The Kingdom of Aurelion — Excerpt

Aurelion is among the oldest and proudest kingdoms upon the Celestial Divide. Its sigils of gold and light reflect a deep-seated belief that the kingdom's core is nothing less than the heart of the world itself. Aurelion's mechanical technology is regarded as the most refined of its age, forming the backbone of both its military might and its far-reaching ambitions of expansion.

꧁꧂

An early-winter wind slipped into a narrow alley in the northern reaches of Rivain - a place few still bothered to pass through. The street lay dark, yet it flickered with flashes of red and blue, like bare gemstones scattered across frozen stone before vanishing again. Firecrackers.

Tonight, the citizens ate and drank their fill.

The celebration of the newly crowned king had wiped tomorrow clean from their minds.

The stench of helicopter exhaust and gunpowder lingered in the bitter air, mingling with the sharp taste of liquor being passed from hand to hand in the street. They loved such things: feasts, subsidies, and the smell of explosives.

Only... no one loved the starving black cats waiting beneath the tables.

Crash!

"Damn filthy alley cats. This isn't a place for you to skulk around."

The man shouted, then raised his double-barreled gun toward the sky and fired again and again until smoke curled from the barrels.

Joy has its shadow.

Always.

On the rooftops, a dense, arrogant black presence stood watching. It turned away with faint boredom—

as though this wretched scene were something it witnessed every day, so familiar it no longer merited even a twitch of the tongue.

It moved on, unsteady yet resolute, crossing Rivain from the brilliantly lit plaza into the silent, narrow backstreets.

Then it stopped.

A red door stood out amid the washed-out gray of the street.

ANTONIA'S PAWNSHOP.

It lifted its head.

Clink.

The clear chime of a doorbell rang.

Unlike the cold, red-and-blue chaos outside, the interior of Antonia was a different kind of disorder—cozy, cluttered, brimming with warmth, as if the shop heated itself from within.

Objects from all corners of the world crowded the wooden shelves: a music box with a warped tune, a ceramic jar split by a thin crack, an old mirror that blurred the figures it reflected, and tangled chains no one remembered owning.

They had all once belonged to someone—

someone who had promised to return and reclaim them, but never did.

And so they stayed.

Day after day, they blended into the shop. The old clock began ticking to its own rhythm. The oil lamp sometimes flickered to life even when Sinhara forgot to light it. Other trinkets chimed softly whenever the door opened, as if offering a greeting.

Antonia was never empty.

It brimmed with old stories, small pockets of warmth, and objects that seemed to possess gentle, half-awake souls beneath a single roof.

"Antonia's Pawnshop, how may I—"

The teenage voice at the counter faltered.

Right before his eyes, the cat was no longer a cat.

From the thin mist rising off its damp fur, bones twisted and stretched; a hunched spine straightened; black fur sank back into flesh.

In less than a heartbeat, a dark-haired boy with golden eyes and bare feet collapsed to his knees on the tiled floor, gasping.

"You're late again."

Celles said nothing—no, Celles could not speak.

Human language, like human behavior, remained a mystery to his kind.

Sinhara rushed forward to help him, but Celles gently brushed his hand aside—a familiar motion—and steadied himself against the counter, slowly rising on trembling human legs.

Without looking back, he headed straight up the wooden stairs to the loft, his slender silhouette stretching beneath the red light. Perhaps he only wanted warmth... as always.

Sinhara stood still. He drew a deep breath, then began wiping away the streaks of water, fur, and pawprints scattered across the tiles.

Antonia fell silent again, as though nothing had happened.

Ten minutes later, the young man stepped outside. He blew out the lamp and turned the key in the lock with a soft click. The last red glow vanished, leaving only the thick darkness of Rivain's street beyond.

He turned and walked away.

...Then stopped.

A strange sensation—thin as spider silk, cold as early winter—snagged at the back of his neck. As if something were staring at him from behind the door he had just closed.

He turned.

The street lay in darkness. No voices. No footsteps.

The wind threaded through the alley like someone's breath.

And then—

"...Sinhara..."

The whisper sliced through the air, as if spoken right beside his ear. He spun around. A chill raced down his spine so fast his knees nearly gave way.

It wasn't Celles's voice.

Not a drunk's.

Not the voice of anyone who lived on this street.

Again, longer this time, carving through the silence:

"...Sinhara..."

