Far from the Aetheris Empire, a battle roared across the plains. Blades rang like bells of death, arrows tore through the sky, and elemental powers lit the battlefield. Knights clashed in brutal combat, their armor dented, their swords red with gore. Torn banners fluttered in the wind—some ripped from their poles, others trampled into rags.

“Arnold, have the second troops ready to provide suppressive fire along the eastern ridge. Instruct the cavalry to hold their formation. We won’t break their frontline momentum unless we force them into the choke!” Captain Louis shouted.

“Yes, sir!” A knight exclaimed before sprinting off.

Moments later, another knight staggered up the incline where Louis stood. His armor was scorched and fractured, streaked with blood—some his, some not. His shoulders heaved with exhaustion, and his gauntlet trembled as he raised it in salute.

“Sir,” the knight rasped, barely catching his breath, “we’ve lost too many. The healers are overrun, and the mages are at their limit. They’re casting blind now, just to keep them back.”

Louis’ eyes narrowed. He looked out over the field from his vantage point. The knight’s report was true. If they deployed the second troops now—light units armed with longbows and crossbows—they would be sending them to die in melee combat. They were built for support and precision strikes, not for the front lines.

“No,” Louis muttered. “We can’t waste the second unit like that.”

“Redirect the second troops to the cliffs on the western ridge,” came a solemn yet commanding voice. “Have them focus their fire on the enemy flanks.”

Captain Louis turned around.

Standing behind him was a woman who did not belong among the smoke and blood—but there she was, untouched by the filth of war. Her long, flowing brown hair caught the wind like silk, and her golden eyes gleamed like burning halos. Her features were striking—beautiful, ethereal, but her presence carried power and authority.

She was Saintess Liviana, Commander of the Holy Order, the War Saintess of the Aetheris Empire.

“Target their commanders first,” Liviana continued. “We’ll carve the vanguard’s head from its body before I descend and end this myself.”

"Saintess Liviana!" Captain Louis’s voice rang with surprise, then she noticed a man behind her. “And Vice Commander Thoren! What are you doing here? Wait—what do you mean by ‘end this’? Don’t tell me you’re planning to use your divine power on them. Their numbers—”

Thoren Valen, the Vice Commander of the Holy Order, glanced at him, one brow raised with quiet amusement. “Are you doubting her now, Captain?”

“N-No, Vice Commander! Never!” he stammered, bowing his head. “But she is our last line. Saintess Liviana is powerful, yes, but we can’t afford to burn her strength here—”

“You think I don’t know that?” she said quietly. “Rest assured, I will not waste my power.”

She turned her gaze back to the battlefield, “Hold the line a little longer, Captain. When their center cracks, I’ll break through their heart—and then this war ends.”

A few days later, the day of Magnus' funeral arrived. Ludolf’s usual vibrant energy was gone. Genev dressed him with tender care—a role that had only yesterday belonged to his father. Staring at his reflection, he saw not himself but a stranger; the spark in his eyes was extinguished, replaced by grief. He longed for the familiar comfort of his father’s hands, so different from Genev’s gentle yet unfamiliar touch.

“There,” Genev said softly, his own sadness evident in his gentle sigh.

“Genev,” he spoke, his gaze fixed on the mirror, “if Father and I hadn’t gone to the Banquet, would he still be here?”

A wave of sorrow washed over Genev’s face and responded, “Yes, Ludolf. But you know your father; he wouldn’t have missed an opportunity to spend time with his friend, no matter what.”

The logic was sound. Yet, the sharp sting of regret lingered, a painful what-if that tightened its grip on his young heart.

“Come now,” Genev urged gently. “We must go. The tower members are waiting for us.”

They left the quiet room to find a carriage waiting at the entrance, with the tower members lining the path, their heads bowed. Meant as comfort, the gesture only weighed heavily on Ludolf, a stark reminder of his loss. Resentment welled in him—he wanted them to see his pain, not the significance of his changed status. He glared in silent plea, but their heads stayed lowered, until Genev, sensing his distress, gently lifted him into his arms.

Inside the hushed carriage, Genev carefully set him down, offering a small, sad smile. Ludolf, unable to meet his gaze, turned to the window, his eyes fixed on the blurry world outside. Soon, the other tower members joined them in their own carriages.

The funeral was a blur. Ludolf barely registered the ceremonial chants, the murmured condolences, or the way the nobles lined up in solemn rows. All he could do was stare at the coffin—at his father’s face, resting as though he hadn’t just shattered his son's world by dying on him.

