AceGreen

Posts updated Aug 5, 2025!

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TRAS Chapter 143: A Knight of Shadows

Bea had only ever heard his name because her mother sometimes whispered it in her sleep. Sometimes crying. Always tender. A secret kept, because it was a conversation too big for Bea to have. 

Sigurd.

When Bea realized it was her father’s name, she kept it like a secret too. It was a name she wasn’t supposed to know, for a man she’d never met. The only proof she had that he cared were toys he sent with every change of the season. 

But just thinking about his name made her happy. He was always there in her daydreams, lingering at the corners of her world, nothing and everything at once. Never quite real, yet just enough of a phantom for Bea to fill in the blanks and imagine. 

Was he kind? Was he mean? 

What kind of job did he have?

What kind of things made him happy? 

…Did he ever miss her and her mother? 

Did he know that Bea missed him, even though they’d never met? 

Before Bea knew it, she already loved the father she’d never met. And that was scary. Because Bea felt what all children understand before they can speak it—that sometimes the things you hope for most are only imaginary. 

But now…

He was real. Just out of reach. 

A burst of light shone broke through the darkness, and sang like crystal chimes in the wind. And Bea’s father—

He had silver hair. Sharp blue eyes. He raced toward Gerhardt without any hesitation, his sword glowing bright white. 

To Bea, whose faith in goodness begun to waver in the darkest hour, her father looked like an angel. But the blood that ran down his face, the cuts and scrapes all over his armor… 

The arm that was dangling like it hurt to move. 

These proved he wasn’t really an angel. He was just a regular person—giving everything he had to save her and her mother. 

Bea felt a lump in her throat and sniffled. 

“Papa…” 

She bit her lip, resisting the urge to call out to him. 

Just like Voltus had said, her father’s eyes looked fearless. With just one arm, he was fighting for their lives. Gerhardt’s swings came down, big and heavy, but it was her father who was stepping forward. 

And once he’d reached a certain spot in the throne room…

“Kylian!” Sigurd shouted. 

That’s when another sword coated in light came flashing down from above. 

______________________

The forest had slowed down. And through his emerald eyes, Ailn could see that the smoky fog had actually gotten thinner. Maybe that was because Puck had lost one of his obsidian eyes. 

But Ailn’s instincts told him these woods were more dangerous than ever. Before, the fog had moved like breath: slow, natural, alive, and everywhere. Now it felt shallow. Desperate. Like the forest was gasping. 

And that desperation was starting to show in Puck’s frantic tactics. 

‘Your Highness, turn around!’

Camille’s voice was shouting behind Ailn. 

He ignored it. Through the green-tinted, crystalline vision of the emeralds, he caught a patch of dark fog condensing in his peripheral view. He jumped out of the way just in time—it struck a tree and dispersed, but not before carving a chunk clean out of the trunk. 

Ailn heard the quick rustle of a small body fleeing through the brush. 

‘What makes you think you’ll ever be my real brother? You’re just a disgusting fake.’

Swiftly yet calmly, Ailn chased after Puck, keeping his eyes peeled for the fog, scanning for movement. 

The forest sagged, vines grabbing weakly, roots brittle enough to stomp through. The green shimmer was fading everywhere, yet still pulsing faintly.  

Puck’s voice echoed through, sharp and taunting, yet fraying at the edges. At the same time, the smoky fog started to curl around Ailn, bleeding into his emerald vision like a warm breath on cold glass. 

‘You’re an interesting one. You’re like me and Bea, aren’t you? But you’re different. You’re an impostor. That body shouldn’t belong to you.’

He was completely surrounded by the smoky fog. And he had a feeling it wasn’t safe to breathe. 

Worse, spikes were beginning to congeal within it. 

Ailn pulled his coat over his face and twisted sideways, narrowly avoiding the first spike that lunged toward him. 

He dashed forward, dodging spikes as they came, weaving through trees—all the while covering his face with his trenchcoat, only lowering it once he’d finally broken through the fog. 

That was when he heard a voice. 

