ears, with neither the King nor the Sanctifex paying any heed to his caution about humans rampaging through the land. Frustration simmered in him, compelling him toward desperate measures. If they refused to see reason, he would have to force their eyes open.

It was in a seemingly innocuous village, a place that should have known peace, where one of Louis’s soldiers suffered a magla imbalance, the dissonance brought on by a surge of anxiety that had begun to consume him, threatened to tear him apart from the inside.

"Lord Louis...help me..." the soldier gasped, his body trembling as he struggled to keep himself from collapsing.

Louis looked down, his gaze cold and unmoved. He already knew the truth of these so-called "humans" that roamed the land. They were not mindless creatures, as everyone had been led to believe. Humans, stripped of rationality and twisted by despair, had poisoned this soil long before the King’s collapse. The royal scepter, wielded now as a symbol of decaying authority, did nothing but shift blame onto convenient scapegoats. Every hunted “beast,” every shattered trophy, had once been one of the very people of Euchronia, remnants of an ancient unity that had long since faded into myth.

The plea for help stirred a memory—a time when such knowledge was considered a gift, a means to ease others’ pain. But now, the thought of aiding someone in clinging to their perpetual weakness filled him with disgust. Was that all they sought, to be coddled through their fears rather than conquer them? No, he thought, there was no honor in such weakness.

In truth, his so-called gift of healing had always been nothing more than a burden.

Countless tales of woe had flowed into his ears in the past as a child, whispered by those who could not carry the burdens of their own souls.

Once, he had offered them solace—freedom from pain, relief from fear. But now, he wondered if his efforts had only fed their frailty. Perhaps he had been wrong to believe that easing their suffering was an act of kindness; in shielding them from hardship, he had stunted their growth. A person, after all, learns little from pain they never endure.

The soldier’s desperate plea now served only as a reminder of his own past naivety. What was the value in mending a single wound, when the entire realm of Euchronia lay crippled, festering with decay?

An idea crept into his mind, dark and compelling. If they would not listen to his words, perhaps what they needed was a display—a brutal, unflinching spectacle to burn the truth into their minds. Sacrifice, he knew, was inevitable; he would be the one to bear it, to pay the price if it meant carving a path to a world beyond this lifeless, stagnant one.

If suffering was a teacher, then it was time to give it a voice.

"If you want to live," he said, his voice low and chillingly resolute, "then fight for your life.”  The words carried a cold confidence, a finality that brooked no argument. “If you cannot, then your life will be used for a greater purpose."

Those under his command had to understand that strength was not merely a show of muscle. True strength meant mastering one's fear, enduring it. Only those capable of grasping his vision, of understanding that strength was forged through suffering, would survive.

He placed his hand over the soldier’s chest, activating his supposed "gift"—but this was no act of healing. With calculated precision, he drove the magla currents within the soldier’s body into chaos, accelerating their flow to the point where the body could no longer endure.

The soldier convulsed, overwhelmed by the pain, his cries mingling with the crackling intensity of his own uncontained power. He was not strong enough, and in his weakness, he broke, as Louis expected.

What remained was no longer the soldier but a mindless, rampaging husk—a human stripped of thought, lost to a state of frenzied destruction. Louis left the scene, unmoved by the horror that unfolded. He did nothing to halt the carnage, nor did he call for reinforcements as the soldier-turned-beast tore through the village.

Halia, once peaceful, was set ablaze, a living nightmare of flames and terror with few survivors to tell its story. It would be remembered as a tragedy by those who chose survival over despair, a tale of horror etched into the remnants of a smoldering wasteland.

In the heart of the inferno, Louis lifted his gaze, hoping the King could see these flames even from his distant deathbed. Let him witness the consequence of his inaction.

A message, a searing symbol directed at the sovereign, and a warning to that snake coiled around his neck, waiting for the right moment to choke the life from him.

The destruction of Halia cast an ominous shadow over the populace, spreading panic through every street and alley, a grim reminder that no sanctuary was safe. For some survivors, fury mingled with horror, their trust shattered and fear ignited. But for others, hope flickered again in their desolate hearts as they turned to Louis, a figure once feared but now looked upon as a reluctant savior. Helpless and adrift, they clung to him as one who could wield the control they themselves lacked, mere “slaves to fate,” desperate to be ruled rather than face their terrors alone.

Yet, loyalty in these times was fickle. They would turn to him only when convenience dictated, quick to elevate him in desperate moments, quicker to scorn him when their own fears settled. The humans Louis hunted now were those paralyzed by terror, those he found at just the right moment to leave as grim trophies—reminders of the dangers lurking, reminders that he, Louis Guiabern, stood above them all.

The anger they once directed at him—their cries of treachery, their suspicions over his past—had started to fade, replaced by the urgent need to survive in a world crumbling at the edges. The throne had dimmed, its influence a pale shadow, while the people’s attention shifted toward the lurking threats beyond.

This was Louis as the world had come to know him, the force they feared and respected in equal measure. He was the living testament to a man forged by war, an existence shaped by strategy and conflict.

But beneath his iron resolve, the relentless armor he wore day by day, who was he as a living soul? Even he couldn’t say for certain. Since the fateful day that reshaped him, the stirrings of softer sentiments had vanished, leaving only a hollow certainty in their place.

Yet, buried deep beneath the steel and scars, perhaps there was still a remnant of the young commoner boy, one that had once been far more than a soldier, a heart that once beat with more than just battle.

The Charadrius, his stronghold, stood as a symbol of unyielding strength, a bastion of defense and power. It held within it enough provisions to support a sizable number of soldiers— quiet sleeping quarters, rations fit for the elite, and libraries stocked with knowledge. For some, Charadrius had become more than a fortress; it had become a home, a rare place of stability amidst the endless bloodshed.

Inside these walls, when not consumed by war, there existed small moments—inconsequential, fleeting things that lingered in the mind.

As reports of conflict and sightings grew, it became vital to document every event—paper and ink serving as fragile vessels for these records. The soldiers tasked with such reports changed frequently, often chosen out of convenience. Today, Basilio found himself with the unenviable task. Though the penmanship was not his own, the events detailed were unmistakably part of his duty to convey.

“… It’s just… Lord Louis,” Basilio’s voice wavered, his usual confidence lost. He looked tense, a trace of something—fear, perhaps—barely hidden in his expression.

The hesitation did not go unnoticed. Louis, familiar with Basilio’s usual steadfast demeanor, felt suspicion stir within him.

“I asked you to state the report. What’s wrong?” His voice was as cold and sharp as a drawn blade, his gaze intense, narrowing with each passing second of silence. The air between them thickened, the tension palpable as Basilio faltered, still struggling to find his words.

The silence grew, stretching unbearably until, at last, Fidelio stepped forward, visibly irritated.

“Bas can’t read,” he interjected, his tone somewhere between exasperation and protectiveness, casting a sidelong glance at his brother.

“Del… you don’t have to go tellin’ Lord Louis…” Basilio mumbled, clearly embarrassed. His tail swayed nervously, an unintentional display of his discomfort despite his efforts to keep a calm facade.

"Lord Louis, I could read it myself, so—” Fidelio began, confidently stepping in to steer the focus away from his brother.

But before either could speak further, a single, cold word sliced through the air.

“No.” Louis commanded with a steely clarity, “I gave the order for Basilio to read it, and he will.”

Though slightly inconvenienced by the situation, Louis found himself oddly intrigued.

A soldier lacking basic literacy was a liability—no matter how impressive his raw strength might be; comprehension and strategy were as essential to survival as raw strength.  Knowledge, however elementary, was a tool as vital as any weapon.

“Fair enough, but we didn’t grow up ’round books,” Fidelio explained, his voice dropping slightly as he tried to explain. “Bas’s always been one for muscle over ink. I learned to read ’cause I wanted to.”

As Paripus, their understanding of the world had come primarily through experience, rather than the written word, literacy was a luxury they had no need for in their former lives. Survival hadn’t required them to delve into books or literacy, but it eventually became a skill Fidelio had picked up only out of his personal interest over the years through hours spent pouring over the books in the library inside Charadrius.

Basilio, meanwhile, had remained indifferent, his focus on his own physical endurance. The two were inseparable, yet independent, each following his own path without interference from the other.

Louis’s expression remained unreadable as he considered the situation, his tone turning steely. “Then I shall wait until he learns to read it himself.” He paused, then added, “In the meantime, ensure he receives the necessary instruction.”

Surprise flitted across Basilio’s face before he nodded, his surprise quickly swallowed by determination. “I’ll do what I can, sir!” He stood a little taller, caught up in the unexpected opportunity.

In his enthusiasm, he blurted, “Thank you for your kindness, Lord Louis.”