He felt numb. A quiet, desperate part of him hoped that if he stared long enough, his father would suddenly twitch, blink, sit up with that trademark grin and say, “Got you again, kid!”  That it was all just one of his pranks again.

Magnus Seraphis loved to tease. He would hide behind doors, switch out wine with vinegar, or tamper with Ludolf’s armor straps just to watch him stumble in front of squires. At the time, it had irritated Ludolf to no end—he would grumble, fume, even threaten retaliation. But deep down, he had always been fond of his father’s antics. Now, standing at the edge of his coffin, he would give anything—anything—to experience those pranks again.

Ludolf stood motionless to the cascade of condolences that had rained down upon him like scripted echoes. “He was a great man.” “He’s in a better place.” “You’ll carry his legacy.” Empty words. None of them eased the heaviness in his chest, nor would they ever stir his father’s heart back to life. Grief had dulled everything, even the need to respond.

As the funeral ceremony drew to a solemn close, the final rites spoken and the last prayers offered, the casket was lowered into the ground beside the tombs of the Empire's greatest heroes—men and women whose deeds were etched into history, the Sanctum of Everlight. Among them now rested Ludolf’s father, once hailed as one of the most powerful mages the Empire had ever known.

Ludolf did not cry.

And then, as if the sky itself wished to share in the Empire’s sorrow, it began to rain.

A hush fell over the gathered mourners as the first drops touched the earth. The sound of soft whispers was soon muffled by the patter of rain hitting umbrellas and ceremonial armor.

Ludolf didn’t budge. He stood rooted before the grave. The rain fell freely on him, soaking through his clothes. The droplets stung his eyes, warm at first, then cold as they slipped down his cheeks. For a moment, it looked as though he were crying again.

The last shovelful of earth thudded into place. A final seal. A farewell no words could mend.

The crowd had long since left, yet Ludolf remained. Genev stayed as well, keeping a quiet vigil a few paces behind, respectful of Ludolf’s need for silence but unwilling to leave him alone.

Moments passed. Then minutes.

Eventually, Ludolf lifted his hand, fingers trembling. A small orb of light blossomed in his palm. It pulsed gently, warm and alive despite its fragility.

Genev’s breath hitched. He hadn’t seen Ludolf conjure anything since he put him to bed few days ago. And yet here, before his father’s grave, he conjured a small orb effortlessly.

“Father...” Ludolf’s voice cracked through the quiet. “I’ll do my best to become someone you can be proud of.”

He closed his eyes. The orb in his hand shimmered, then gently faded into nothing.

Three days later, the western war had reached its bloody end, and the Aetheris Empire emerged victorious. The battle was won under the leadership of Captain Louis and Saintess Liviana, and though the price was steep, the forces of the Empire held the field. For now, they camp near the war-torn plains, catching their breath before the long journey home to deliver news of their triumph.

Knights milled about, bandaging wounds and swapping tired smiles. Some laughed in relief; others sat in silence, grieving quietly for the comrades they would never see again. 

Despite having exhausted her divine power over the past three days, Liviana moved from one injured knight to the next.

“Saintess Liviana, for the love of the gods, sit down already,” came the exasperated voice of Thoren as he crossed the camp toward her. His armor bore fresh scrapes, and blood dried on his gauntlets, but his eyes were sharp with irritation—and concern.

“You look like a candle about to sputter out,” he added, folding his arms.

“I’m fine,” Liviana muttered, kneeling beside another knight and placing glowing fingers over a wound. The light flared for a moment before fading. 

The knight thanked her with a soft nod before lying back in exhaustion.

When Liviana stood, the world lurched sideways. Her knees buckled, and she would have collapsed had Thoren not caught her around the waist in one swift.

“See?” he said, glaring down at her. “What did I just say?”

Liviana blinked up at him, dazed. “I don't remember. Something annoying, probably.”

“You’re unbelievable,” he said, hoisting her up like a sack of potatoes.

“I heal and fight people with divine power and you carry me like a bag of grain. Seems unbalanced.”

“You act like one too,” he shot back. “Stubborn, heavy, and full of righteousness.”

“I take offense to ‘heavy.’”

“I meant spiritually.”

“I’m still offended.”

Thoren sighed, shifting her weight in his arms. “If you pass out on me again, I’m tying you to a wagon and rolling you back to the capital like a broken relic.”

“Make sure they polish me first,” she mumbled, already half-asleep against his chest.

