The grand war chamber within the capital's keep was thick with tension.
Arasha stood at the head of the council table, fully armored though her body still bore healing bandages beneath the polished steel. The high windows behind her let in bleak morning light, casting long shadows across maps marked with red ink, shifting battlefronts, and glowing blue markers for rift sightings. Refugee counts and supply estimates were stacked in scrolls beside her.
Around the table sat members of the royal court—nobles in finely tailored silks, their hands soft and unscarred. Their murmurs filled the air, a storm of self-interest and veiled accusations.
"We must reallocate funds to secure the noble districts—"
"Monsters are appearing near merchant routes, we should—"
"The treasury is strained, and these refugees—"
Arasha raised her hand.
Silence fell, if only because of the presence she radiated: weary yet immovable, forged from battle and burden.
"No more games," she said coldly. "I've seen the frontlines. I've watched mothers claw through ash to find their children. I've seen our knights die buying time for noblemen who teleported away without a word. Don't speak to me of priorities."
A few nobles shifted uncomfortably. One, older and broad with an insufferable smirk, scoffed. "And yet here you stand, Princess Arasha, preaching to us of duty. You speak of the people as though you're one of them—but you carry royal blood. Do not pretend you do not benefit from the same privileges you now condemn."
The room pulsed with quiet fury.
The knights of the Scion Order standing at the chamber's edge—all veterans, some still bandaged from recent battles—stiffened. Sir Garran's fist clenched around the hilt of his sword. Another knight muttered under his breath, "He dares…"
"Enough," Arasha said softly.
That one word froze the air.
She stepped forward, placing both hands on the table. Her voice carried not as a scream, but as an undeniable force.
"Yes. I was born royal. And I carry that shame like a scar—not because of the blood, but because of what so many of you have done with it. Nobility is not a crown, or a sigil, or an inheritance. It is a duty. And if you have forgotten that—I will remind you."
She looked each of them in the eye, gaze unwavering.
"I do not fight in the name of your titles. I fight for the people—those who still believe this realm is worth saving. And if you cannot see past your ledgers and feasts, step aside. You will not stand in my way."
There was silence. Several nobles lowered their gazes. Some looked away entirely.
"They cried out for you," she began, her voice steady but sharp enough to cut through. "When the sky tore open and the monsters spilled through, they didn't call for gold, or titles, or decrees. They cried for someone to stand between them and death."
A few nobles shifted uncomfortably. The High Chancellor, adorned in robes too clean to had known war, opened his mouth—but Arasha raised her hand once again.
"Don't," she ordered, cold and final. "You've all had your turn to speak. And while you played politics behind marble walls, we bled in the streets."
King Alric's eyes narrowed, but stayed quiet. He knew she wouldn't be stopped. He knew what she held in her hands.
Arasha pulled out a sealed scroll—its crimson wax embossed not with a royal crest, but the emblem of the united militias, the guilds, the people who stood when the nobles hid. She broke the seal, unfurling the document like a sword unsheathed.
"This is a Pact ratified by every surviving province, every township that still draws breath. It outlines emergency reform—resource redistribution, militarized protection for border settlements, and a temporary override of noble privileges in crisis zones."
Murmurs erupted like wildfire. A duke slammed his fist on the armrest. "You overstep! This is treasonous!"
She turned on him like a blade drawn. "Treason? You think protecting the people you abandoned is treason? If so, then I'll wear the label with pride."
Gasps.
Even Queen Ilyria looked shaken. But Arasha didn't relent. Her eyes, shimmering but darkened haunted by firelight and screams, sweep over them all.
"I gave you a chance to lead. You chose comfort. I gave you a chance to listen. You chose silence. So now you will sign this. Not because you want to. Not because you care. But because every name in this Pact holds enough power to bring your palaces to the ground with the truth."
She dropped the scroll on the steps before the throne. It landed with a thunderous thud—an echo of judgment.
"Do it. Or lose what little claim you have left to the loyalty of this kingdom."
The room was silent. Not because they agreed, but because they knew she was right.
Their bitterness simmered behind clenched jaws and narrowed eyes—but Arasha had stopped looking at them. Her back was already turned. Her cape, singed and battleworn, flared as she walked away, steps echoed like war drums.
Let them stew in their golden misery.
The towering gates of the throne hall groan shut behind Arasha as she strode out beneath the open sky. Her Order Knights, grim and bloodied, fall into formation around her. They wore no smiles, no laurels of victory—only the hardened quiet of those who've survived too much to celebrate. The Pact Scroll was clutched in Arasha's gauntleted hand, a document now signed, if not willingly, then begrudgingly.
Behind her, the nobles seethed in their velvet cages.
"Let them choke on their own pride," muttered one of the knights, pulling his helm under his arm.
"They will," Arasha replied, voice low and hoarse. "Pride doesn't feed a starving child."
They crossed the shattered cobblestones of the once-greatCapital of Luxurite, now a husk of what it was—craters from arcane blasts, charred remains of merchant stalls, the faint metallic stench of blood still clung to the air. Arasha walked with purpose, as she always had—but each step grows heavier, her breath more ragged.
She said nothing.
