CHAPTER 5: The Other Half of the Truth

Eidrite Frost Ore — Excerpt

Eidrite is a cold, violet-hued ore found only beneath the frozen strata of Rivain. All of Rivain's most powerful seal-breaking reagents originate from this dangerous mineral.

Glacial Sage-Crystal — Excerpt

Glacial Sage-Crystal is refined from Eidrite. When activated, it detonates into a burst of blue-violet light, forcibly exposing and suppressing all forms of Arcane Craft–based disguise. Its activation may induce disorientation or temporary stun.

꧁꧂

Morning tea?

No sooner had Sil set foot on Rivain's ground than a tall figure followed close behind her. He looked to be around Sinhara's age, yet nearly one and a half times larger—broad-shouldered, arms coiled with muscle, tall enough that his head nearly brushed the helicopter's doorway.

He wore neither military uniform

nor the livery of a noble household's steward.

Instead, he was clad in the ancient attire of the eastern woodland elves: a short forest-brown cloak, beneath it a fitted layer of dark green leather armor hugging his chest. The stitching ran in patterns like natural wood grain, and the sleeves were slit just enough to reveal faint, pale scars beneath.

Around his neck hung an unusual pendant—a long, dried leaf, so desiccated it was almost translucent like thin ice. When touched, it rang with a clear ting, metallic rather than brittle. This was a Forest-Needle Leaf, a guardian talisman of the woodland elves.

Few in Rivain ever saw such an object, for the tree that bore it grew only along the eastern slopes of the world, where sunlight lingered all day yet the ground never truly dried.

He inclined his head to Sil, the gesture both respectful and unforced.

"Madam, just in time for morning tea."

Sil laughed warmly.

"Of course. I knew it."

She lifted her head and called out,

"Sin! Come here and have tea with me!"

"Yes, Grandma!"

Sinhara answered brightly, though his feet still felt numb against Rivain's cold ground.

Before the words fully left her lips, Sil turned sharply to the side.

"And you as well."

Sinhara barely had time to wonder which 'you'—

Fsssh—!

A paper effigy burst from behind him, slicing through the air with a shrill hiss. It made no sound of its own, did not tremble, required neither Glacial Sage-Crystal nor any revealing reagent. It simply tore itself apart midair—layers of paper curling inward, then bursting outward like drifting ash.

From the thin smoke stepped a man.

Ardyn emerged as though he had merely walked from behind Sinhara's shoulder to Sil's side.

"Greetings, Madam."

He placed a hand over his chest and bowed lightly.

"I trust there is no one else aboard this aircraft besides yourself and... that steward."

Sil laughed aloud, her voice ringing like crystal bells.

She did not answer the question.

The woodland elf—Oaken—had already moved to the edge of the helicopter, unfolding a small collapsible table with movements so gentle they seemed rehearsed by nature itself. He set it neatly in place. Three wooden chairs followed: one for Sil, one for Sinhara, one for Ardyn.

On the table rested three golden gato cakes, shimmering as if each contained a captured drop of late-season sunlight. Beside them were three steaming cups of tea brewed from Twilight Faeleaf, a leaf that glowed faintly only when touched by hot water.

It was an absurd scene:

a tea table in the middle of an empty field;

three hot cups;

a scholar matron, a woodland elf, a pawnshop student—

and a wanted criminal.

Sil took her seat, light and precise, like a book being gently closed.

She tilted her head and asked at once,

"I trust you've kept the stone well."

Sinhara froze.

"You mean... Mirrakin? The green stone? Yes... I placed it in a Sigillum Vial."

Sil laughed, pride clear in her voice.

"Very good. It seems you've grown far more adept with anomalies these past months."

She had just summoned Sinhara to tea when she turned back again.

"Oaken."

The woodland elf understood immediately. He slipped a hand into his thick leather coat and withdrew a small steel talisman the size of his palm. Its surface bore concentric patterns like tree rings, yet when light passed over it, the metal gleamed cold silver.

He bowed slightly and placed it in Sil's hand.

Sil extended it toward Sinhara.

"This is a Boundary Sigil. You will need it for your studies ahead."

Sinhara blinked.

