Day 3 – Morning in the Training Fields of Nyvaris
Elmesia had woken earlier than usual.
Something in her stirred—perhaps curiosity, perhaps something more abstract. She wrapped herself in a flowing silver cloak and walked past the marble corridors of the guest wing, her boots lightly tapping the runes beneath her.
Today, she sought strength—not to wield it, but to understand it.
The training fields, located on the outer plateau of Nyvaris, were massive. Enchanted arenas, shifting terrain zones, even floating battlegrounds—all built with meticulous magical design.
She paused upon entering.
A whirlwind of raw energy spiraled in the center field—sand, stone, and lightning kicked up in waves. A group of spectators watched in awe.
And then it landed.
Veldora.
The Storm Dragon stood in full humanoid form, tall and wild-haired, laughing heartily as a group of exhausted trainees lay on the ground, catching their breath.
"Who's next?" Veldora bellowed, stretching. "Come on! If you can't handle my warmup, you can't call yourself warriors of Nyvaris!"
Elmesia tilted her head, intrigued. She stepped closer.
"You enjoy terrifying the hopeful ones, don't you?" she called out.
Veldora turned—and for a brief second, blinked like a confused beast.
"Elmesia?" His tone shifted from booming to… interested. "Well, well. The Queen of Elves comes to see me?"
She smiled. "I've seen the vision, the art, the balance of Nyvaris. Now I want to see the storm behind it."
He grinned like a beast offered a challenge.
"I like you already."
After Veldora's "performance," Elmesia wandered to a nearby observation area, where an old swordsman stood with poise and elegance.
His blade—thin and curved—rested in its sheath. His eyes were sharp, but carried the weight of discipline.
Hakuro.
"You observed his movements carefully," Hakuro said softly.
Elmesia nodded. "He moves like a force of nature… yet anchored in precision."
Hakuro smiled. "You have a swordsman's eyes, Queen Elmesia."
"I was trained by the Grand Blademaster of Sarion," she admitted.
"Then perhaps one day, you'll spar with me."
She chuckled. "Careful, Hakuro. I don't hold back."
A sudden voice interrupted—bright, cheerful.
"Lady Elmesia! What an honor!"
Rigur approached, carrying a large basket of strange glowing fruits and bread rolls. The goblin general—taller than most men now—beamed like a child meeting a hero.
"I've heard about you since the early days of the Frontier Accord. Didn't expect you to visit here!"
"Nor did I," she smiled warmly. "But I'm glad I did. You all… carry something powerful in you. Something I wish my people could feel."
Rigur handed her a roll. "Try this. Baked by Shuna herself."
She took a bite, eyes widening. "Divine…"
Hakuro chuckled softly. "That's the taste of Nyvaris. Honest, powerful, and dangerously underestimated."
As the sun dipped low, Elmesia decided to explore a quieter part of the city—the Circle of Reflections.
It was a garden built in concentric circles, each one resonating with a specific emotion. As she entered the outer ring, she felt a presence—dark, composed, and patient.
And there he was.
Diablo.
The same demon who stood at the gates when she first arrived. Dressed immaculately in a black-and-gold suit, hands behind his back, crimson eyes watching her without apology.
"Elmesia," he said smoothly. "The city whispers your name more and more."
She smirked. "I'm not here to cause ripples."
"But you do, by simply existing." He stepped forward, his voice low, reverent. "You are not what I expected. And for a demon, expectation is everything."
"You serve Varvatos," she observed.
"I exist for him," Diablo replied, voice reverent. "Everything I am… is because of him."
She took a step closer. "Do you trust me?"
Diablo gave a small smile. "The barrier accepted you. That means the city trusts you. And so… I watch. I learn. I do not judge."
Their eyes lingered, silence thick with unspoken things.
Then Diablo bowed deeply. "Should you ever need protection in these lands, Elmesia… remember that shadows can also be a shield."
And like smoke, he vanished.
Velzard stood on one of the high spires of the main citadel, her arms folded tightly, watching Varvatos as he moved through the city—stopping to greet civilians, smiling at children, exchanging brief nods with soldiers.
And later that night—walking with Elmesia again.
She exhaled sharply.
"She's captivating, isn't she?" she muttered.
Moments later, she strode into his private chamber unannounced, the frost in her aura trailing behind her like a warning.
Varvatos looked up from a series of levitating documents.
"Velzard," he said softly. "You're upset."
"I don't like it."
His brow lifted. "Like what?"
"She lingers. She's beautiful, elegant, clever… and you let her get close."
Varvatos stood and approached her, his aura serene. "I allow everyone close… if they have nothing to hide."