Fidelio nudged him sharply, a hint of annoyance in his voice. “Oi, don’t get chummy now. Lord Louis ain’t one for that sort of thing.”

They continued their playful exchange, bantering as they left, Basilio’s resolve strengthening even as Fidelio kept his teasing light-hearted. The atmosphere lingered with a curious warmth that felt oddly out of place within the cold stone of Charadrius’s halls.

As silence reclaimed the room, Louis was left alone, his gaze distant, thoughtful.

“Kind”

The word echoed in his mind, a foreign label in a world that had never described him as such. For as long as he’d lived within the iron grip of Euchronia, he’d been called ruthless, savage, cruel—all titles bestowed upon him by allies and enemies alike. Even his most trusted soldiers revered him with respect mixed with fear, admiring his resolve rather than his compassion.

Kindness. The notion pricked at his thoughts, lingering like an unwanted shadow. Had he granted them this chance out of some buried pity, some trace of warmth? Out of kindness? No—it was necessity, a calculated decision. Every action had its purpose, each soldier a cog in his strategy.

And yet, despite his rationalizations, the word hung there, unbidden and unsettling. Stirring a faint, unwelcome pang deep within.

Meanwhile, on Fidelio and Basilio’s side, the brothers huddled together, wracking their brains for ways to help Basilio learn to read. Forcing him to dive headfirst into dense books on magic, strategy, and other complex topics would take too long and overwhelm him—it’s too much for him to grasp in one go. They both knew he needed something simpler, more straightforward.

“Right, this isn’t workin’,” Fidelio muttered, scratching his head in frustration as Basilio fumbled with the pages.

“I feel like a right fool, Del,” Basilio grumbled, slumping against the table. “Ain’t no good at this.”

“Quit it, Bas. No use goin’ on like that,” Fidelio replied, though he shared his brother's frustration. They both knew that if they didn’t figure something out, Basilio would never meet Lord Louis’s expectations.

Their brainstorming was interrupted by the arrival of the songstress Junah, her curious gaze sweeping over the two.

“What’s going on with you two?” she asked, her tone light but her curiosity unmistakable.

“We’ve been tasked,” Fidelio started, glancing briefly at Basilio, “well, I have, to teach Basilio here how to read—by none other than Lord Louis.”

Junah’s eyes widened. “Wait—Lord Louis wants you to learn to read, Basilio?” She sounded genuinely surprised, not in the exaggerated way she often feigned, but with honest shock.

“Aye,” Basilio muttered, scratching the back of his head. “Strange, innit?”

Fidelio smirked. “Strange enough that we’d best get it done, ‘else it’ll be our hides.”

After a pause, Basilio turned to Fidelio, his brow furrowed. “’Ey, Del, how’d you learn it anyway? Didn’t teach me a thing before,” he mumbled, puzzled. “Thought you’d give me a bit o’ help, you know?”

“I tried, ya daft bugger. You just never listened. Said you couldn’t see the point of it.” Fidelio rolled his eyes, though there was a trace of humor in his voice. 

“Eh, that so? Well, whatever.” Basilio scratched his head, brow furrowing.

“That’s exactly why you don’t remember,” Fidelio muttered, exasperated but amused.

Pushing past his brother’s obliviousness, Fidelio attempted to explain. “It came natural to me, y’know? Just letters, words, numbers—they all sorta started talkin’ to me from the page, clear as anything.”

But Basilio’s brow furrows, still thoroughly confused.

“Well, what d’ya see when you look at a page?” Fidelio asked, trying a different angle.

Basilio squinted at him, clearly struggling to follow. “Right…well, for me, they’re just squiggly lines—like strange little drawings that don’t mean a thing.”

Junah chimed in, eyes brightening as an idea formed. “Maybe that’s it, then! We could teach you through drawings. If you start seeing words as drawings and move from there, it might make things easier.”

Fidelio’s eyes lit up at the suggestion. “Bas, how d’ya feel about tryin’ that?”

“Better than squintin’ at squiggles all day,” Basilio agreed with a grin.

With newfound determination, the brothers set to work creating a book of their own design. Crafted with scraps and bound together haphazardly, it held a worn, simple cover with the word “Diary” etched in large, barely legible letters that only its owner would recognize.

Though Basilio struggles at first, barely able to hold a pen, he finds himself more comfortable drawing. With surprising skill, he sketches people he remembers, as well as beasts and humans he’s encountered—each one bearing a bit of his own rough charm.

As days passed, Basilio’s journey toward literacy showed steady progress, each small achievement building on the last. Starting from simple drawings, he gradually moved toward recognizing letters—a process that, though slow, began to yield clear results.

One of his early exercises featured a rather crude yet effective example—a familiar figure from the kingdom known as the "toothed fiend." This odd little creature, often depicted as a harmless tooth-shaped monster, was known by most as the “Tooth Human.” While its origin and purpose remained a mystery, the creature held none of the malice or monstrous qualities associated with typical humans, instead becoming something of a mascot throughout the land.

The Tooth Human, with its friendly and benign expression, provided the perfect learning tool. Basilio would repeatedly draw the figure, and from those familiar strokes, the shape of an “H” began to emerge. Gradually, he understood “H” stood for “Human.”

These were elementary methods, more akin to the exercises given to young children, yet they were proving remarkably effective for Basilio. Bit by bit, his understanding expanded, his world opening up one letter at a time.

One evening, Junah’s eyes lit up with curiosity as she spotted a particular sketch.

“Oh? Is that Fidelio?” Junah asked, pointing to a drawing in the book that unmistakably resembled him. In the sketch, Fidelio wore a wide smile, one far brighter than his usual expression.

“Aye, that’s Del,” Basilio replied with a grin. “That’s how he looks when he’s listenin’ to your songs, Lady Junah,” Basilio teased with a grin.

Fidelio’s face flushed, and he instantly fumbled, words tumbling out incoherently. “What—no, that’s not—that ain’t it! I don’t… Stop that!”

“Well,” Junah laughed, “looks like now he’s the spitting image of your drawing, Basilio.”

Junah and Basilio laughed heartily at Fidelio’s expense, the sound ringing warmly through the corridor of the Charadrius. However, the playful moment was quickly interrupted by the sound of steady, measured footsteps echoing down—a familiar clicking of heels that made both their heads turn.

“What’s all this commotion?” Louis’s voice, calm yet imposing, resonated through the hall, immediately quieting their laughter. The two stilled, their previous mirth replaced by a sense of propriety in his presence.

"Lord Louis,” Fidelio started, inclining his head respectfully “as you indicated, Basilio is still working on the basics of literacy. The progress—"

“Is in that book, yes?” Louis interrupts, his gaze fixed on the worn pages of the book that had been a recent source of amusement.

Louis held out his hand, making it clear that he expected no delay. Fidelio swallowed, feeling the weight of Louis’s scrutiny. There was no way out of this; refusal would only seem insolent, and he lacked any real excuse to hold back. Masking his hesitation, he reluctantly handed the book over.

Louis flipped through the pages without much expression, his fingers gliding over Basilio’s rough sketches and hesitant letters. However, as he turned one particular page, his eyes narrowed at a familiar shape.

“Ah—that’s—” Basilio’s recognition comes with a hint of dread, but he doesn’t move to stop him. It would do no good.

The drawing is simple, barely more than the barest outline of a figure, but it is unmistakably intended to be him. It’s been scratched and scribbled over in thick, dark strokes, as though someone was determined to blot out each prior attempt, only to start again in frustrated failure. Over the place where his face might have been, there is a hastily drawn question mark, a quiet suggestion of something unseen, or maybe unknowable.

Louis’s eyes lingered on the drawing, a shadow of introspection crossing his face. “I see. Is this meant to be me?”

For a moment, his gaze grew distant, as if looking beyond the lines on the page. Louis rarely thought about how others perceived him. He’s long disregarded his reflection, scarcely remembering the face others see. To them, he is a monster, a traitor. The Kingdom’s labels cling to him, shaping his reputation more firmly than any mirror.

Basilio’s drawing, unfinished and ambiguous, seemed to mirror that lack of certainty, a man whose features couldn’t be easily pinned down or understood.

“Y-Yes, that’s right,” Basilio admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

There is something in seeing himself rendered this way—a fractured, incomplete view of himself. A vague, formless silhouette. Perhaps it’s fitting, this shadowed version of him, face hidden beneath a question mark. Is it so different from the person he’s become?

After a thoughtful silence, he chuckled softly, a rare sound laced with genuine amusement. He closed the book and handed it back to Fidelio. “Interesting. I’ll allow this insolence just this once.”