One that was erased from memory, but which his soul never forgot. 

‘Hey! You never wait for me! I was getting my shoes on!’

His heart stuttered. That was all it took. A spike caught his side, tearing through his geomisil coat.

______________________

Was it fate that had dragged them all here, or was it just memory? 

Whatever part of Gerhardt still lingered chose the broken seat of his bloodline for his final stage. And the knight who turned back seven years ago—never once setting foot in the palace—now leapt in through its shattered roof instead.

It was a huge, cleaving swing, guided by all the holy light he could call forth. 

The blow would have killed one of the miasmatic tigers from the northern wall in one fell swoop, and yet Kylian’s sword only made it part-way through the dark knight’s shoulder. 

He grimaced, flaring his aura again to wrench his sword out of the miasma. His holy aura simply couldn’t cut through the miasma as sharply as Sigurd’s—there was a reason he was called the divine blade. 

Within moments, Gerhardt’s shoulder reformed—pauldron and all—as his dark blade came sweeping toward Kylian’s head. 

But with a swift and precise parry, Kylian shunted the shadowy sword aside, creating a gap. 

That was all Sigurd needed. He closed the distance in a blink, sword thrust toward Gerhardt’s neck—only for it to be caught by the dark knight’s bare hand. 

Sigurd’s aura flared brighter, divine light flooding down the blade and into Gerhardt’s flesh. The dark knight convulsed. Its form rippled. 

This was their chance. 

While Sigurd’s divine blessing anchored Gerhardt in place, Kylian broke into a sprint—racing toward Ciel and Bea. 

He was halfway to the mother and child before he felt the shift in the air. 

Gerhardt had dispersed into mist, reforming right above Kylian in a taunting echo of Kylian’s opening maneuver. The miasma twisted around his hands, forming twin jagged blades pulsing with shadows.

Both blades crashed down, but Kylian sidestepped the blow, ducking under Gerhardt's swift yet reckless backswings, slipping to the dark knight's blindside and cutting low across its heel.

The moment of imbalance exposed Gerhardt’s flank, and Sigurd was already in motion, slicing clean through one of Gerhardt’s arms like butter. 

In an instant, both of Gerhardt’s arms warped into tendrils, lashing wildly at the both of them. 

Roughly as Kylian had anticipated. He’d caught the tail-end of Sigurd’s fight in the amphitheater. He fell into a defensive rhythm, his blade catching each flaying strike just enough to redirect them. 

Both knights weaved and parried through the flurry of slashes looking for an opportunity. Sigurd’s aura began to hum louder and glow brighter. 

“Now!” Kylian shouted. He knocked one of the tendrils off-course and darted forward. The second skimmed his cheek, and Gerhardt finally drew blood. But Kylian was already inside his reach. 

His blade punched into Gerhardt’s rib. Sigurd closed in from the flank. Two clean slashes—one high, one low—severed both tendrils before they could pull back; an upward thrust drove through the dark knight’s jaw. 

Kylian heard Bea’s terrified squeak, and noticed Sigurd subtly stiffen. 

But there was no time for hesitation or regret. Their holy aura ignited in unison. A radiant chime rang out, and the whole room flashed bright. 

The dark knight’s knees buckled. 

There was a hissing noise. Its armor softened—then glistened like black wax—while its cloak began to sag. 

The pale glow in the dark knight’s eyes was starting to dim. Neither holy knight’s aura let up. But the remnants of Gerhardt’s limbs stirred. Sigurd flinched.

“Draw back!” he shouted. “Now!”

Two new arms burst from Gerhardt’s ribs. Where there should have been hands hung jagged cleavers, both swinging wide and swift. The tendrils returned, joining the frenzy. 

What stood before them could hardly be called a man. And every failure to finish the fight would only make the creature in front of them stronger.

They couldn’t let this go on. 

It had to be destroyed swiftly and utterly beyond mending. 

______________________

“Dammit!” Ailn growled, half from pain and half from sheer frustration. 

He’d screwed up. He really screwed up. With that one unforced error, the hunt had flipped.  The spike bit into his side. It wasn’t deep… but he could feel it invading his body. 