"She flirts," Velzard hissed.
He chuckled softly. "So do you."
She looked away.
"She makes me feel uncertain. I don't like feeling uncertain."
Varvatos stepped close, gently brushing a strand of silver-blue hair from her face.
"You are my storm, Velzard. My oldest companion. But you are not my jailer."
She flinched.
"I see potential in Elmesia. For peace. For growth. For… something greater than politics. But she is not a threat. Not to you."
Velzard whispered, "Then why does she make me feel like I'm being replaced?"
Varvatos gently embraced her. "You're not being replaced. You're just seeing another spark… and wondering if your flame still matters."
She gripped him tightly.
And in that moment, neither said anything more.
The light inside Varvatos' chambers was gentle and warm, tinged by the late evening sun filtering through translucent crystal windows. The walls themselves pulsed faintly with magical veins, as if alive—responding to the presence of their sovereign.
Elmesia stood near the center of the room, her cloak draped elegantly across her shoulders, a faint breeze from the open terrace stirring the strands of her silken white-blonde hair.
Opposite her stood Varvatos, his expression calm but unmistakably touched with something deeper—a quiet reverence in his gaze that only surfaced when he looked at her.
And standing a step behind and slightly to his right was Velzard.
Her arms were crossed, and though her face bore the cool detachment of an empress, her glacial blue eyes watched Elmesia with subtle wariness… and perhaps something just a bit sharper.
Elmesia exhaled softly.
"I suppose this is the part where I thank you for everything," she said with a gentle smile. "And then leave with memories I'll never quite be able to explain."
Varvatos inclined his head, his voice low and steady. "You've honored Nyvaris with your presence. And you've reminded its people of grace… not through power, but presence."
Elmesia's lips parted slightly, her breath catching for a moment. Then she stepped forward.
"I would like to return… someday," she said. "If your barrier permits it."
Before she could say more, Varvatos raised a hand and stepped toward her.
"In truth," he said, "I've already prepared something."
He touched two fingers to his own chest—just over his heart—and then gently brought them forward, stopping just before Elmesia's sternum.
A delicate glyph of gold and sapphire light formed in the air between them, floating like a snowflake suspended in time.
"This is a spell attuned to your soul," he explained. "It will recognize you, always. Should you choose to return to Nyvaris… the barrier will not judge, nor reject you."
Elmesia blinked. Her lips parted, then slowly curved.
"I… see," she whispered. "So you've made it impossible for me to stay away."
Varvatos smirked softly, but said nothing.
The glyph glowed brighter, and with a faint pulse of warmth, it sank gently into her chest. Elmesia's eyes closed instinctively, her body responding to the magic like a second breath. When she opened them again, something in her aura shimmered—an invisible bond now tied to the land of Nyvaris.
"Remarkable…" she murmured. "Even your magic is elegant."
Velzard shifted beside them.
"You don't give that spell freely," she said suddenly, her voice like silk over ice. "Not even to dignitaries."
Her gaze pierced into Varvatos, then slid to Elmesia—measured, controlled.
Elmesia met her look calmly.
"Perhaps it's because I'm not just a dignitary," she said with quiet poise. "Or perhaps… it's because your Lord is more generous than he lets on."
A faint tension crackled in the air.
Velzard didn't reply, but her presence alone was enough to stir frost from the nearby columns.
Varvatos remained between them, unbothered. "She's earned it," he said, glancing at Velzard with finality.
A moment passed.
Then Elmesia stepped closer to him. She reached out, took his hand with elegant fingers, and leaned in—just enough to press a soft kiss against his cheek.
"Until next time, my mysterious Lord of Nyvaris."
He didn't flinch. But his eyes lingered on her as she turned, sweeping toward the portal he had summoned.
The oval gate shimmered like a polished mirror, showing the interior of Sarion's throne room.
Elmesia stopped at the threshold and glanced back once more.
"Velzard," she said, tone gentle but meaningful, "you're lucky."
And with that, she stepped through.
The portal closed in a whisper of magic.
Silence fell in the chamber.
Velzard finally exhaled.
"…You've gotten bolder," she muttered, her gaze locked on the spot where Elmesia had vanished. "Or maybe just too soft."
Varvatos didn't respond right away. He walked slowly toward the edge of the terrace, looking out over Nyvaris, his arms behind his back.
"I didn't give her that spell out of softness," he said quietly. "I gave it to her… because she understands."
Velzard's expression shifted—something unreadable flickered there, before she turned to look away.
"Tch. Fine. But don't expect me to smile when she returns."