There was no anger in his tone, and as he turned away, a faint, almost imperceptible smile ghosted across his lips, lighter than a breath, like the shadow of a fleeting memory. Still, he knew they needed to focus on the true purpose of this exercise, without distractions. His footsteps resumed their steady rhythm as he walked away, the brief moment of leniency slipping back into the reserved poise he usually wore.

He wonders, almost absently, if such leniency—this restraint, this feigned amusement—is some form of kindness after all. But it hardly matters. He has greater matters to attend to, his mind already shifting to the shadows beyond these walls, to burdens that require no face and know no kindness.

And yet, a familiar, stinging ache rests just beneath his skin, sharp as thorns, rooted deeper than he’d ever care to show.

After nearly a week of diligent literacy training, the results of their efforts finally showed some promise.

“…And that’s it, Lord Louis. I think.” Basilio finished reading the task, the words no longer a mystery to him. He had been able to piece together the intelligence report, even if the contents held little significance to him personally. To Basilio, it was just a collection of dull intelligence data, really. Yet, what mattered was that he could deliver it—accurately, and without falter.

“Indeed, you are correct,” Louis replied, giving only a small nod.

“Hah! I did it!” Basilio exclaimed, thrusting a fist in the air as if celebrating a hard-won victory.

“Mind your manners, Basilio,” Fidelio chided, though his tone was soft, more amused than truly reprimanding.

“If I need your assistance again, I’ll ask,” Louis added, with only the faintest hint of acknowledgment—a nod to Basilio’s accomplishment, however modest.

Then, Louis paused before speaking again, his voice steady. “In fact, there is something else I require from you.”

Both brothers stood at attention, ready to receive his command. However, what Louis said next caught them off guard.

“I need to see that book again,” he said, his voice unyielding.

Basilio’s smile faltered, his eyes widening slightly. “You…you sure about that, milord?”

Louis arched a brow. "Would I be asking if I weren’t certain?"

The brothers exchanged a quick, uneasy glance, as though concealing something. After a brief hesitation, Basilio retrieved the book from his coat pocket and handed it to Louis, albeit reluctantly.

As Louis opened the book, his brows lifted in faint surprise. The original page, where he had once seen those darkened-out sketches of himself, was gone—ripped cleanly out. Not only that, but several more sketches appeared to have met the same fate, the ragged remnants of paper clinging forlornly to the spine, evidence of their forced removal.

In their place, however, was something unexpected. A rough, childlike sketch of him stared back, raw in its simplicity, rough and unsophisticated, yet unmistakably a likeness of him. His name had been scrawled repeatedly along the edges, as though someone had obsessively tried to engrain it into the page, attempting to get every stroke just right. Unlike the earlier faceless renditions, this version bore a faint, almost tentative smile—a softening of his features that he himself had seldom allowed to surface. It was the same fleeting expression he'd once let slip, small and almost unnoticeable.

So, this was the "kindness" they saw in him.

“Is that how I look to you now?” Louis murmured, examining the sketch with a rare hint of amusement flickering in his gaze.

Even now, he struggled to believe anyone had glimpsed the true image of his heart, his thoughts remaining veiled, locked away by layers of control and silence. The faint, irreverent smile on his drawn face now seemed a fitting facade, an image carefully sculpted by someone else’s innocent perception. Most believed what they wanted, interpreting his rare displays of restraint or mercy however they pleased. He himself was no exception, holding tightly to his self-image, wary of anything that felt too sentimental or vulnerable. If there was any warmth within him, it was often hidden beneath a mask of stoicism, a kindness so tempered it might not exist at all.

And yet, here was this rough, unrefined rendition of him, an almost absurd image of softness reflected back at him.

The childlike simplicity of the drawing, the awkward lines and misspelled attempts at his name, and the absurdity of this whole scene—a scene in which he found himself actually asking how he looked to another—made him want to laugh at the foolishness of it all.

"Something wrong with it, Lord Louis?" Basilio’s voice broke his trance, nervous yet sincere. "I can—"

"No." Louis’s voice was steady as he closed the book with a gentle finality. "Leave it as it is."

If this was how someone saw him, he would allow it to linger—just a little while longer. However naive or fleeting it might be, it was better than the emptiness he saw in his own reflection.

At that moment, Junah appeared in the doorway, her entrance almost too casual, as if she had been waiting for precisely this moment to make herself known.

“Well, well, why the gloomy faces?” she asked, her voice free of the tension that lingered in the room. "You know, it was my idea—the drawings, I mean.” She gave Louis a sly grin, clearly pleased by the faint disarray she had stirred up.

Louis arched a brow but didn’t respond, instead handing the book back to Basilio, whose face was flushed with both pride and embarrassment. Fidelio rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks tinged pink as he attempted to change the subject.

“Oh, did you see the one of Fidelio singing?” Junah’s eyes sparkled mischievously. “Now there’s a sight. I might have some competition on stage, judging by the likeness here.”

“Hah?! N-No! That’s not—Lady Junah, that’s—” Fidelio stammered, clearly flustered as he waved his hands, trying to deny it.

“Oh, come on, Del,” Basilio chimed in, grinning. “You’d give her a show for the ages.”

Louis watched their interaction with a distant curiosity, his mind elsewhere even as he registered their voices. To him, the banter felt strange, as if he were glimpsing something vibrant from the other side of a glass pane.

The two shared a quiet, affectionate look before gathering their things and moving toward the door. As they retreated, Junah lingered just a moment longer, watching the brothers’ retreating forms before glancing back at Louis with an unreadable smile. “Lively lot, aren’t they? Those two.”

“Too lively, if you ask me,” Louis replied dryly, but his eyes betrayed a sliver of amusement.

Junah tilted her head, studying him as though seeing something beyond the hardened countenance he so carefully maintained. “It suits you, you know,” she said gently. “Letting a little light in.”

“I have more pressing matters than indulging their foolishness,” he said, his voice edged with familiar sternness. “Make sure they remember that.”

Junah only chuckled, a soft, knowing sound. “Oh, I’m sure they know, Lord Louis. But perhaps you’re just a bit softer than you think.”

Without another word, she slipped out of the room, leaving him alone with the remnants of their laughter echoing down the hall like a song he once knew but could no longer sing.

"Kindness"—The word still felt foreign, as if it belonged to someone else entirely. But today, at least, he would let it linger.

In the end, six years slipped by, unnoticed and unmarked, as though they were lost in the ceaseless wheel of fate. He had grown, shedding childhood and the fragile veneer of youth, emerging hardened—a man carved from twelve relentless years of struggle, betrayal, and the merciless shadows of war. The innocence he once possessed lay shattered, scattered like the remains of a war long concluded. He stood now at the pinnacle of adulthood, yet time seemed eager to strip it from him, one heartbeat at a time.

Amid the seeds sowed through the devastation of Halia, Louis had arisen, a grim emblem of rebellion—a twisted symbol of hope for a kingdom torn asunder. Each life taken in the throes of his mission became another tally in the brutal account he presented to the people, another reminder of the blood-soaked path he chose. His emerald gaze, cold and distant, seemed to reflect only the crimson hues of his deeds, blood as ubiquitous as water.

Those twelve years, ruthless and consuming, had coalesced into a single, purpose-laden crescendo. The time was nearing—the climax of his plan, the moment where his arduous journey would reveal its ultimate purpose.

Now he found himself in Montario, at a desolate estate buried under an endless shroud of snow, bleak and desolate as his memories. The Guiabern house in Montario had remained abandoned save for Louis and a handful of confidants who came and went as quietly as shadows.

Why had he returned here? He bore no attachment to the Guiabern name, nor gratitude for the life it had offered him, a life scarred by trials he had never asked for. The manor, blanketed in white snow, looked as if it, too, were trying to bury its sins beneath the cold purity.

Perhaps it was lethargy, or perhaps a twisted desire to release the past, to sever ties with something intangible. The halls lay empty, untouched, forsaken even by the ghosts of his former life. No servant nor friend, no noble claiming kinship dared approach these grounds. And he had seen to it that they never would.

The years passed with the ferocity of an unrelenting storm, and he felt detached, free of attachment to the life that had faded like constellations vanishing in the dawn sky. Even as he stepped into Altabury Heights, he was met with the same scorn and disdain he had endured as a child—magnified now, the pure snow underfoot absorbed the blood of the nation, stained by unending sacrifice, and sanctimonious glares fell on him as though he were a specter of ruin.

Lost in bitter reflection, he stood by a window, staring out into the wintry abyss. A window that had been too large for the boy he once was, a boy who had carried the unbearable weight of secrets and burdens kept under lock and key. Even now, the room felt too vast, too heavy. All of it was now forgotten, swallowed by the same snow that buried everything, trampled beneath footprints preserved in frost.