In that instant, he knew one thing—

Tonight... something had entered the city.

Sinhara startled. The whisper dissolved like thin mist as light footsteps sounded behind him.

Tap... tap...

From the stairs leading to the loft, Celles appeared. No longer the drenched, shivering boy from before, but the posture of a thoughtful cat draped over a human frame, ears drooping slightly. In his hands was a gray ball of yarn—the one thing in the shop that always brought him comfort.

Celles bent down, picked it up, and turned it gently between his palms, as if searching for a few rare seconds of joy left in a long day... then looked up at Sinhara with faintly sorrowful golden eyes.

That look—simple, soft as a sigh—pulled Sinhara out of the lingering darkness and the echo of the strange call.

"Probably just the wind."

Sinhara turned quickly, leaving the freezing streets of Rivain behind the red door.

He locked it tight and climbed the stairs after Celles, letting the ominous sounds outside fade away.

In the loft, the oil lamp cast a dim, warm halo of light. Celles had curled up by the window, arms wrapped around the ball of yarn, head resting against the cold wooden frame. Sinhara smiled softly.

"Go to sleep, Celles."

He draped a thin blanket over him. Celles closed his eyes. His black tail twitched once, in reply.

For a brief moment, everything was still.

Only the cold moonlight, Celles's steady breathing, and a small warmth spreading through the attic of Antonia's Pawnshop.

Sinhara climbed into bed, exhaled, pulled the blanket close—and at last allowed himself to drift into sleep.

By the window, Celles slept beneath the pale moon, his small form like a fragment of darkness cradled in the arms of light.

The Satellite Cities of Aurelion (I) — Excerpt

To the north of Aurelion lies Rivain. Mist, steam, and metal form the rhythm of its breath. Rivain lives by heavy industry and warriors. Bordering the Western frontier, danger is a constant presence—ever near, ever watchful. In return, the city is rich in ore veins and metallurgical craft, resources that have shaped both its resilience and its temper.

꧁꧂

A Morning Greeting

Rivain wakes to the sound of machinery grinding against mist.

Low clouds hang like a thin film of oil spread across the air, reflecting the city's signature dull white glow. Every morning is the same: the sky does not know dawn—only the shift from darkness to a slightly colder shade of gray.

Sinhara stood by the attic window, watching steam rise from the pipes running along the rooftops. Clatter—click—buzz echoed without pause, like Rivain's uneven heartbeat when it is forced awake too early.

The street below still slept. Only a few early-shift workers dragged their feet along in silence, heavy coats soaked through with dew.

Beside him, Celles stretched. In his cat form, the black fur along his spine bristled faintly against the morning chill, his ears twitching as if trying to shake off the strange vibrations lingering in the ground from the night before.

Sinhara was about to ask him something when—

Knock! Knock! KNOCK!

The pounding was so sudden that both of them jolted. Celles sprang upright, claws scraping against the wooden floor to steady himself. Sinhara's heart lurched; he nearly dropped the teacup before even taking the first sip.

It was barely past six in the morning.

Who would come at this hour?

The knocking came again, more urgent now, as if the person outside could not wait another second.

"Sinhara! Are you in there?"

Oh—

A woman's voice. Slightly hoarse. Warm. Very familiar.

Sinhara rushed down the stairs, nearly slipping on the last step. Celles—already folded back into his cat form—leapt onto the stair rail, clinging with his claws and peering down with the instinctive wariness of his kind.

Sinhara turned the lock. The door swung open.

A rush of cold mist spilled inside along with a woman wrapped in a deep red scarf wound discreetly around her head. The cloth was thick, a little worn at the edges, but tied with the practiced neatness of someone long accustomed to heading to market before sunrise.

Madam Lira of Sixth Alley.

In Rivain, people called her a cheerful wanderer—because she almost never walked straight. The moment she spotted a stall selling rare ingredients, she would veer toward it, turning a ten-minute errand into a two-hour detour.

Today, she carried a wicker basket brimming with mushrooms. Not common ones, but Eastern brocade-cap forest mushrooms, the sort that rarely made it into Rivain. Tucked beside them were several bundles of dried herbs, thin as strands of hair, carrying the clean bite of wormwood mixed with the faint sweetness of wind-cured blossoms. One sniff was enough to know: this was a woman who cherished food as dearly as her own hands.