"Studies...? What do you mean?

What about the shop?"

Sil set her teacup down. Her eyes shone as though she had prepared these words for many years.

"Sin, you will need a better school than the books in this house... and better than my own inadequate lectures."

She smiled gently, but behind that smile lingered a shadow of worry.

She continued, slowly,

"Conflict is spreading across the Celestial Divide.

The Crown requires strategists... and I cannot remain in Rivain forever."

Sinhara lowered his head, fingers tightening around the Boundary Sigil.

"You bear the name Veylan," Sil said, pointing softly at him.

"Keepers of relics. Watchers of the old things.

Our family has understood anomalies since birth—

something you have been doing all along, without ever realizing it."

Sinhara swallowed hard. He had always believed he was merely helping his grandmother tend the shop.

"But... what is there left to learn out there?"

Sil sighed, gazing up at Rivain's unusually clear sky.

"For years, I believed relics would always find their way to Antonia's red door.

But beyond this city lie artifacts far more powerful—

and they do not belong to any single hand.

The duty of our family

is to keep them from falling to darkness...

and to pass them on, at the right moment, for the sake of what is good."

Sinhara looked at her, his thoughts tangled like knotted ropes.

"And that," Sil said quietly,

"is why our family has always been seen as the Emperor's armory."

Then she gestured toward Ardyn.

"With war looming, you must leave Rivain.

Your first teacher... will be Ardyn."

Sinhara jolted so violently he nearly dropped half his teacup.

"Ardyn?! But— isn't he a traitor?"

Before he could finish, Ardyn laughed, leaning back in his chair.

"Then I suppose both of us are guilty of treason now. Ha!"

Sil did not laugh. She placed a hand on Sinhara's shoulder, her voice lowering.

"I know you still have many questions.

But on the road ahead, what must happen...

must happen soon.

You will find the best answers yourself."

Before she could say more, Oaken leaned in close, whispering in a voice like deep forest wind, then the woman looks seriously to them:

"The walls have ears.

The Silver Helms are approaching.

You two must leave at once.

Do not waste too much time on an old woman."

Sinhara's eyes widened, emotions crashing together—

confusion, fear, sorrow, anger, and a childlike sense of loss.

"Grandma... I... there's still so much I haven't—"

Sil could only smile sadly.

"I know. But now is not the time."

Oaken did not wait.

The massive muscles of his arms expanded, then twisted, unraveling into countless living wooden vines. They wrapped around Ardyn—who had stood up too slowly to evade them—and then around Sinhara, enclosing the two in soft, bark-woven cocoons.

"Hey—wait—!"

"What is this—?!"

Then—

WHOOSH.

Oaken wrenched them both off the ground and surged forward. They were dragged across the dry grass, past the forest's edge, hurled more than a hundred meters in mere seconds.

Wind screamed past their ears.

Sinhara shouted.

Ardyn cursed.

And behind them—

Sil remained standing alone in the open field, silent, like a book just folded shut...

yet not fully closed.

꧁꧂

The paper man, the great general

As he was dragged roughly through the tree canopies, Sinhara could no longer register anything beyond the wind tearing past his ears and the frantic pounding of his heart, as if it were about to burst. Everything that had happened since last night twisted together into a single, suffocating spiral—thoughts fractured into pieces that refused to assemble into any clear shape: Sil still had so much left unsaid, half-formed sentences lingering on her lips. Then there was Ardyn—who had saved him, threatened him, laughed like a madman, and yet had been chosen to be his... teacher. How trustworthy could a man like that possibly be?

A violent gust lashed across his face, forcing him to blink, but the smoky confusion inside his mind refused to disperse. War? The future? A school somewhere beyond Rivain? The concepts felt so distant that he barely recognized them as things bearing down on him, pressing an unreasonable weight onto his shoulders. How had his small, warm, quiet life been torn apart so suddenly?

Why did he have to leave... and why now?

The question died in his throat, leaving him stranded in the cold, damp forest, ripped away from the only place he had ever called home. In that moment, Sinhara wanted nothing more than to cling to something familiar—but his hands closed on nothing but air.

