CHAPTER 3: A dangerous guest

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.

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