"Oh thank the skies, you're finally open!" she exclaimed, as if greeting a grandchild returned from a long journey. "Sinhara, come here, come here. Just like you asked the other day—look."

She rummaged through the basket and drew out a fish nearly the length of her forearm. Its silver scales shimmered in the morning mist like scattered glitter.

"The biggest Mộng Luyến on the boat! I waited at the Eastern Port since last night. The moment it was unloaded, I grabbed it for you!"

Sinhara's eyes lit up. He bowed deeply.

"Thank you so much, Madam Lira!"

"Oh, nonsense." She waved him off, dimples deepening despite the cold. "You sent word two days ago. If I hadn't saved it, how could I ever face Sil?"

At the mention of his grandmother, Sinhara smiled, a little awkwardly.

"She... she'll be back soon."

"Is that so?" Madam Lira beamed. "That's wonderful! Be sure to send her my regards. Tell her I'm still keeping a few mushrooms that are 'a bit overripe,' but wonderfully soft—perfect for someone coming home from a long road."

She winked playfully, then pulled her scarf tighter as a gust of wind cut through the alley.

The basket of mushrooms swayed lightly against her thigh as she turned, her hunched but decisive figure slipping back into the pale gray mist crawling down from Rivain's rooftops.

Only a few seconds passed before she vanished completely.

Sinhara stood in the doorway, the Mộng Luyến fish still cold in his hands, steam rising from it like breath.

Behind him, Celles hopped down softly, touched his nose to the fish's head, and blinked his golden eyes.

Sinhara laughed.

"Not for you."

Celles flattened his ears, flicked his tail once, then turned to lick the dew clinging to his black fur—a small gesture, but enough to draw warmth back into Rivain's morning.

Sinhara gazed at the shimmering fish in his hands, then suddenly remembered.

"Wait..."

He straightened. One ingredient was still missing.

A spark of excitement flashed in his eyes—light and buoyant, like a morning that still held something to look forward to.

"There's time," he muttered, glancing back at Celles with a faint smile.

"An hour before opening. I'll run to the market for Psalm leaves and be right back. Watch the shop, Celles."

Celles—in cat form—stood on the counter chair, tail curling into a question mark. He tilted his head, golden eyes glinting. But he didn't object. He only blinked once, then tucked himself in, ready to steal a bit more sleep from the morning.

Sinhara shrugged into his thick cloak and grabbed the worn leather bag from the corner. The surface was smooth, the edges frayed, but the clasps were solid.

It was a premium Rivain fireproof satchel—the only kind that wouldn't scorch when embers spat from exhaust vents.

As he slung it over his shoulder, the familiar weight settled him. The shop brightened faintly as he cracked the door, mist slipping inside.

"I'll be back soon," Sinhara said, then closed the door, leaving Celles curled in his warm nest.

꧁꧂

The Steamlight Market

The street leading down to the Steamlight Market was a long corridor pieced together from overlapping sheets of old metal. Every step Sinhara took rang out with a clang, as if he were walking through the belly of an aging iron beast.

Steam burst from the pipes lining both sides, sometimes hot enough to force him to dodge aside. In the pale morning light, a weathered metal bridge stretched over a canal of ash-colored vapor. It had been welded together from scarred steel plates, its sides streaked with rust-red stains, its iron veins ready to peel away if anyone stepped too hard.

Sinhara paused. One look told him it wouldn't last another winter.

He inhaled and stepped on. The bridge groaned. He kept going, even hopping over a loose plate poised to drop into the canal below.

"Two years and still no repairs..." he muttered. "The Emperor loves showing off metallurgy, but Rivain lives with collapsing bridges and toilets that won't flush."

A gust of wind shoved white steam across the bridge. Sinhara pulled his scarf tighter and quickened his pace.

Ahead, the Steamlight Market emerged from the thinning mist.

Stalls were built from dismantled machines of a bygone century, torn apart and welded into new forms: some displayed goods atop old steam-engine housings, others hung baskets from piston rods, and a few used broken motors as tabletops.

Everything was old—

yet vibrant, alive, like a heap of scrap that had learned to breathe.

The smells of smoked meat, morning greens, machine oil, and mist blended into a scent that was unmistakably Rivain.

Sinhara threaded through the aisles, hand tight on his fireproof satchel. Just a few more rows, and he would reach Madam Brios's stall—the one famed for selling everything fresh... so long as there was enough light left to see it.