"PUT ME DOWN, YOU WOODEN ABOMINATION!!!"

Ardyn roared beside him.

Oaken dragged the two of them along like marionettes bound in living vines. He did not respond. His face remained expressionless, forest-green eyes never flicking in their direction.

Until—

CRASH.

Oaken halted so abruptly that the ground beneath his feet cracked faintly.

He released the vines. Sinhara and Ardyn slammed onto the forest floor, scattering dry leaves, like two sacks of potatoes hurled into a market stall.

Oaken turned back and spoke.

"You will continue on your own.

When the time is right, leave Rivain.

Travel south across the world.

The destination will reveal itself when the journey ends."

His voice was low, resonant.

"These are Sil's instructions."

With that, he placed his broad palm against the trunk of a nearby tree—and dissolved into the forest, like a woodland spirit returning to its roots.

No sound. No footprints. Nothing remained but the scent of sap and the lingering rhythm of stirred air.

Sinhara stood there, stunned, for a long while. Only when the morning breeze tugged at the scarf around his neck did he fully realize where he was.

"This is... the Northern Forest?"

The Northern Forest of Rivain answered with its own particular silence.

Above them, a streak of daylight starlight tore across the sky—a phenomenon unique to this place.

"Is that... refracted light?" he wondered aloud.

Ardyn brushed dust from his coat and muttered,

"The Northern Forest. Fantastic.

We're supposed to head south, and that walking log throws us north instead."

Sinhara sighed, fingers still clenched around the Boundary Sigil.

"We have to go back to Antonia."

Ardyn spun around, tossing his tangled hair aside.

"And do what?

Didn't you hear anything just now? The city's crawling with soldiers, hunting down whatever broken toilet lid you haven't even finished hiding yet."

Sinhara started walking immediately, without replying.

Ardyn stood still for a few seconds.

"...Stubborn kid."

He exhaled sharply, then shrugged.

"Fine.

If you're going back, then we'd better do it fast."

He crouched and kicked at a length of metal piping embedded beneath the packed earth.

The pipe shuddered—clack, clack, clack—then sprang open, revealing a circular hatch like an emergency shaft.

Ardyn pointed at it.

"A shortcut.

One of Rivain's old steam arteries.

Runs straight south, under the city."

Sinhara peered down into the metal opening, thin steam drifting upward.

Ardyn folded his arms.

"You want to go back to the shop?

Then... I'll show you the way."

Sinhara hesitated at the edge, chest still tight from the frantic escape, doubt freezing his foot on the first rung—but there was no other path left.

Below lay a world utterly unlike Rivain's surface:

A long metallic corridor stretching into darkness, curved like the ribcage of some colossal beast. Pressurized pipes lined both walls, swelling and contracting with each pumping cycle, releasing the unmistakable sounds of hiss... thrum... screech.... Beneath their feet ran worn rails, glinting with old reflective oil. The air was thick with machine heat and sharp metal cold, yet strangely—patches of silver-glowing moss clung to leaking vents, making the place resemble an inverted forest mechanized into steel.

Ardyn dropped down lightly, as if long accustomed to the height and the slick footing. He dusted off his shoulder and said with casual pride,

"Relax. I used to work down here. A long time ago—but I still remember every bend."

He tapped one of the oil-slick rails. The tong echoed back in answer.

"This is Rivain's old haul-line system—cargo transport before they upgraded to newer pipes. And I'm fairly certain," he smirked, "we'll get lucky. Might even borrow a trolley that runs straight back toward your shop."

Sinhara looked up at the tunnel ceiling, where coiling shadows of pipes overlapped like the ribs of a lost giant. Worry still simmered in his chest, but at least... this route felt closer to Antonia than any forest trail.

Their footsteps echoed along the metal corridor, weaving through the steady hiss... thrum... of compressed steam. Reflections from the curved pipes overhead rippled into wavering halos of light.

A sudden scrape—skitter sounded ahead.

Sinhara halted.

From the darkness, a pack of steam-ferrets scurried across the path, their tails sparking faintly whenever they touched the ground. Their eyes glowed red like warning lamps, thin armor plating rattling as internal pressure pulsed through their bodies. They raced along the rails, swift as living shards of metal.