‘Catch me if you can, Ailn. I’ll help you remember what you lost.’

Puck’s echo rang out with the kind of bitter glee usually reserved for no-good adults. And hearing it in a child’s voice made it all the worse. 

Ailn dashed off in the last direction he’d seen Puck heading. If he didn’t keep moving, he was going to be skewered. 

His senses sharpened. He caught the faintest tremor rippling through the fog, gathering near some distant branches. 

Was it more spikes? No…

He drew his sword, slashing before he ever saw the vines lashing out. But the sudden movement aggravated his injury and pain shot through his ribs. 

‘So... hypothetically... if someone close to you forgot about their history report and needed help with an all-nighter …’

His head throbbed. 

Focus. He had to focus. Where? Where was he? 

If he were Puck, where would he hide? The spikes came from the glade. Did he head back to the bell tower?

‘I… I had that nightmare again.’

Ailn’s eyes snapped upward. Congealed spikes rained down. He dove forward and they struck the ground behind him. More came from the same spot, so he rolled behind a tree trunk.

He tried to gather his thoughts, but they kept scattering like clouds. 

Should he cut his losses and try to get back to Camille? 

He wasn’t even sure if he could get that far. 

Ailn had underestimated how much strength Puck had left. And Puck took advantage of that complacency—letting Ailn wander in, and trap himself. 

The uncertainty that spikes could come from anywhere at any moment kept him second-guessing every move.

‘You always get stuck in your own head. Sometimes I wonder if you’d ever even notice if I was gone.’ 

Ailn took in a sharp breath.

He tried to ignore the cold, hollow something opening up in his chest—like he’d just stumbled across his own heart long forgotten in the back of a freezer.

‘...Why didn’t you ever find me?’

______________________

Holy light cascaded over Gerhardt, unraveling the darkness and burning through shadow. The miasma hissed, evaporating off his body—no, his body itself was evaporating. 

And yet… 

He was unkillable. Unstoppable. Invincible. When their blades sliced through his body, or the divine light poured into his soul… 

He felt nothing. He was numb. Their attacks were little pinpricks, dissolving as the miasma drank the pain. They could slash him to pieces, and he’d still rise more complete than before. What was the divine blessing compared to this? 

Gerhardt felt good. Because he was being remade. 

He wasn’t simply healing—he was becoming.  

Something immortal. Something which never felt pain. 

It was only a matter of time. 

Were two whips not enough? Then let there be three—however many it took to scourge his enemies. If he was too craven to wield blades, then all he needed was to fashion his fingers into claws, his fists into hammers which could shatter their faith.  

If he were still but a man, Gerhardt would have screamed. Yet the pain never reached him. It drifted somewhere far away, dulled and at the edge of sensation. The miasma surged to fill the lack and refine him. 

If only the Blancs had accepted the miasma sooner. If only they’d been given the chance. 

They could’ve been kings and princes of the dark, instead of jesters pretending they could ever be holy. 

They were never meant for honor. They’d never deserved dignity. 

The night Sigurd marched into this throne room and cut down Gerhardt’s kin, not a single noble died.  

Only pigs had been slaughtered.

TRAS Chapter 142: Monster

Bea and Ciel landed hard, skidding across the ground before coming to a stop. Even wrapped in her mother’s arms, it hurt—like her entire body had been rattled straight through to her bones. But Bea wasn’t worried about herself. 

She wasn’t the one who’d taken the full force of the fall.

“Mama!” Bea called out. Ciel’s arms were still wrapped around her in a tight embrace. 

Bea tried to gently shake her awake, but Ciel didn’t respond. Bea’s throat tightened. She pressed herself closer, resting her head against her mother’s chest—and felt it rise and fall.

Her mother was alive. But she was seriously hurt. 

“I’m sorry, mama…” Bea whispered. “I always… hurt you…” 

Every cut. Every scrape and bruise. The scary swelling on her mother’s head from when she hit the ground. Bea felt like her little hands had caused every one of them. Her tears slipped down her cheeks, pattering onto her mother’s, right where the big cut was.