Then—

"Soldiers! Soldiers are here!"

The shout slammed through the market like a stone striking metal. Sinhara froze. Heads snapped up all around him.

A man clambered onto a shelf, face drained of color.

"It's—the Silver-Helms!"

One heartbeat.

Then the market transformed into a familiar, chaotic machine, driven by the survival instincts of Rivain's people.

Vendors moved with astonishing speed: a pure-gold timepiece was shoved into a sack of rice, hollow energy shells buried beneath wilted vegetables, forbidden mechanical parts swept under tables and covered with torn cloths.

In seconds, all that remained on the counters were cheap goods and ordinary food.

This was Rivain's darker side—a quiet form of self-rule that lived in the cracks of the system. Poor, crowded places that belonged to the city and yet stood apart from it. The safest places to earn a few coins from expired goods.

"Damn it..." someone muttered. "What are they doing here this early?"

Before anyone could answer, the ground trembled—heavy movement.

Thud, thud, thud...

From the far end of the market, shapes emerged through the bright mist:

Rivain squirrels—massive, muscular creatures nearly shoulder-high, wrapped in thick fur against the cold, hind legs powerful enough to bound across rooftops like the wind. They were ridden almost exclusively by the military, prized for their ability to charge through Rivain's narrow terrain.

On their backs sat soldiers of the Silver-Helms. The largest wore white-silver armor, a polished silver helm smooth as a ground moon, the crest of Aurelion engraved on his chest. His gaze was arrogant, as though the market's poverty offended him.

One squirrel leapt down near Sinhara, the force of its landing scattering scraps of paper. The rider swept his eyes across the crowd, voice cold and imperious.

"This market is under sudden inspection. Everyone—stand still."

The air thickened. A few elders bowed their heads. Sinhara stood rigid, heart pounding, his hand tightening instinctively around the satchel strap.

The Steamlight Market—the liveliest place in Rivain's mornings—fell silent, like metal flash-frozen in place.

Another soldier whispered to his comrade. A nearby vendor trembled as he asked,

"What are they doing here at this hour?"

No one answered. All Sinhara knew was that the appearance of the Silver-Helms was never a good sign. And if they were here now, then something had begun the night before—something Rivain had not been ready for.

A soldier stopped in front of Sinhara, white-and-gold boots clanging sharply against the metal floor.

"Boy." He shoved a sheet of paper close to Sinhara's face.

"Have you seen this man pass through here?"

Sinhara looked for one second.

Just one—but it was enough to send a chill down his spine.

"No, sir. I've only just arrived."

The soldier frowned, suspicion digging into Sinhara's throat as if to root out a lie. But he said nothing more.

Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a pink candy, bit down hard—and shouted:

"By order of the Emperor!"

The sound tore through the air, making several vendors clap hands over their ears.

"A cunning thief skilled in disguise has stolen a Royal artifact.

A great reward is offered for any information. Anyone who shelters or conspires with him will..."

The soldier lowered his voice—but the final words rose, sharp as a silver blade.

"...be granted an audience with Vaedran Noct."

The market seemed to lose its breath.

The Droughtkeeper.

The name was worse than death. No one truly knew what he did—only that the punishment did not end with oneself, but reached everyone one loved.

Someone whispered, voice cracking like glass.

"It's come to this..."

The soldier stood unmoved, eyes hidden behind the rim of his silver helm. He raised the notice high and barked across the market:

"He is hiding in Rivain! Search everything!

No one leaves this market until he is found!"

The air grew suffocating. Mist, oil, scorched metal—all fused into a single choking layer.

Sinhara tightened his grip on the satchel, heart racing. Not because he feared the soldiers—but because something about this order felt... wrong.

Without hesitating another second, Sinhara ducked low and slipped between two stalls being searched. A mechanic hurriedly shoved contraband beneath a table, accidentally casting just enough shadow for Sinhara to slide through.

"Sorry... excuse me," Sinhara whispered, barely louder than breath, and kept moving.

A shout rang out somewhere:

"Stop that one!"

He held his breath. His chest lurched. But the pursuing footsteps veered in another direction. He seized the moment—and ran.

When the vegetable stalls came into view, he skidded to a halt. Madam Brios's stand—but she wasn't there. Likely detained like the others.