In his hand lay a book, worn and weary as he, yet it retained an untarnished sheen, as if resisting the passage of time. The golden luster of the cover glowed with a strange intensity, heavier with each passing year, each page inked with sorrows that seemed impossible to escape—a shackle bound to his heart.

Despite everything that has transpired, after all that has unfolded, why does your shadow still haunt me?

Louis’s somber introspection, drifting within the depths of his own mind, was broken by the presence of a familiar figure—a figure who had been as constant in his life as the relentless specter of the throne built from corpses that awaited him.

“Lord Louis…” The voice came quietly, respectful yet unafraid, a relic of loyalty that had stood by him through the endless years.

Louis glanced over, almost bemused. “Still finding ways to avoid the others, are you?” he remarked, a trace of bittersweet familiarity in his tone, as if nothing had truly changed since they’d first met.

“Is something the matter, Zorba?”

"There is an unsettling lack of vigilance outside the Gauntlet Runner," Zorba reported, his voice steady. "Not a single soldier stands guard. The cold should not excuse such negligence. Could this not become an issue?"

“Not a soul remains on this mountaintop,” Louis replied, his voice devoid of warmth, devoid of irritation—a simple, indifferent fact. “If anything finds its way into the Gauntlet, it would be mere vermin, and not the two-legged sort.”

He paused, his tone dismissive but absolute. “Is that all?”

“Forgive my intrusion, milord. I simply wanted to confirm with you before taking action.” Zorba replied, bowing slightly in acknowledgment of Louis’s words.

What might have ended as an ordinary exchange between vassal and lord was cut through by Louis’s voice, a command veiled within the sound of his name.

"Zorba."

The cold, commanding voice halted Zorba instantly, and he turned to face his lord, attentive, obedient, yet puzzled.

“What is it you’re fighting for?”

The question, sharp and sudden, was unlike Louis. In twelve years, he had never entertained such inquiries, never cared for Zorba’s beliefs or motivations. Yet, here it was—an unexpected moment that felt strangely personal, as if probing for meaning in a day cast adrift in listlessness. Zorba knew his own conviction well. He had decided to follow Louis without question long ago, ever since their paths first crossed. His faith had remained steadfast over twelve unyielding years, a loyalty unwavering through each trial.

“The world of the worthy, where the strongest reign supreme,” Zorba replied, conviction lacing every word. “A world without hierarchy, rank or privilege—only survival. Equality forged by sacrifice.” He spoke as though every word were carved into his bones, a creed he repeated to himself like a mantra. “That’s the vision you gave me, Lord Louis. And I have never forgotten.”

Louis’s response was a mirthless laugh, as if affirming the ideals he had branded into his followers—words that had twisted and evolved, bearing the weight of a dozen unforgiving years.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Precisely that.”

Yet his gaze did not meet Zorba’s. He stared through the frost-covered window, into a distance far beyond reach, as though searching for the elusive, ideal world he had chased for so many years.

"Lord Louis..." Zorba's voice softened, a strange hesitation filling the space between them. He was not one to question his lord, nor did he typically speak unless spoken to. However, something felt amiss—a faint tremor in the air he could not ignore.

Though only half Mustari by blood, his third eye, meant to discern the flow of Magla, remained closed, dormant, an inherited trait that seemed to defy its purpose. Yet, even with his incomplete heritage, he possessed heightened sensitivity to changes in the atmosphere—a quality that had rendered him useful despite being marked as lesser.

…He had always been able to sense his lord’s Magla. A faint, steady pulse like a hidden current, though he’s never wanted to do so on purpose. And though he never dared voice his observations, he had sensed a subtle change. There was a tautness to Louis’s flow of magla, the faintest trace of anxiety concealed beneath his controlled exterior that could only be felt by those attuned to its flow.

Zorba knew better than to pry, for his own thoughts seemed trivial, fleeting wisps unworthy of mention. He knew Louis could bear the weight of his burdens alone, that whatever turmoil simmered beneath the surface was not his concern. And yet, he could not shake that something vital had shifted, an undercurrent of tension growing too strong to ignore.

And so, with tentative words, he dared to speak, though fully prepared to be dismissed as he always was.

“Is everything all right, Lord Louis?"

Louis offered no reply, his silence echoing like a barrier, gaze fixed on a distant point, with the silent yearning evident in his eyes as he looked out the window.

Zorba hesitated, the weight of unspoken tension pressing upon him. Perhaps he had overstepped some invisible boundary, trespassing on a silence that was meant to be left undisturbed. He prepared to withdraw, suspecting he had already lingered too long, yet just as he turned, Louis’s voice cut through the stillness with unwavering intent.

“The nation lies adrift, leaderless. A kingdom shackled by indecision, allowing its burdens to fall upon a hollow crown that does nothing but crumble under the weight of its own indecision. That will soon end.” He paused, each word steeped in a hidden purpose that felt as heavy as the throne he sought to usurp. At last, he turned to Zorba, his eyes resolute and unyielding.

“The King’s life will soon be forfeit—by my hand.”

Louis had never doubted Zorba’s loyalty, his unfaltering dedication, nor his swift and deadly precision in all tasks entrusted to him. Out of all who followed, Zorba alone understood the weight of his words as if they were absolute decrees carved in stone.

“When the throne is left vacant, the kingdom will be steeped in grief and chaos, leaving the royal palace vulnerable. That is where you come in, Zorba.” Louis’s tone shifted, no longer wistful, as he laid out his plan. “You are to retrieve the royal scepter from its chamber. I trust this task is within your abilities.”

Louis’s voice softened into a whisper, though his words were unmistakably clear.

“If you truly believe in the world I envision, you understand what will follow.”

The Royal Scepter would return its latent anxiety to the people, a reckoning for those who had long wallowed in their failures. Those unable to withstand the weight of their own despair will falter. Even his loyal soldiers, bound by their oaths, will face this test. Strength and survival are the only measures of worth in the world Louis seeks to create.

“Undoubtedly, milord. I will ensure the royal scepter is yours” Zorba replied, his bow polished and precise, a faintly malevolent smile tugging at his lips. He yearned to witness the fall of this decaying world from the highest spire, beside the man who would ignite its ashes.

"The future of this country will soon be rewritten," Louis murmured. "Stay vigilant."

With that, Zorba withdrew, leaving Louis alone to contemplate the path he had chosen.

Since when did he care for such reflections? he wondered, almost bitterly.

The King's life will be forfeit by my hand.

To dwell on memories is to remain ensnared in the past, a web of anchors that impede progress. True freedom lies in letting go, in severing the bonds that hold one back. And as he moved ever closer to realizing his ideals, he felt the weight of those memories slipping from his grasp.

Many had perished by his hand—those who dared stand in his path, those he met in battle, their lives fading like dust before him. They were inconsequential, mere shadows in his march toward the future. Yet, this was different. The death he now contemplated was personal, resonant with a bitter finality.

The path was clear, and he knew he would not waver. But a gnawing bitterness remained, a prickling doubt that refused to be ignored.

In killing the King, was he fulfilling his own ambition, or merely doing what had become inevitable—a favor to the fallen King crumbling beneath him?

Even as he prepared to take the King’s life, he knew satisfaction would elude him. There would be no triumph, no true fulfillment to sate the bitterness that gnawed at him.

With a weary sigh, he closed his eyes, though rest was a stranger he had long forsaken. Blood had marked his path, each step severing him further from the emotions he had once known, binding his heart in a web of scars and carefully stitched wounds. And yet, no matter how thoroughly he steeled himself, some wounds defied healing.

The King’s final chapter was nearing its inevitable end, and it would be Louis’s hand that turned the page. Tomorrow’s dawn would be blood-red, casting its unforgiving light upon the earth, and upon him, the harbinger of its ruin.

In a secluded, abandoned corner of the Kingdom lay the ruins of a place long forgotten—a hidden fragment on the map, dismissed even by the most intrepid of wanderers. Though marked as ruins, a lush and resilient green had crept over it, reclaiming the land with an eerie timelessness, as if the fires that once consumed it had vanished without a trace, leaving its sanctuary reborn in quiet defiance.

Every inch of this hidden canopy was etched into Louis's memory, despite the absence of life that had once thrived there. He recalled the sunlit path leading to the world beyond, a path where light seemed to cut through every shadow. He remembered, too, the winding, hidden trails where he’d once found refuge—and where, against all odds, the delicate flowers of the Eldan Sanctum had grown, their quiet resilience preserved in secret.