“I can’t cry…” Bea said. “I’m not the one who got hurt… I’m the one who was wrong…” 

But she couldn’t stop herself. All her best efforts had so badly hurt the one person she loved most in the world. Suddenly, the questions of right and wrong that had always guided her felt like they meant nothing at all.

So when the whisper in her head tried to tell her she’s been doing her best…

“I don’t wanna listen to you…” Bea said, voice cracking. “...Don’t talk to me… anymore…” 

And the whisper went silent.

________________

Those who misunderstood Varant’s duty believed that the shadow beasts were the Azure Knights’ natural enemy. 

The opposite was true. The knights were theirs, and the beasts were the scourge of the entire world. Varant was the only bulwark against the darkness—the sword and shield in a battle whose quiet and remote nature belied its import. 

Only the Azure Knights could hunt the shadows. And yet the creature which stood in the center of the amphitheater… 

Felt like a monster meant to hunt them. 

Where had it even originated? The miasma had suddenly swept into the theater, suffocating the mercenaries. 

Sigurd leapt into the arena, rushing the creature with his holy aura ignited. But the moment he swung, he was shocked by the answer of a blade. 

The creature had a sword of its own—jet-black. 

In the light of his aura, Sigurd could finally make out the creature’s form. It was the perfect inversion of a holy knight—armor darker than adamantine, a cloak of pure shadow sweeping behind. Only its eyes glowed, pale white against the rest of its silhouette.

It was observing Sigurd. Even as they locked blades. 

The knight of darkness opened its mouth, as if to speak—but no words came. All that flowed out was more black and billowing smoke. 

Miasma once again threatened to fill the amphitheater, and Sigurd readied his holy aura to clear it. But the knight held its hand to its mouth as if frustrated. 

And then it dispersed into mist. Sigurd chased after it, yet it crossed to the amphitheater’s upper exit in just a breath. 

That exit led to the inner palace—where Sigurd had hoped to find Ciel and Bea…

The knight’s glinting eyes met Sigurd’s once more, holding his gaze for a few seconds as it raised its sword—a challenge. 

Then, slowly, it pointed the blade in the direction of the palace’s deepest keep. And that was the moment Sigurd realized who it was. 

“It… can’t be…” Sigurd muttered. 

Ever since Aldous confessed to creating shadow beasts by feeding the obsidian jar’s miasmatic substance to the dogs in Varant’s kennel, a corner of Sigurd’s mind had asked—what would happen if man consumed it?

Now he knew. 

Gerhardt vanished from the amphitheater. 

The message was clear.

There were only three living souls left now. And dozens of corpses. Less than an hour ago, an audience was jeering for Sigurd’s death. Now those spectators littered the stands like garbage left after a terrible performance.  

Propped up weakly against the parapet’s inner wall, Alera coughed up a fit, to the point there were flecks of blood on her palm. Her gaze drifted sidewards toward her former comrade Voltus—yet another corpse. She felt as if she were about to join him. 

“I apologize for not reaching you sooner,” Kylian muttered. 

“How can one plan for a man suddenly transforming into a wretched abyssal creature?” Alera replied weakly. “Hhrk!”

The former duke they’d expended every effort to save came running up to the parapet. 

“Who came?” Sigurd asked urgently, skipping all pleasantries. “Are the knights in Amière?” 

Alera supposed the situation called for it. Still, she felt pretty awful not getting so much as a nod after all she’d gone through for the man.

“Only Ailn, Camille and I are here,” Kylian said. “I arrived with Ciel. They’re all attempting to reach the bell tower in search of Bea.”

“Then Ciel and Béatrice are actually here…” Sigurd muttered. “Then so long as we secure the bell tower—”

“I am loath…hhrk… to bring grim tidings,” Alera said, voice tight, “but I saw a rather remarkable sight sailing through the air toward the inner palace.”

Sigurd’s blood ran cold. 