On the damp wooden counter lay a bundle of Psalm leaves, untouched, green edged with pale violet like spilled ink.

"Thank you in advance..." Sinhara murmured, heart hammering.

He grabbed just enough for the stew, then slipped a small Lumen coin from his pocket and set it on the wet wood. The sound it made was so soft it felt like an apology.

Behind him, shouts and armored footsteps thundered through the market. A Rivain squirrel scrambled onto a rooftop, claws screeching, sending sheets of tin clattering down.

There was no more time.

Sinhara tightened the strap of his worn satchel, cast one last glance around—and bolted from the market, cutting through the bright mist like a metal sprout breaking free, heading for the narrow street that would take him back to Antonia.

The metal bridge shuddered beneath his feet as he crossed, iron bars clanging as if ready to tear loose.

Only one thought managed to surface in his mind:

I was just getting ingredients... how did this morning turn into this?

But at least—

tonight's stew would still be done properly.

The Celestial Divide — Excerpt

The Celestial Divide is a natural belt encircling the world along its vertical axis, where atmosphere, energy veins, and machinery converge into a single current of life. Only upon this band can kingdoms rise and endure. Beyond it, the world returns to the wild—and nothing there guarantees survival.

꧁꧂

The walk back from the market took longer than Sinhara expected. At every turn, a squad of the Silver-Helms stood posted, their Rivain squirrels springing from roof to roof, poised to spot the fugitive the moment he showed himself.

Sinhara had to circle through three alleys, squeeze through an old pipe, then follow the edge of an abandoned factory before he dared return to the main street.

When he finally saw Antonia's red door, he almost sighed with relief.

The lights were on inside.

Sinhara jolted.

Had he been gone that long? Celles must be entertaining customers...

He hurried to the door, smoothed his coat, and began, "I'm sorry to have kept you wai—"

SLAM!

The door crashed shut behind him. A cold line ran down his spine, as if someone had laid a hand on the back of his neck.

The room was completely... empty.

No one at the counter. No one in the guest chairs. Only the soft creak of old mechanisms breathing inside foreign curios: a warped clock, a music box gone silent, a cracked ceramic jar.

"What...?" Sinhara tightened his grip on the satchel strap. "Celles?"

Nothing answered.

His instincts screamed that something was wrong. He slipped a hand into his leather bag; his palm closed around something brutally cold— Glacial Sage-Crystal.

He drew a breath and eased up the wooden stairs. The third step creaked—familiar, usually harmless, yet today it sounded strangled.

At the top, the loft door stood slightly ajar.

"Celles?" He pushed it open.

Dim light spilled out... and on the cold boards—

Celles lay bare, trembling violently, as though wrestling his own body. His claws were smeared with blood, scored with deep scratches, as if he had fought something invisible with all his strength.

Sinhara lunged forward.

"Celles?! What—"

Golden eyes snapped up at him, furious.

"Ah..."

A man's voice rolled from above Sinhara's head—low, heavy, drawn out.

"I was only teaching your creature a little... about hospitality."

Shff—

Something drifted down, slow and deliberate.

A paper effigy slid along an unseen current, hair inked in smeared strokes, eyes hollow as ash-stains, hanging weightless directly above Sinhara.

He stumbled back, heart hammering.

Sinhara didn't think. He hurled the Glacial Sage-Crystal straight into the effigy.

HISS—!

Violet-blue light burst outward, biting into paper like embers sinking into skin.

The effigy convulsed, then split apart into thin layers, unfolding wide like metal leaves forced open. Through the torn storm of paper, a massive man emerged—broad-shouldered, beard thick as steel wire.

He laughed, hoarse and dry.

"Oh... Frostbane, is it? Then I've come to the right place."

Sinhara retreated another half-step, his voice catching.

"...Who are you?"

The man dipped his head slightly. His eyes—sharp as cooled bullets—dimmed for a brief moment, as if he found the question delightful.

"Greetings," he said, voice deep as stone on a whet. "I am Ardyn Valeon.

A potential customer of yours."

His gaze slid toward Celles, still shaking on the floor.

"But it seems your creature failed to recognize that, and rushed to greet me with claws and teeth."

His tone held no anger—only a lazy, amused mockery.

Sinhara frowned, moved to help Celles up, and pulled a thin cloth from the rack to drape over his trembling shoulders.

