After the mage completed his report, there was a long still silence in the Patriarch's office, only interrupted by the chirping sounds of birds returning to their nests at dusk. The light from the setting sun, coming through the window to the left of the Patriarch, illuminated the figures of all men in orange. The long shadows of them on the floor, barely climbed the walls on their right.

The men, who once held their heads up high with dignity, couldn't dare to lift it. Their watery eyes glimmered. A few sniffles interrupted, but the silence was kept—not to be broken, as if mourning the dead.

It was only shattered by an abrupt sound from Wiksel. He clenched his teeth, and a sharp "What?" escaped, as he slapped the mage who gave the report thus far. "What do you mean we couldn't grieve the dead? Do you think we just moved on?!"

"What?" The mage looked into the eyes of all the survivors. Their gleaming eyes stared at him.

One of the Woldtor mages snapped, "Are you mocking us? Huh? Or the dead? It is only you!" He tried to grip his collar, but before he could, the mage collapsed.

His hands trembled on the floor, and sound of sniffles came before droplets of tears fell, shimmering under the sunlight. A guttural cry escaped him, shortly melting into continuous sobbing. He whimpered, "Was...was it only me?" and banged his head on the floor.

The thumping sound filled the room—only to be interrupted by the Patriarch, "Enough!"

At the order, the mage stopped. The light grey floor below him was tinged in crimson. He faltered as he stood up. The blood dripping from his head reached his chin, mixing with his cold tears and wetness of his weeping.

Patriarch cleared his throat to say something, but before he could, he was interrupted. The mage, who tried to grip the reporter, bared his teeth against Wiksel. "And who are you to give a lecture? When you killed Anthor from your own hands?!"

"What do you mean?!"

"If-" The mage sobbed before completing his words. "If only you hadn't closed the door! Anthor would've been here."

"What do you mean? What do you mean, huh? If we had waited for Anthor, those knights would've reached us!"

"But...there weren't any more knights...Sir Anthor had taken care of them!"

"Are sure there weren't anymore? No matter how good a warrior Anthor was, he wouldn't have been able to fend them off! He is nothing without magic!" A subtle smirk emerged across Wiksel's face before he said, "He is not Fyorn!"

The mage mumbled, "Don't...."

"Huh? What?" Wiksel asked, confused.

That mage's eyes were furious, more than when they were from losing Anthor or others. He choked Wiksel's neck, and gritted his teeth, "Don't take that thief's name!!"

With some struggle Wiksel finally got off from that mage's grip. His eyes furrowed and he roared, "What? What are you angry about?" He pressed his finger against that mage's chest while saying, "It was you guys who couldn't defeat a magic-less knight....It was you guys fault that you guys who couldn't protect the runic weapon of your family."

The mage yelled, "Wiksel!"

At the heated temperature of the room, the Patriarch huffed and slammed on the desk. But the mage didn't hesitate from glaring at the Patriarch.

From behind, a hand reached his shoulder. With the same furious eyes he looked at the person. "Vencil," he said—greeting his teeth.

"It's enough," Vencil replied, tears streamed from his eyes.

"But-"

"Don't..." Vencil, with his eyes glimmering with tears, glared at Wiksel. "And you! Don't dare talk about things you know nothing about."

"Hmph," Wiksel didn't utter another word.

The Patriarch couldn't hear them bickering anymore, he gave up and faltered on his chair. In disbelief, he swiped his hand on his face. "So the expedition was a failure?"

With a few exceptions, the room stood in silence. Then, the rest broke, saying in unison, "Yes."

The Patriarch placed his hands on his desk in steeple. His head rested on the extended thumbs while his index fingers pressed the centre of his forehead. After contemplating for some time, he drew out a deep breath before asking, "Why didn't you all come back after realising you couldn't use magic there? According to the report, you all had many chances. The casualties would've been far lower, from what they are."

At the Patriarch's question, none of them could say anything. They didn't know themselves why they proceeded with the expedition. 

The Patriarch didn't stop for them to answer, either. "After escaping the first ambush and learning that you couldn't use magic, you had the chance to return. But no! You all kept going. Learning swords, hunting for food, escaping beasts. For what? Your goal wasn't to see how long you all can survive. It was to find a new world to inhabit. When you all find out people, you should've came back. But no! What were you thinking? To make some treaty with them to let us stay? Huh? Answer me!"

The mage who gave the report mumbled, "N-no..."

The moment the Patriarch heard him break his silence, he snatched the paper weight from his desk and hurled at his head. "You stay shut," he said with glaring eyes.

The reporter faltered two steps back from the shock. Frightened from the sight, another mage gulped. His voice trembled as he said, "Th-there was...the cooldown of the artefact, your Highness." His eyes barely opened from the fear of being hit.

"But it was only for two weeks!"

The collapsed mage's eyes widened at those words. He mumbled, "There was...a cooldown?"

Another mage standing beside the reporter said in whispered, "What? You didn't know?"

The reporter was taken aback and stood frozen. No other word came from his mouth. He stayed there, weeping.

Unbeknown to what was occurring in the back, the Patriarch continued, "After finding a safe space, you should've stayed there until the cooldown."

"Yes, but," the mage replied. "It's not that there was no magic at all. It's that...we couldn't use it..."

The Patriarch shook his head, "So you all decided to keep moving? For what?!"

The mage hesitated, then admitted in defeat that he didn’t know.

The Patriarch scanned the faces of all, looking for someone to have an expression that told that he knew some explanation. After finding none, he left a long sigh in exhaustion and dismissed them all.

They were turning to get out, but when the reporter turned around, Patriarch stopped him, "Hey you! Send a servant on your way back to clean up this mess you've created."

"Y-yes..." he said.

The news of failure spread through Antila's main estate in Sealm, and soon throughout the city. The hope people tried to cling to vanished. They were compelled to look down on the survivors, who couldn't justify their reckless decision that had cost lives. Still, there were some who sympathised with them, and the estate was split into two.

Two days later, when the surviving Woldtor members reached their capital city Holdan, the expression of the people wasn't too different from Antila's. By the time they entered the main mansion, the sun had already set and the moon was up—unravelling what occurs at night with its pale light. The patriarch of Woldtor, Deric, couldn't wait and called them in his office to report.

One of the men restated the expedition in front of the Patriarch. As he went through the incidents, others' heads kept bowing down and down. At the end of the report, Deric took a deep breath, it wasn't filled with grief—it was neutral. There weren't much changes in his expression. After a few minutes, he asked, "So... Anthor died?"

The reporter replied, "N-no..."

"But you said he was left behind."

"Y-yes, but we are not sure...he might be alive..."

"Oh. So you're saying, you are planning to go back to look for him?"

At the Patriarch's question, the reporter broke out in cold sweat—as though the whole expedition went through his eyes again. He took deep, short breaths, and said, "No..."

"Then...he's dead."

There wasn't much to discuss any further. Deric was in deep thinking. This was a failure. Don't know how many more, before we'll find a new place...

He lifted his head, the men still stood there with their heads down. "What are you waiting for? Leave."

It didn't take long for the news to spread across the estate, and by the next day, it also reached the outer mansion. There, a lonely soul had been waiting for his husband's return, but what returned was the news of his departure. Her room was filled with wails—deteriorating her already fragile health.