Ardyn barely spared them a glance.

"Don't mind them. These things track steam lines better than guards ever could," he muttered.

Sinhara watched until the ferrets vanished around a dark bend. Amid the steady mechanical rhythm, he found himself asking,

"Ardyn...

How did you and my grandmother meet?"

Ardyn chuckled softly—the sound lifted, as if Sin had asked about some prehistoric age.

"Meet? That was many years ago. I was on assignment during an imperial audience."

He stepped over a leaking pipe, small sparks licking at his boots.

"I was there for... professional reasons.

Sil, on the other hand—she was invited to evaluate a collection of 'priceless relics' the Emperor knew nothing about, other than the fact that they looked expensive."

He scoffed, the sound ricocheting through the tunnel like metal striking stone.

"She passed me like a gust of wind. Didn't look, didn't greet me, didn't care who I was."

He shrugged.

"But within three minutes, she had the entire imperial court shouting at one another, because the ancient vase hanging in the audience chamber turned out to be... a fake."

Sinhara gaped.

"She... really did that?"

Ardyn laughed.

"Who could stop her? That was how we ended up working together."

He tilted his head toward Sinhara, his voice slowing.

"Sil is a brilliant strategist. If she tells you to leave Rivain... that isn't a suggestion, kid."

Sinhara was about to ask, What exactly were you doing there— when a voice rang out from the far end of the tunnel.

"Oh my, General—what are you doing down here?"

Sinhara jolted and looked up.

At the end of the steam conduit, beneath drifting white vapor, stood a broad-shouldered man holding a massive silver wrench—large enough to serve as a weapon. His oil-worker's coat reeked of metal, blending him almost seamlessly into the pipework behind him.

Ardyn laughed, his voice booming through the tunnels.

"Martin! Long time no see.

Everything holding up down here?"

Martin approached, wide-framed and weary, yet his eyes shone.

"It's been a year since you last came down.

People are... doing better. But—"

He gestured around.

The conduit opened into a vast space, like the heart of a well:

an underground factory buried dozens of meters beneath Rivain.

Boilers burned red-hot.

Iron conveyors ran without pause.

Mechanics and miners worked side by side, laboring over blue crystals—Glacial Sage-Crystal—hauled up from drilling shafts deep within the root-layer of the land.

Amid the heavy stench of burned sap and steam, Martin sighed.

"...I don't think this place will hold much longer."

Ardyn nodded faintly, his gaze sweeping the workshop as though he knew every gear, every valve.

"Don't worry.

It won't be long now."

He placed a hand on Martin's shoulder—half reassurance, half promise.

Then he turned to Sinhara.

"Oh—right. Allow me to introduce—"

Martin broke into a hearty laugh.

"So you're Sinhara! Lady Sil's only grandson.

Seems someone even more famous than the General's come down here."

Sinhara blinked.

"You... know me?"

Martin planted his wrench on the ground and nodded proudly.

"How could we not?

Every piece of metal down here knows you and Lady Sil."

Ardyn cut in, urgency returning to his tone.

"But we're in a hurry.

I'm hoping that thing is still operational."

Martin understood at once and nodded.

"Of course.

We've kept it intact, just like you asked."

That thing...?

Sinhara felt a prickle of unease crawl up his spine.

Martin led them through the factory along a narrow path reserved for skilled workers. At the end of the corridor stood a recessed chamber, its steel door curved like a bunker hatch.

A rusted sign read:

"RESTRICTED AREA – DO NOT USE"

Martin unlocked the latch.

The door screeched open like an aging beast.

Inside, the light was dim, a few oil lamps trembling.

At the center sat an old freight cart—barely large enough for two people—mounted on a twisted rail system plunging deep beneath the city. The tracks bent sharply, steep and winding, vanishing into steam like contorted metal bones.

Sinhara went pale.

"Oh no..."

He had seen rails like these in books. They were designed for light cargo—not people.

And the slope ahead was nearly vertical.

Ardyn clapped a hand on Sinhara's shoulder, half-grinning, half-threatening.

"Congratulations.

This is the shortcut."

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