Over time, the flowers of the Eldan Sanctum had become symbols of Royalty, yet no one knew of their true birthplace, of the quiet isolation from which they had sprung. They were the last vestige of the Eldan legacy, their meaning twisted over the years, just as the secrets of his people had been buried under layers of myth and distortion. The Kingdom claimed their bloom as its own, ignorant of the roots that ran deep beneath this forgotten ground.

What drove him to return here, he couldn’t fully explain. Perhaps it was the faint whisper of memory, or the allure of a life that felt like it had belonged to someone else.

This place, an echo of the world he once inhabited, held within it the embers of ideals that had kindled within him as a child. Now, in his final pilgrimage, he stood amongst the blooms, their familiar scent mingling with the bittersweet finality of his own presence.

In the hushed solitude, bathed in dappled sunlight, he could almost imagine a figure lingering there—a memory, a presence that had once held meaning, now only a shadow amidst the flowers. He reached for a cluster of them, his touch almost reverent. These blossoms, with their enduring beauty, seemed to offer a permanence he could never claim.

With careful, deliberate hands, he plucked a few of those flowers, as though by preserving them he could hold on to something of himself. They would serve as a keepsake of his birthright, the last fragile tie to his tribe’s forgotten legacy, a piece of his own history that he could keep hidden within him, preserved as he himself would soon abandon this place.

For Louis, this act was uncharacteristic, perhaps even indulgent. But uncharacteristic as it was, he paid tribute to something long past. Even these flowers, symbols of a life he could barely remember, would one day wither and fade.

A silent farewell, a final tether to a life slipping further from his reach, as he understood, with a somber clarity, that even these attachments would soon wither just like them.

In these quiet acts, perhaps—despite all his denials—he was saying goodbye.

Mourning, in the way only he could know.

In the same unyielding view that had greeted him six years ago, the moonlight now appeared almost mournfully dim, casting a ghostly pallor over the chamber he now stood in—for the last time.

The room seemed frozen in a past that would never be resurrected, its once-illuminating light now muted—reflecting not just the stillness of the night but the rotting decay of a Kingdom.

Even from this vantage, from the King’s private chamber, the rot of the nation was all too apparent. The sins were laid bare before him—bribery, murder, thievery— sores of a land broken beyond repair, as persistent and unforgiving as the wind itself.

The King who once sat atop his throne, blind to the world's decay, was now but a broken specter. The boy Louis had once been, so torn between the innocence of youth and the weight of growing adulthood, had seen the truth long ago—but had been too shackled by loyalty, too desperate for purpose to acknowledge it.

The scene before him now was as wretched as it had been when he had first entered this forsaken place. A life wasted, clinging to a title long outgrown—an empty shell of a man still commanding a broken nation. The years had taken their toll, ravaging him, hollowing him out in ways that no weapon could.

 A corpse leading a nation of corpses.

Soon, this king—this hollow man—would join his subjects in the void.

The dagger in his grip was the same one he had carried all those years ago. Its blade was dulled from time and tainted with the blood of the past—bathed in the stains of history, cleansed only by fleeting magic and only sharpened by the bitter lessons of survival. An unremarkable military tool, meant for self-preservation. Yet it was this unassuming weapon that had set him on this path.

The years had given him better weapons, trusted blades with his name carved into them—fine, polished instruments of war. However, it was this dagger, the very first weapon he had held as a child, that he chose. This weapon had set his path in motion, and it would now bring it full circle.

The past would finally be severed—by the very blade that had once symbolized his resolve, now destined to mark the end of an era.

“—Your kingdom...will perish alongside you. By my hand.”

The words spilled from his lips with grim finality, cold and unyielding. Without a flicker of hesitation, he plunged the dagger into the King’s chest. The blow was swift, merciless, ensuring that the life left in him would not find its way back into the waking world. He allowed himself no softness, no indulgence in emotion. Even the most skilled of assassins would not offer such mercy.

But there was no relief, no twisted satisfaction in the act. No light brightened his eyes, no rush of triumph surged within him. It was simply necessary. A conclusion to a chapter written long ago.

In that moment, time seemed to unravel, the invisible chains binding him to his past finally shattering. With each heartbeat of the dying king, an inevitable countdown began—to a new world, or perhaps to the end of it all.

The blood, crimson and stark, began to spread across the sheets that had long served to conceal the King’s frailty, soaking in the last vestiges of the King’s life. As the light dimmed from King Hythlodaeus V’s gaze, Louis’s eyes never left his. His gaze remained fixed, as if to etch his own image into every fading flicker of life remaining in the King. To let it sear his retinas, for his gaze to be the last thing he ever saw. A memory to carry with him to hell, a mark on his soul that would never fade.

An assassin would typically vanish, swift as a shadow, leaving only silence in their wake, letting the world weave its own narrative of what had occurred. Yet Louis remained, as though compelled to witness the destruction he had wrought. The air in the room was thick with a sense of finality, and yet something lingered.

He felt no regret, however something within him seemed restless, haunted, as though something remained unfinished. Not just the death of a King, but something else—a lingering tie, something within himself.

"In that lonesome sanctum," he began, the words escaping him in a quiet murmur, "everything was taken from me. A life of peace, set ablaze—burned away because of your failure to protect it. But amidst the ashes, what remained of my kin, my life—were your ideals"

His gaze drifted toward the window, the horizon stretching out before him—vast and endless, as if searching for something that had long since vanished. His words half-spoken to himself, half to the fading soul before him.

“I clung to those ideals as if my very life depended on them. Your shadow loomed over me, no matter where I went.” His gaze dropped slightly, a mixture of bitterness and resignation in his tone. “Those ideals, absurd and delusional, would naturally be scorned by anyone who had truly faced the horrors of this kingdom—who had fought, bled, and died while you sat in your ivory tower, untouched by the world below.”

Louis paused, his words hanging in the air, heavy with the weight of years spent chasing a ghost.  His voice was taut with contempt, words laced with a grief and rage that he had held close to his chest all these years. And now, at last, he allowed them to escape, his heart laid bare in this moment.

He turned back to the dying figure, and for the first time, a quiet grief betrayed his cold exterior—an unspoken sorrow, a reluctant tenderness that seemed almost cruel in its honesty.

“But even after all this time, even after all that I have become, I still find myself in awe of your image,” he said quietly, almost to himself, voice tight with restrained emotion.

Now, as he gazed down at the silent corpse, there was only one truth left to speak.

“A father I lost…No, you were never that. You were something I could never reach, something far beyond me—a symbol of what was never mine to claim”

Contempt dripped from his every word, yet there was no more venom in his tone. The walls he had so carefully built around his heart were crumbling, eroded by time, by grief, by betrayal.

“O King,” Louis whispered, his voice a final, lingering breath in the stillness of the room. “My words cannot reach you any longer. Perhaps they never did, never could have.”


He knew, had long known, that the man lying before him had ceased to be long before Louis took this final step. The King who lay before him was but a hollow echo, the shell of a memory that had eroded with time. Yet even as he looked upon this lifeless vessel, the shadow of who he had been lingered—fragile, a ghost of memory.

His voice dropped to a whisper as he moved closer to the bed, looking down at the lifeless body before him.


“Hythlodaeus…” The name felt foreign on his tongue, strange and hollow. “No, the name I once knew was different. Abandoned, like the ideals you betrayed. Forgotten, like the kingdom you swore to protect.”


The silence between them stretched like an endless abyss.

He had no reason to stay any longer. No reason to conceal his deed or skulk in the shadows. His work was done, and the weight of his actions was his alone to bear.


“I…” Louis’s voice caught, but it was brief—flickering like a dying ember before it vanished altogether.

A brief pause. A single thought that echoed deep within him

The words came to him slowly, and with them, the sudden rush of memories he had long buried. His voice broke slightly, a flicker of vulnerability that was quickly smothered.

“I believed in you”

Once, a kiss had once sealed his loyalty, a tender vow innocent in its pledge and hope. And now, perhaps this death was the true farewell, a kiss to end all vows, leaving only ghosts in its wake—the kiss of death, not just a symbol of the life taken, but a bitter ending to a long-buried dream. A kiss that would sever his past from his future, leaving only the remains to be swept away by the tide of fate.

And as he turned to the world beyond, he left that memory, that loyalty, to the mercy of fate—to the broken world he would now strive to change.

And so, the relentless turning of time’s gears finally came to a halt.

The rest of this tale—well, it’s a narrative he already knows by heart.

He had tasted this feeling once before, as if life itself were an ephemeral play—a cruel performance where each soul was but a puppet, moved by fate’s merciless and invisible strings.

Back then, fate had wanted him alive, if only to extend his existence just long enough to grant him the illusion of ascension. He’d reached the summit, the world at his feet, on the brink of manifesting his ideals. The threads binding him to destiny had woven him into their grand tapestry, as if he had truly been chosen to guide the world to its salvation, something beyond the common man’s grasp.