Not even when her knees buckled just beyond the threshold of the Vanguard Encampment, a collection of reinforced tents and makeshift command towers at the capital's edge.
"Commander?" Sir Garran blurted out in alarm, lunging to catch her before she hit the ground.
She was unconscious before she could argue.
The candlelight flickered violently as Leta paced beside Arasha's cot, muttering curses in three different dialects.
"She has four broken ribs, a torn abdominal muscle, blood loss, a cracked femur—AND gods know what else she's been walking on like it's a sprained ankle!"
Sir Garran, frowns and shocked from the collapse, tried to reason. "She said she had to—"
"She always has to! That doesn't mean she should!" Leta snapped, jabbed a finger in his face. "She shouldn't have even been on her feet. This isn't some willpower, it's self-destruction with a mission statement!"
From the cot, a hoarse voice interrupted. "Sir Garran…"
Arasha's eyes cracked open—barely. Her brow was pale with sweat, jaw tight with pain, but her gaze burned with the same iron that made nobles kneel.
"...Status report. Now."
Sir Garran hesitated, torn between obedience and worry. Leta stepped in with a venomous snarl.
"You're not getting a single godsdamned scroll until I've stitched you back together, Commander! You want to die? Fine. But you're not doing it on my watch!"
Arasha, wincing, looked at her with half a smirk. "I'm not dying. I'm delegating."
Sir Garran sighed, he then reached for the field reports.
"You're both insane," Leta muttered, slamming her satchel down.
Arasha and Sir Garran listened to Leta's complains knowing it was from concern and duty.
How could they retort when Leta's words are true?
Leta supervised Arasha relentlessly fearing their Commander might suddenly sneak out to handle matters personally again.
After reporting, Sir Garran exited the room.
Then a quiet presence filled the room.
Arasha turned her head just as the young man from before stepped inside.
The one who had closed the rift.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
He met her gaze with that same calm intensity he had before, unreadable but not unkind. There was something strange about him, something she couldn't quite place.
He didn't feel like an ordinary person.
And yet—he had done the impossible.
Arasha exhaled sharply, easing her posture and finally putting the reports aside.
She closed her eyes and let herself sink back onto the bed. Leta's tension eased, though she still gave Arasha a warning glare, as if daring her to stand up again.
The young man stepped closer. "It's good that you're awake."
Arasha forced herself to focus. "What happened that day?"
He studied her for a moment, then spoke.
"You're not alone anymore."
She frowned. "What do you mean?"
He pulled up a chair and sat beside her bed. "I wasn't the only one," he explained. "Others like me have begun to awaken—people with the ability to seal the rifts. Not just that. New skills, new powers. Some are fighters, some are healers, some have abilities we've never seen before."
Arasha fought against the weight dragging her down. Sleep, unwelcome yet relentless, clawed at her consciousness, trying to pull her under once more.
But she wasn't ready. Not yet.
She already heard the report about the other awakened ones from Sir Garran. Yet it seemed that the young man has more insight about the awakened ones.
She turned her head toward the young man, eyes heavy yet sharp with determination.
"Tell me," she said, her voice rough, edged with lingering exhaustion. "How do you know others have awakened?"
The young man exhaled through his nose, almost amused.
"They're making quite the scene," he replied. "In every city, every battlefield where the rifts appeared, people have begun wielding powers they never had before. Some have risen as warriors, striking down the creatures before they even reach the gates. Others can mend wounds with a touch. There are even some who—" He paused, watching her sway slightly where she lay, the exhaustion clearly overtaking her again.
Arasha forced herself to focus, gripping onto his words like a lifeline. "And the kingdoms?" she rasped. "The other knight orders? How are they handling this?"
The young man tilted his head, observing her carefully.
"They're adapting," he said simply. "Some are cautious, others are desperate for their help. But the balance of power is shifting." His voice lowered slightly. "People who were once powerless now wield magic that rivals even the strongest knights."
Arasha frowned, her mind sluggish but still processing. "Then… the rifts… are they being closed?"
He nodded. "Yes. And not just here. Reports are coming from the allied kingdoms and empires as well. The awakened are answering the call."
Ashara's grip on the blanket tightened.
For the first time, the weight of the war wasn't just on her shoulders.
But there were still questions—so many questions.
"Who are you?" she muttered, barely holding on to wakefulness. "How do you know all this?"
The young man leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. "I told you—I'll answer your questions."
Arasha blinked slowly, her vision swimming.
"But not now," he continued. "Not until you get some rest."
She scowled, weakly trying to resist the pull of sleep.
"I don't—"
Her own body betrayed her. Her limbs felt like stone, too heavy to lift. The warm haze of sleep was already clouding her mind, muffling her thoughts, dragging her deeper.
She cursed under her breath.
The young man stood, stepping away from the bedside.
"Rest, Commander," he said quietly. "The world isn't ending tonight."
Arasha wanted to fight it. Wanted to force herself to stay awake, to keep questioning, to demand every answer.
But her strength was gone.
Her eyes slid shut against her will, the world fading into soft, smothering darkness.
The last thing she heard was the quiet sound of footsteps as the young man left the room.