"No form of Arcane Craft is permitted inside this shop," he said, forcing his voice to remain even. "Please refrain."

At that, Ardyn narrowed his eyes, then let out a small sigh like someone who had been neatly caught.

"All right, all right..." He lifted both hands, letting the teasing fall away.

"My apologies—for the... unintentional display."

He turned and started down the stairs, each step heavy as old metal striking stone.

"Shall we talk downstairs?" he asked.

"Rrr—!"

Celles hissed, raw and threatening.

In an instant he snapped back into a black cat, fur bristling. He sprang in front of Sinhara, planting himself between the boy and Ardyn—small as a scrap of night, ready to bite the intruder's heels.

Ardyn did not stop. He did not look back. He only chuckled softly in his throat.

Sinhara held his breath. The strangeness of it all slowed his thoughts by a heartbeat—then he forced himself steady, scooped Celles into his arms, and followed.

꧁꧂

Everything here is magical!

Ardyn was already downstairs, hands clasped behind his back, eyes moving slowly over each object in Antonia. Beneath the oil-lamp glow, his curiosity looked thoughtful—almost reverent.

"This shop..." he murmured, "is packed with singular memories of the New World."

Sinhara hugged Celles closer.

His voice wavered with worry, but remained polite. "You... mentioned the New World?"

Ardyn turned, and for a brief moment his eyes brightened, as if he had found something worth savoring.

"Yes. After the Celestial Divide took shape, most of the finest works of the previous world were buried in the Western Half. This New World has endured for centuries, and yet—"

He picked up a music box with a twisted spring, turning it over like an appraiser.

"—I can say this with certainty: not a single relic in here is ordinary.

Even if they are all 'New World' objects."

Sinhara went still.

It was the first time he had heard the phrase New World spoken like a truth.

"So... there was a world before this one?"

He was so thrown that he nearly forgot to offer tea.

"Would you... like some?"

Ardyn laughed, as though Sinhara had finally asked the question he'd been waiting for.

"Very much."

Sinhara poured the tea, his hands still faintly unsteady. Celles climbed onto a high wooden shelf and sat there, watching Ardyn like a black shadow on guard.

Ardyn took a sip—then asked the question that tightened the air.

"Oh? Sil never taught you any of this?"

Sinhara's head snapped up, eyes flashing.

"You know my grandmother?"

Ardyn didn't answer at once. He reached into the heavy folds of his coat and drew out... a letter.

It was strangely beautiful—pale gold paper, folds unfrayed, fine patterns running along the edges like threads of light. At its center was a shimmering seal, as if it would open only for the right hands.

Ardyn turned it once between his fingers, his voice low.

"Ah. This is unmistakably her craft—the Binding-Fold Seal."

Sinhara swallowed. "Where is she?"

Ardyn's expression softened by a fraction.

"On her way back. Yes—so am I. We're returning along the same road."

Then he shrugged, lightly, as if it were nothing at all.

"We simply... separated for a while."

Sinhara's breath caught. He took the letter. The moment his finger touched the seal, the metallic sheen cracked with a faint click, and the paper unfolded by itself—as if it exhaled.

Sil's handwriting appeared, soft as the first wind of a new season:

"Ardyn is an old friend of mine,

Grandson.

I will be late returning.

Save me a portion of my favorite fish stew.

— Sil"

"Again...?" Sinhara muttered under his breath.

He hadn't even finished the thought when the letter shivered—then began to fold itself, crease by crease, smaller and smaller, until it became a tiny paper bead no bigger than a bean.

Sinhara stared at it, irritation rising in the familiar way of someone long used to Sil's unpredictable habits.

He stood and went to the glass jar on the shelf. Inside were countless tiny paper beads just like it—each one a letter.

He dropped the new bead in. The jar filled by one more corner.

Ardyn watched, a faint smile on his lips, like a man who had just finished a particularly enjoyable chapter.

"I've always liked the way she sends letters," he said quietly.

"Neat, clever... and leaving no trace."

The shop fell silent for a few minutes.

Ardyn set his teacup down gently, then tilted his head as if listening to music only he could hear.

"Thank you for the tea," he said—lightly, yet with a hidden edge.

"I heard there's stew tonight. I hope it's Dream-lust fish. The two of us will need... a good dream."