Yet, he was always just another common man—always had been, fate never for him to seize control of.

His reputation boasted of prowess, feats that suggested indomitable control over one’s inner magic.

And yet, what was the source of that power?

The people at large perhaps had never known it.

"Magla" was born of anxiety—magic derived from a soul never at peace.  

His titles and accomplishments had painted a portrait of might and indomitable will. But deep beneath the grandeur lay a paradox.

To possess such power only underscored his weakness, a frailty he had never outrun.

To those who marveled at his strength, the irony was invisible; he was, perhaps, the weakest man in all of Euchronia.

Behind the mask of poise, unyielding resolve, and the appearance of boundless strength, lay a man imprisoned by his own fears—each an illusion held together by sheer force of will.

No man, no matter his facade, lives untouched by anxiety, and so long as he was bound to humankind, he would never transcend the anxieties that bound him.

The fire had always followed him, shadowing his every step on this earth. Even when he closed his eyes, its flames flickered in the darkness, unyielding. He did not fear the fire—he loathed the helplessness it evoked, the taste of defeat he could never erase. For years, he pursued power, longing to quell that inferno and claim victory over his own powerlessness.

And now, what had all that pursuit led him to?

The crackling flames roared behind him as he walked onward down a path with no return. The cinders that clung to his white coat were relics of his past, the remnants of what he had left in ashes. All around him, collapsed rubble lay as a silent testament to his choices.

It was the same as that day—unchanged, almost haunting in its familiarity.

Back then, he had scavenged desperately for anything to tether him to a memory untainted by smoke and ruin, desperate to find any fragment of the home that no longer existed. Now, as he treaded the infernal path he had paved, his mind returned to that memory.

And so, like an echo from the past, he saw it.

Yes... he remembered now.

Among the ruins of his childhood, hidden beneath the ash and debris that had once been his home, lay a book with golden luster—pristine, untouched by flame, as though it alone was meant to survive, a beacon among the desolation.

It had called to him once, promising the power to reshape the world, to forge a utopia.

A vision of salvation had filled him then, the dream resounding with his soul.

But life, with its cruel hands, had dismantled that vision. Even the one who had once shared that dream with him had abandoned it.

Did that mean his calling had been nothing more than a hollow whisper? Was the unity of the world an illusion, a task he would never see fulfilled by his own hands? The question lingered like an open wound.

The pages of the book remained vivid, untouched by time or flame. Even as he stood at death’s edge, the ink seemed eternal. Here, amidst the fire that would soon consume his life, his gaze settled on its final passage, clear as the day he first read it.

"The one who governs this utopia must have an unwavering will. To maintain justice in this world, there are innumerable obstacles to overcome. Yet as long as one lives by their ideals, those who support them are sure to follow"

The words began, a prophecy of companionship, yet all his allies had slipped away, one by one.

The Songstress, already marked by suspicion from the very beginning, had shattered the cage that once held her captive.

The Paripus siblings had broken free, one of them perishing by his hand in a needless sacrifice.

And then, his final companion—a figure scorned and cast aside by the very world that had shaped him.

Though he shared in his vision, it was not the vision itself that kept him by his side.

It was his unspoken loyalty—a loyalty so profound it bordered on the unspeakable, a weakness, a silent oath that would never reach the light of confession and buried in a silence that would follow him to the grave.

It was akin to a reflection of his own past—a shadow of a devotion he had once offered, one that even now lingered like a scar within him.

They had all left him in the end. He bore the weight of their departure, for the fault was his alone. The lofty ideals he once cherished had proven just as brittle as those he had once trusted in others, disintegrating as he clung to them.

Now, detached from his own body, he felt himself slipping away, a soul succumbing to a corrosive Melancholia. Outside, his form was likely grotesque, twisted into something monstrous by the poison of regret. Everything he saw, everything he felt—these were the remnants of a mind on the edge of oblivion, the final echoes of a soul pushed beyond the limits of its own anxieties.

Perhaps, in the end, this was the fate every human faced before the void claimed them—an unflinching gaze upon their own failures, each one surfacing in relentless succession. It dawned on him that he had been running from that weakness all along, that the feeble boy he had once been had never truly disappeared.

This is the price of his humanity—the eternal curse of weakness he could never escape, no matter how high he rose.

Even as he accepted defeat, he refused to yield, clinging desperately to a resolve that could no longer sustain him. But now, he was spent, his strength drained, his will slipping away.

There was nothing left for him to do, reality offers no recourse, no path to redemption. He lay ensnared in his own doubts, consciousness teetering on the edge of dissolution. Soon, the haunting visions of his failures would fade to black as the last flicker of his life was extinguished in the unforgiving fire.

And so, at last, he let his eyes close.

Amidst the ashes and the corpses left in his wake, within the depths of the inferno that awaited him—perhaps he would now find the true utopia he once sought.

But perhaps, in an act of rare mercy, fate would grace him with one final vision before his inevitable end.

A blinding light had engulfed him as he closed his eyes, resigned to the end.

However, he hadn’t expected to find himself conscious again—awake, and yet adrift

Through a haze, his gaze settled on a room— an expanse draped in decayed grandeur, towering like a spire. Though familiar, it was now decadent, frost-bitten, and forlorn, a silent monument to faded ambitions. The broken statue, bearing forgotten names, lay blanketed under a wintry shroud, and the remnants of knowledge-filled tomes were entombed in a glacial grip. Above, the broken ceiling framed a glimpse of an endless tundra.

This hollow memory of a once-vibrant sanctuary, though a shadow of itself, was unmistakable.

Though decrepit and hollow, he knew this place well. It was the King’s study—a place he had been invited to long ago, during the academy’s days of forbidden knowledge and secrets whispered in scholarly halls.

Once, this very room had offered him a glimmer of solace, of peace.

Now, it stood as a ghostly reminder of dreams long dead, decaying amidst ruin and snow—a cold reality, mirroring the hope he had once held close to his heart.

This frigid wasteland, resembling the depths of Cocytus, seemed destined to be his final resting place.

And if that were to be his fate, what a cruel irony that his end would come here—in a place that symbolized another man’s legacy, a lingering reminder of him.

Just as that thought surfaced, a faint, almost otherworldly whisper wove through the icy stillness, almost illegible, like a shadow lost in the winds. Barely discernible, yet unmistakably there. He dismissed it at first as the mere howl of the tempest, an auditory trick conjured by his solitude. After all, he had walked this path alone, he would die alone. That had always been his way.

Yet, no matter how faint, the voice persisted, calling his name.

“Louis.”

A low, spectral tone, devoid of malice, drifted through the silence.

“Louis Guiabern.”

With each repetition, the voice grew clearer, sharper, hauntingly familiar. It felt as if it were close—impossibly so. He recognized that voice, an echo of a time buried beneath the years and the snow, a memory he thought forgotten.

It had to be a cruel jest, a mockery woven into the fabric of this forsaken place— a twisted reminder of his sins, a name he was cursed to recall even in death.

He believed it to be a hallucination—until the voice spoke again, its tone sharp and unmistakably real.

“…Or should I say, Charadrius?”

The sound of that name, a phantom from his past, struck him like a wound reopened. Despite himself, he turned, his eyes drawn to the phantom as if by compulsion.

Against the storm’s bleak backdrop, was the figure he once knew, almost as if plucked from memory. Tired eyes, brimming with an unspoken history gazed back at him, belonging to a man clad in dark, unassuming clothes that defied the grandeur of his status. An unorthodox scholar of slender frame who wore his research like an emblem of defiance, an obsidian black against the endless white.

This was no stranger. A figure he had long consigned to oblivion, a remnant of a life he had tried to forget.

Was this merely an illusion?

“Could it be, that you aren't even going to let me accept my death?” he spat, his words icy, each one aimed like a dagger. “Do you mean to mock me, even in my last moments…Hythlodaeus?"

Though his tone was cold, a flicker of disbelief betrayed his stoic gaze.

“Relentless, insufferable King. Even now, you meddle with my end, just as you did your own.”

He glared at the vision, willing his disdain to pierce through it, hoping the apparition would dissolve, vanish like the mirage he assumed it must be.

But the figure did not waver—it responded, calm, undeterred by the venom in his words.

“…The Magla within you still clings to the ideals you once cherished. Melancholia has yet to consume your mind entirely." The man’s voice, though tempered with weariness, held a gentle rebuke. "And those ideals—they still linger within that book you cling to, a relic where my discarded shadow yet remains.”

He lowered his gaze, his expression one of somber disbelief, as if even he could scarcely believe this meeting.