The final act to their long night was already unfolding. For at that very moment, just at the edge of the inner palace, the shadow who was once a man materialized from dark mist. 

The dark knight slowly stepped forward. 

Before him lay a woman who he’d once called kin, wounded and unconscious. And sitting next to her in tears was her daughter, shivering as she held her arms out protectively in front of her mother.  

“No!” Bea cried out. “Leave mama alone!” 

Seizing the mother and child, the dark knight bore them toward the Blancs’ throne room. The amphitheater was never the proper stage for their final battle. And now Gerhardt had ensured that Sigurd would follow him to where it all began—so that the two of them could finally end it. 

________________

Outside the glade, Ailn was checking his own logic. 

His name was Robin. But Ciel had called him Puck… Those names couldn’t be a coincidence. Surely. 

Ailn had to be certain here. He’d already been burned once for misjudging someone as a reincarnator. If he was wrong again, it really was curtains for him and Camille. 

“...Alright, Puck,” Ailn said. “You win. I know a foregone conclusion when I see one. And I can tell you care about Bea and Ciel in your own strange way. The true course of love never did run smooth, right?”

There was an unguarded and wistful chuckle. 

‘Swift as a shadow… Short as any dream. We could’ve been friends, Ailn.’

Well, as long as he wasn’t trying to trick him like Ashton—

Then again, he had the name of a trickster spirit. And the echo stone message that had landed the Azure Knights in the dungeons was basically a prank call.

…This wasn’t getting anywhere. 

‘Are you coming?’

“Sorry!” Ailn called back. “Camille just… looked like she was about to cry. Ugh!”

Rubbing the rib she’d jabbed with her gauntlet, Ailn dispelled his emerald eyes as they entered the glade. Puck waited on his hollow log like it was a throne. A discarded lantern lit his face from below, catching him in a harrowing glow that made him look even more uncanny.

His eyes were jet-black. They reminded Ailn of the obsidian jar. 

The implications of there being obsidian shards gave Ailn a headache. 

“Both of you toss your swords aside,” Puck said. “I’m going to take her memories first.” He turned to face Camille. “Disperse your blessing.”

Ailn gave her a glance, praying she would listen to him. Her expression wrinkled in bafflement and frustration, but she tossed her sword to the side, and her holy aura went dark. 

Then, Ailn pulled his sword out of his sheath as if he were going to follow suit… And he rushed at Puck, slashing at the fake child. 

His sword simply caught on Puck’s miasmatic skin. Vines pulled Ailn’s sword aside, and seized both of his hands. 

“Lord, what fools these mortals be…” Puck mumbled, sounding disappointed. “...I thought you were smart enough to figure out you can’t hurt me, ‘Ailn.’”

“Guess I just had to give it one last shot,” Ailn said. He tried to shrug, but the vines kept his shoulders stiff. So he gave a last bitter smile. “...Turns out I had a hard time letting Bea go.”

“She’s a lovely girl,” Puck said, a hint of pity in his voice. “But she’s ours. Not yours.”

His eyes slowly turned jet-black, all the way to the sclera.  “Don’t worry. You won’t miss her. It’ll be like the two of you never met.”

"Yeah... that's what I'm afraid of," Ailn said, smiling sadly. He met Puck’s obsidian gaze. 

And he manifested his emerald eyes. 

Puck’s jet-black eyes widened. 

“Emerald eyes…?” Puck mumbled. “What—”

Puck cried out in pain and squeezed his eyes shut—covered them up with his hands like he was playing peekaboo. The vines which were holding Ailn tossed him aside for good measure.

“What did you do to me?!” Puck cried out. 

“Normally, it doesn’t hurt the other person…” Ailn muttered, perplexed as he pushed himself off the ground. He was sure that he’d retrieved Puck’s eyes. But when he looked up again—

One of the boy’s eyes was still black.

Ailn had managed half a second of eye contact. Enough for the process to start—but apparently not enough to finish it.

Ailn had landed just a few meters from their swords. He rushed toward them. Vines lunged for the swords—faster than he was. They were going to reach first. 

But the vines sagged at the last moment.  