Sinhara gave a strained laugh, forcing his breathing to steady.

"I'll start at once. The essence is dense—you have to simmer it four or five hours over a red flame before it concentrates enough for pleasant dreams."

Ardyn nodded as though he savored the explanation more than the tea itself.

"Not many boys your age understand biology so correctly." He glanced toward the satchel.

"And the sprig of Psalm leaves—what is that for?"

"Decoration," Sinhara said.

A beat of silence—

then both of them laughed, sudden and relieved, as if cutting straight through the tension Ardyn's arrival had brought.

Sensing the room lighten, Celles finally loosened his stance. He snorted softly, turned, and padded back up to the loft, his black fur gradually settling into its usual sleek shape.

꧁꧂

The Main Meal Comes Last

Night fell in a strange way.

The sky was too clear for a Rivain winter, the moon too full for a season when heavy steam should have smothered the city whole.

The wind carried the scent of Dream-Lust fish stewed with Psalm-Leaf into every narrow lane. It was a rare fragrance—clean and sweet, with an undercurrent of concentrated essence capable of soothing even the most restless dreams.

The room beneath Antonia glowed with a gentle, humming gold. The stew pot sat at the center of the low wooden table, its broth thickened into a pale, silvery green—like moonlight captured and held at the bottom of a bowl.

Sinhara smiled.

"Careful. It's hot."

Ardyn leaned back in his chair.

"I raised Dream-Lust for three seasons. Trust me—they're far more vicious than Rivain squirrels."

From his perch on the shelf, Celles added a puzzled mrrr.

Ardyn laughed.

"He says he disagrees, doesn't he?"

Sinhara scratched his head.

"Um... maybe."

The air was warm—rarely so.

For a fleeting moment, Antonia felt once more like the safest place in the city.

Until—

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK!

Three blows, heavy as hammers.

"This is the Royal Army!

A search order has been issued!

You are required to cooperate!"

The shout cut through the room, cold and sharp.

Sinhara sprang to his feet.

"This is Antonia," he called back. "Protected by an Oath—"

But the voice outside answered with a contemptuous snarl:

"I don't give a damn about any oath!

This is defiance of royal command!"

Then came the order:

"BREAK IT DOWN!"

Antonia's red door burst inward, hinges tearing free like snapped metal wings.

A squad of the Silver-Helms poured inside, white-and-gold armor reeking of gunpowder and hot oil.

Their commander glanced at the wanted notice—then at Ardyn.

His face lit up like a man who had struck gold.

"That's him!

The thief impersonating a court official!"

Sinhara reeled.

Ardyn—the wanted man?

And Grandmother Sil... how had she become entangled with someone like this?

Still, his voice rang out, clear and firm.

"This is Antonia!

Leave now, before things turn worse!"

The soldiers burst into laughter.

"Bold words, kid."

The commander spat onto the floor.

"Harboring a criminal earns you a meeting with the Droughtkeeper!"

Ardyn sighed, lifting his hands slightly, palms open.

"Oh... I never did like that title."

Rrrsh—rrrsh—!

Hundreds of paper shards shot from his hands, spinning through the air like a whirling storm of blades.

Sinhara shouted over the rising wind:

"Please! No Arcane Craft in here!

I'm the one who has to clean this place!"

The wind stopped.

The paper fluttered down—harmless.

Ardyn turned his head. His expression twisted in the span of a blink.

"No...

That wasn't me—"

CRASH!

His flesh cinched inward, as though crushed by an invisible hand from within. Muscles twisted. His neck snapped down, as if dragged toward the floor. The sound that followed was like hell itself chewing on a soul.

In the space of a heartbeat—

Ardyn vanished.

Nothing remained but a green stone, no larger than a thumb joint, rolling across the floor—its sheen like the eye of some deep-forest creature.

Sinhara stood frozen.

"What... just happened...?"

The commander roared:

"WHERE IS HE?! WHERE DID YOU HIDE HIM?!"

But from the doorway—

"Over here, you bastards."

Everyone turned.

A dark figure stood at the threshold, beard sharp as steel blades, eyes firing a gaze like bullets.

Ardyn. Unmistakably.

Sinhara gaped.

"AFTER HIM!" the commander shouted.

Ardyn shot off like an arrow, his shadow tearing into the alley beyond, his feet never quite touching the ground—as if the darkness itself were dragging him along.