"I…heard the call of a desperate heart, but never would I have thought it to be yours"

Louis’s gaze drifted to the book in his hands, a spectral reminder of dreams and ambitions that had warped into haunting phantoms. The weight of it was almost unbearable now, as though it had seeped into his very essence, shackling him more tightly than he’d ever anticipated.

But belief eluded him still. For all the bitter truth those words held, Louis refused to yield, his heart as unrelenting as the ice that imprisoned him.

"Do you see yourself as an omniscient god?" Louis's voice was sharp, tinged with bitterness. "Or is it that your sins are as damning as mine, binding you here just the same?"

“Believe what you will,” the figure replied, his words clipped yet laced with a subtle, complex anguish. “But I don’t have much time left to speak with you.” His tone carried the ache of things left unsaid, the weight of emotions too vast to unravel in the brief moments he’d been granted.

“As I stand before you now, as More, my journey was not complete. I had not been sure who I was, and for the longest time, I’d believed it was someone else held me here,” he continued, his voice tinged with a trace of newfound clarity. ”yet now I understand—it was I who kept myself confined. The King's magic led to my creation, with my death as Hythlodaeus serving as the catalyst.”

He drifted past Louis, his gaze surveying the shattered remnants of his former study—a place that felt both familiar and foreign.

"I only saw the world through another’s eyes, knowing you merely as the threat you posed. I never truly knew you, I couldn’t recognize who you’d become." He lifted his hand to touch the frost that adorned the ruined furniture, the cold barely registering on his fingertips. His form, ephemeral and fading, could barely cling to the sensation.

“But now, even with these memories restored to me, my time is brief.” He looked at Louis, his gaze softening with a sorrow shading his once-youthful features. “I remember who you were. And though I struggle to believe it, I… I have something to tell you with what little time remains”

Louis remained silent, his expression one of scorn mixed with a complex depth, as he listened, unwilling yet unable to interrupt.

A softness crept into More's gaze, though his face remained etched with sorrow and the lingering shadow of regret. His words were quiet, almost self-reproaching.

"It seems my dreams of utopia became your ruin. My ideals poisoned you…and I never thought of it to end this way."

The world had long since forgotten More’s—Hythlodaeus’s vision. His book, once cherished, had been banned, burned, discarded as worthless fiction, a fanciful delusion. In his later years, he had grown disillusioned, his ideals slipping away in the fog of his waning will. Never had he imagined someone would grasp those dreams more fiercely than he himself had ever dared to.

And yet… Louis had done precisely that.

Through the fractured lens of his spectral existence, he had watched the world in fleeting glimpses, forging a bond with a young traveler who held that very book. He’d dared to hope that the boy might fulfill the vision he had once penned, only to realize, with the return of his memories, that the boy was his own son—the child he’d thought lost forever.

And not simply such, but that his own existence as More was his doing, his own misplaced dream lingering like a ghost within the pages of his book.

The boy’s vision had since diverged, shaped by his own path. Still, Hythlodaeus knew he had guided him as best he could, even as he questioned his understanding of the world.

Now, at the end, with his memories split and his mind fragmented, his life felt as though it belonged to two men—one a youthful dreamer, the other a weary king, haunted by inaction and failure.

His son was safely seated on the throne, but the ideals he had once cherished had led another, once a friend and trusted confidant, astray.

For the first time in years, he acknowledged his responsibility. His mistakes had wrought consequences beyond what he could have ever anticipated, hurting those who had once meant something to him.

He took a breath, his words solemn. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, each word laced with remorse.

“I’m sorry that my dreams of utopia created the man you became. It was never meant to be this way—”

"The last thing I'd want from you is your pity" Louis interjected, his voice sharp with anger. It wasn’t the self-reproach in Hythlodaeus's voice that stirred his fury, though that was aggravating enough. It was the way he belittled his own ideals, even now, in this final meeting.

"That idealism of yours led this country to ruin," Louis continued, his tone edged with frustration. "If you think I'll serve as your scapegoat, even in death, you’re mistaken."

"No, that’s not what I—"

"And what good comes from wallowing in self-pity?  Do you truly believe in what you’re saying?” Louis’s words grew sharper, more accusing. “All that lofty idealism…a united country, an utopia of peace and serenity. Empty words. Lies,”

However, his voice softened briefly, something wistful slipping through.

“…Lies that I once believed in, each and every word.”

Louis looked away, his expression shadowed with inner conflict. It was clear that Hythlodaeus was trying to bear the weight of blame, to carry every sin himself, to drown in guilt rather than confront it. It was this same trait that had once driven him to absorb the anxieties of the entire kingdom. Better to submit to defeat than to fight for a vision that had turned to ash.

“Even now, you denounce your own dreams. Always the cowardly King, running from your failures, even in death.”

More’s expression tightened, his voice low but insistent. “Surely you’ve seen it too, haven’t you? Felt it, as I have. This country holds no space for ideals. In a world this unjust, any dream is bound to be trampled underfoot.”

"That doesn’t mean ideals are meaningless," Louis shot back, anger rekindling. "If those in power refuse to change, then change must be forced upon them. Surely, I thought you understood that by now"

Louis’s voice rose, the fire of conviction igniting again.

“If you truly believed this world has lost all meaning, why did you prevent its destruction? The Old World was rebuilt from ruin, why not let the same fate befall Euchronia?”

"Because that wouldn’t be a utopia!"

"What would you know?!"

The words escaped Louis in a snarl, his composure fracturing. In a surge of fury, he seized More by the collar and shoved him onto the frost-covered desk, worn books tumbling from its surface. His hands tightened around More’s throat, the cold, faint pulse beneath his fingers almost tangible, a fleeting reminder of life amidst this frozen tomb.

“You abandoned your ideals, abandoned this country. What gives you the right to tell me what a utopia should be!?”

Louis hissed, a malevolent gleam in his eyes as he tightened his grip. His hands shook slightly, the frigid flesh beneath his fingers feeling hauntingly alive, if only barely.

“I could end your life again, here and now.”

“And would that satisfy you?” More replied, his voice calm, unfazed by the threat. “Whatever becomes of this world…neither you nor I will live to witness it.”

Louis’s hands trembled, his grip loosening. He staggered back, the futility of his rage settling over him like the encroaching cold. There was nothing left to gain, no satisfaction to be had. Killing him now would accomplish nothing —it wasn’t truly what he wanted.

Resigned, he released More and stepped back, meeting his gaze as he searched for something—anything—that might justify his suffering. His voice, when he spoke, was barely more than a whisper.

“…Why are you here? Speak plainly.”

More straightened himself, regaining his composure as he rose from the desk. He looked steadily at Louis, sitting on the desk’s edge, his expression a mixture of understanding and unspoken regret.

“As I told you, the Magla within you clings to life because of the book in your possession,” he said, his voice calm but searching answers just the same. “The reason I'm here is because….you are the one calling out to me. So I must ask you, what is it that you wish to tell me?”

Louis stared at him, his bitterness dissolving into something closer to sorrow. At this final juncture, he had no kingdom left to conquer, no honor to defend, no facade to uphold. This freezing catacomb was his resting place, his last destination, with no future he could change.

Or perhaps, there was still one truth he could uncover.

“…Is it truly you, Hythlodaeus?”

"I am as real as your heart allows me to be." More replied, his words a puzzle, as ephemeral and intangible as his existence. A faint, unreadable emotion flickering in his softened gaze.

"I never liked that name," More murmured, his voice tinged with resentment. "A name borrowed, a burden I never could escape… a weight that stole my freedom."

“…So, it is you, More,” Louis murmured, the name bringing a quiet solace, a faint glimmer in the hollow of his heart. Yet, a stubborn thorn of resentment still tightened in his throat. He could not let his final words remain unsaid.

“…You never believed in me,” he whispered.

It was on that seemingly ordinary day in the Sanctum that Louis first felt a connection to the outside world, a connection born through More. For the first time, he sensed that the history he had been forced to carry could be understood, perhaps even accepted. More had given him hope, seeing in him the embodiment of everything he aspired to achieve. In his eyes, More was far more than a mentor; he was a beacon, someone he revered even more than his own father, who sought to confine him to the Sanctum forever.

And though the fire had taken everything, in a twisted way, it had also set him free.

Eventually, the enigmatic King he had once known as a humble author disappeared from his life and from Elda village entirely, leaving no trace. Even knowing he had no right to demand anything from him, Louis couldn’t help but chase after his shadow. He yearned to see him again, that idealist king who once spoke of true change. Perhaps, he admitted bitterly, it was merely a selfish, childish desire.

But when he finally found him, More neither remembered him nor recognized him.