“I swear to the gods…”

She smiled faintly, her eyelids growing heavy. Just as she surrendered to the long-awaited pull of rest, a sudden flutter stirred the air above her.

A white dove descended from the sky and landed unceremoniously atop her head.

It cooed—loudly, frantically—ruffling its feathers as though it had flown through a storm. The strange sight drew the attention of the surrounding knights, who reached for their weapons almost out of reflex. Even in times of peace, a message borne on wings could carry war.

“Ugh, get it off,” Liviana mumbled. “I am not a perch…”

Thoren narrowed his eyes at the dove, “Wait.”

He spotted a tiny scroll tied to the bird’s leg—sealed hastily with a smudge of red wax.

Carefully, he shifted Liviana onto a flat rock nearby, muttering, “Don’t move. And don’t faint. Again.”

“No promises,” she replied weakly, blinking up at him.

Thoren untied the scroll and unrolled it. His eyes scanned the contents in silence. His jaw tightened. The crease between his brows deepened. The color drained subtly from his face.

“What is it?” Liviana asked sharply. “Is it an ambush? A retreat? A counterattack?”

The surrounding knights grew tense, awaiting his answer.

Thoren didn’t speak immediately. He folded the note slowly, like he was still trying to believe what it said.

“No,” he said at last, voice low and clipped. “It’s not the enemy.”

“Then what?” Liviana pressed, attempting to stand again, her exhaustion briefly forgotten.

He met her eyes.

“Magnus is dead.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than any battlefield fog.

“…Huh?” Liviana whispered.

“The message is from the Imperial Secretary,” Thoren continued grimly. “There was a banquet the other day in the castle and some assassins attacked. Magnus protected the Emperor.”

A murmur spread through the injured knights.

Liviana’s face paled as the words settled in.

Magnus was the mage who trained Liviana beyond the boundaries of temple doctrine. While the temple focused on purification, healing, and devotion, his approach was entirely different—unorthodox, even dangerous in the eyes of the temple elders. He guided her down a different path—one centered on building raw strength and mastering combat, a way that perfectly matched her naturally fierce divine power.

He had been more than a teacher. He was a father figure, who had seen her not just as a Saintess, but as someone who could be strong. Someone who could be more. To hear of his death now, delivered so suddenly by a scrap of parchment tied to a dove’s leg, made the world falter beneath her feet.

“He’s dead…?” she whispered, barely audible.

“Magnus is a powerful man. Whatever happened… this wasn’t natural,” Thoren said.

Liviana’s expression hardened, the exhaustion in her bones still present—but no longer enough to anchor her.

She stood up fully this time. 

“We’re going back. Now,” she declared.

“You can barely walk, Saintess,” Thoren said, his tone edged with concern, though his eyes remained sharp. “The other knights need rest as well. They're not machines.”

Liviana met his gaze. “Then I’ll go back alone. If my master has truly died, then I need to know who and how they did it!”

“You’re still stubborn,” he muttered, running a gloved hand through his hair. He sighed, as if already regretting the decision he was about to make. “Fine. We’ll depart today. But the knights need at least two hours to recover, and that includes you.”

Liviana opened her mouth to protest, but he raised a hand to stop her.

“No arguments. You’ll collapse before we even reach the foothills if you keep this up.” He softened his tone. “Rest, Liviana. Two hours won’t change anything—but it might just save your life.” 

She exhaled slowly. “Alright. Two hours.”

Thoren nodded and turned to walk away, but not before casting one last look over his shoulder.

For all the divine power that coursed through her veins, Liviana looked small then—her shoulders bowed ever so slightly and her face pale with exhaustion. Fragile, almost. But in her eyes, that stubborn spark still smoldered.

Thoren sighed under his breath and muttered, “You’re the commander, but I’m clearly the one with the sense.”

Back in the throne room, the Emperor sat tall upon his seat of obsidian and gold. His gaze was fixed on the woman before him—Lady Soriel, not her real name, hiding mysteriously under her black cloak. She was no ordinary investigator. She was a High Seeker, the Emperor’s Shadow.

“You were assigned to investigate the assassination attempt,” the Emperor said, voice low. “Speak, Soriel.”

Lady Soriel bowed her head slightly, her dark hair falling on her shoulders. “I considered Duke Janssen’s testimony, Your Majesty, that the attackers were affiliated with the Sun Empire. However, according to what I uncovered yesterday, four of the assailants were not foreign assailants.” Her voice trailed before turning sharper. 

“They were from this very empire.”