The pain of that moment had broken something in him, but there was nothing more he could have done. Yet, he persisted, forming a bond perhaps even stronger than the one he once held.

And then…

"Surely, you must know by now… what really happened“ Louis’s voice carried a weariness that concealed a raw, unhealed wound.

At that time, he felt despair deeper than he had ever known. His world, painstakingly built over years, crumbled like a fragile house of cards.

He spoke, recounting every painful memory, hoping—no, needing More to understand, to recognize him as that boy from the village.

“Did you know? It was the Sanctist Church, under Forden, who set the Sanctum ablaze,” he declared, his voice steady yet laced with bitterness. The words fell heavily, each syllable carrying the weight of a truth long suppressed. “Not only did he orchestrate the fire, so was the very curse you blamed on me. He used one of his own lackeys to carry out his work.”

Louis’s brow furrowed, his voice simmering with resentment even as he struggled to make More see. “Did you not witness this from your heavenly throne, Your Majesty? Observing your people from on high while you played your worthless game, searching for a ‘righteous ruler’?”

More remained silent, absorbing the harsh revelations as Louis confronted him.

"You said just as much before, I'm not a god" More murmured, his gaze narrowing as he struggled to collect his thoughts.

"While the King’s magic could indeed sense the will and beliefs of the people, helping to choose a successor, I was not omniscient. There was much beyond my reach, things that even in this fragmented form I could not see. But over time, as fragments of knowledge returned to me…there were events that I sensed, though I couldn’t fully grasp their meaning then." he replied, his voice laced with regret.

“The Sanctist church was close to the throne; I had no reason to doubt them. I knew nothing of this, and yet—”

“You believed him over me,” Louis interrupted, his composure breaking. “You trusted the man who took everything from me.” His voice cracked, nearly collapsing under the weight of his anguish. “You abandoned me when I wanted you to be the one person who wouldn’t see me as a monster.”

Every word spilled from him unbidden, a raw confession that shattered the image he’d crafted over the past twelve years. The vulnerability, hidden for so long, now lay exposed, each fragile piece of his heart unveiled amid the frozen wasteland around them.

"And even now…you still think the same, don’t you?"

The frigid air between them grew heavier, each word carrying a weight that felt more vital than anything else in this desolate place.

Anxiety he’d carried like a festering wound gnawed at him day after day, each hurt searing anew. Even unburdened, the pain lingered, as if baring his soul to the wintry void around them had done nothing to lessen its grip. In this frigid wasteland, there was nothing left to hide; he was stripped bare, his every weakness laid open.

"...I’m sorry." More’s voice was soft, heavy with regret. The past was immutable, and though he finally understood the truth, all he could offer now were hollow words.

"I hurt you deeply, and I’ve paid dearly for it." He sighed, the weight of his guilt unmistakable. "But even knowing all this, I cannot pretend that I condone the choices you made, Louis. Your methods…they were reckless, and not for the future of this country. That is the truth.”

Only the howling wind filled the silence that followed, as if the world itself was holding its breath. The cold bit through the thin veil of unyielding stillness, each fragment of light seeming to suffocate, swallowed by the thickening snow. It was a silence heavy with finality, an echo of all that had been lost.

"Louis, I..."

More’s words faltered as he noticed the frozen Akademia beginning to collapse around them. The structure that had once been a symbol of wisdom and strength was now falling apart, its remnants drifting away like scattered memories, walls splintering, pillars groaning under the weight of time and frost. Shards of ice tumbled from above, its once hallowed halls now succumbing to oblivion. They both knew they didn’t have much time left—time for words was slipping through their fingers, as fleeting as the snow.

"Reality was never kind to either of us," he murmured, voice low with resignation. "Neither of our ideals were ever destined to come true. But perhaps, in the world he envisioned—"

“Please, just stop,” Louis interrupted, his voice weary, stripped of the strength to shout. "Haven't you humiliated me enough?" he spat, his words biting and raw.

"I lost the home I once cherished, the position I once commanded, the trust of those I once called allies. All that remains is the memory of a monster, a tyrant. I’ll be remembered only as the fool who chased an unattainable dream—a destructive, yet ever-lofty idealist."

His words broke, voice raw with anguish. Louis fell to his knees, hands clutching at his head as if the pain could be torn from within.

“In the end, we’re both the same, aren’t we? Is that why you’re here? To make me face my failures…just as you have?”

Louis looked up, his face a mixture of rage and despair, as if pleading for some hidden truth he could cling to—something that would finally make sense of it all.

"What do you want from me?"

With gentle hands, More reached for Louis’s trembling face, his gaze meeting Louis's with a softness neither had known they could still share. In Louis's eyes, he saw mirrored sorrows, unspoken pain, and tears he thought he could no longer shed. And in that fragile instant, the faintest touch of warmth passed between them, a gesture light as breath, carrying with it the finality of a thousand unsaid words.

It was a brief, delicate closeness, something fragile yet profound, a warmth that endured even amid the encircling cold. In that sliver of time, they were both real—two souls drawn together against the indifferent, icy world around them.

More’s voice was soft as he drew back.

"I failed you, Louis. And nothing can undo that. But if this brings even a hint of solace, then perhaps... it’s enough."

They both knew the end was near. This shared space between them was beginning to dissolve, the fragments of this broken world vanishing into the encroaching ice. The past was gone, along with the possibilities of what might have been.

Louis remained silent, stunned, his voice lost amidst the weight of his pain and disbelief.

"You were important to me," More admitted, his voice wavering. "Losing myself…it blinded me to what I should have seen. I was too absorbed in my own burdens, my own regrets. Perhaps, had I understood sooner, I could have been there for you."

"Why… why are you saying this only now?" Louis’s voice was barely a whisper, hoarse with the ache of years.

More’s form was beginning to fade, his figure barely visible as the essence of who he was scattered like ashes on the wind. Louis’s hands clenched tighter, feeling the remnants of More slipping through his grasp, no more solid than a memory. Yet More’s face remained calm, softened by a final, irrevocable truth.

“Perhaps, if we had met under different stars, in a world kinder than this one, I could have welcomed you into my heart,”

Louis’s heart twisted, each word a reminder of the hopes he would never fulfill. To him, those parting words felt incomplete, as though they barely scratched the surface of what he had yearned for. He knew, now, that what he felt was something far beyond friendship, something far more profound and unspoken. But even as he held this knowledge, it slipped through his fingers like sand, irretrievably lost to the emptiness between them.

“Goodbye, Louis,” More whispered, his voice laced with a haunting sadness. “Perhaps utopia is just a dream we were never meant to grasp. But maybe, one day, it will be waiting for us, somewhere beyond this world.”

With these final words, More’s form dissolved, scattering into dust that drifted like whispers into the snow. The last traces of his presence disappeared into the cold, indifferent landscape, leaving Louis alone in the stillness, watching as each remnant of More was carried away. It felt as if the entire world had become a silent witness to their parting, an eternal requiem in the desolate winter.

Louis felt his own form starting to waver, his strength crumbling like the ruins of Akademia around him. Each part of himself seemed to dissolve, as though whatever force had held him together was finally giving way. With his magla withering, he could no longer hold any semblance of composure.

A hollow laugh escaped Louis’s lips, tinged with bitterness, swallowed by the falling frost. Here, at the end, he could finally see the depths of his own heart, laid bare and stripped of all pretenses.

It was only now, with nothing left, that memories long buried began to resurface, fragments of a past life that had once held such innocence and light. That day in the Sanctum, full of joy and wonder—the purity of that forgotten dream, one he had pushed so far into the recesses of his mind. Back then, he had clung to a vision, an ideal untouched by the darkness he now wore like a second skin.

“I see now…” he whispered to the empty air, his voice barely audible, as though speaking to himself alone. “My dream was…” The words faltered, slipping through him fragile as snowflakes.

Amidst the corpses of those who had fallen because of him, amidst the blood and ruin he had left in his wake, there had been a glimmer of innocence. That dream, once so simple and untainted, now lay buried beneath the weight of his deeds, of the sacrifices that had led him here. He had become something unrecognizable, his name forever etched in infamy—a lord of destruction, a forsaken man, a figure bound to the shadows of death and war.

As the world around him turned to dust, he felt himself slipping, whisked away in silent whispers. All that remained was grief, a sorrow that seemed to echo into eternity, an unfulfilled longing for a life that might have been.

In those final moments, he was not Charadrius, the condemned, the destroyer, but something smaller, something raw and vulnerable. A man who had once dreamed of something beautiful.

And as the last remnant of him vanished, he whispered into the void, his final words carrying all that was left of him as the final page of his story came to a close,

A quiet yet profound truth slipped from his lips, a final, hopeless farewell.

I wanted to make a world worthy of you