“Camille!” Ailn shouted, grabbing their swords from the ground and tossing hers. 

Camille seized her sword from the air and manifested her aura, immediately starting to chop through the willows which had given them so much trouble before. They were sluggish and lethargic—still moving like animals, but easier for Camille to handle. 

Puck ran into the woods. Ailn glanced back at Camille. 

“I’ll keep the willows at bay! Whatever you did with your eyes—finish it, Ailn!” Camille yelled. 

“Don’t get hit in the head!” Ailn yelled. 

Then he chased after Puck, to play one last game of hide-and-seek. 

________________

In Ciel’s nightmares, time always rewound. The bruises would return upon her ribs, the nicks upon her hands, and she’d cover herself in the shabby poultices she could cobble together…

She’d become a young girl again—one who had forgotten she ever grew up. 

Her nightmares often found her in her room kept perpetually dark, so no one would ever know whether or not she was home. And her mother always lurked at the edges, a monster just out of sight, whose dull voice still echoed where her wasting body couldn’t reach.

‘Your light’s as dim as your head you little incompetent... Someone has to take care of you! Come now!’

Ciel held her breath. She could see the monster’s shadow in the light spilling underneath the door. 

She remained as silent as possible while it drifted past.

There were days when the words hurt worse than the cuts. Mothers mend. So why did hers always try to break her?

…And why did she still let it hurt, when she knew from the start her mother hated her?

The dim-headed child hugged her knees, as the shadow shrank and finally disappeared.

________________

Bea knelt on the ground by the stump which used to be a throne, trembling, as her still-unconscious mother’s head lay in her lap.  The shadow man had taken them back to the throne room. 

Then, as if he couldn’t stand the light, he snuffed out every torch in the chamber one by one. The only light that remained came from his pale, glowing eyes. 

“Are you going to hurt us…?” Bea asked. 

The shadow man said nothing. He only stared. 

Despite how strange he looked, Bea didn’t think he was nearly as scary as Emily. It hadn’t been long since Bea had been chased around the bell tower—dropped from its walkway, left to hang on its edge. 

She’d even fallen off and flown through the air. 

All of it had been terrifying. But for little Bea, who had never seen the worst of what people could be, almost as terrifying as sheer drops and howling winds was Emily’s sheer malice. 

The shadow man’s eyes weren’t mean like Emily’s were, and he didn’t smile crooked—though Bea wasn’t even sure if he had a mouth. 

Bea thought he looked very sad. And tired. 

Looking at his glowing white eyes for a long time—the only things in the room Bea could even see—she came to a realization. 

“Mister… Gerhardt?” Bea asked. “Why do you look like that…?”

His  eyes widened. They even seemed to get a little brighter. Bea could tell he was surprised.

“Can you not talk anymore?” Bea asked. 

He said nothing. 

“That’s sad…” Bea whispered. 

And before she knew it, her eyes were wet. It was too dark for her to see even the blur of tears. But she felt them dripping down her face. 

“You want to hurt us… because papa hurt you once,” Bea said. “And papa got hurt once when his mama died. Everyone… hurt each other back-and-forth…”

Her voice wobbled. In the silence and darkness of the throne room, with only Gerhardt to talk to, Bea started to cry. 

She’d tried so very hard not to think it. But now she couldn’t avoid it—the thought that all the ruin around her might have been brought about by her father’s hands. Just like her own best efforts had led to every wound on her mother's body.

The small child, for the very first time in her life, was reckoning with the idea that there might be unfixable cycles of pain. That grudges could stretch back before memory, and live on beyond a time anyone could see.

The whisper of the past was silent. Her bright visions of the future were dark.

Bea was only in the present, in a hollowed out throne room where her mother still hadn’t woken up. 

Gerhardt didn’t say anything. Bea didn’t expect him to. She didn’t know what to expect anymore. But the look in his eyes changed ever so slightly. 

For a while, they stayed in that quiet dark, saying nothing. 

Then Bea heard a faint echo. A shouting voice. She didn’t know whose it was. 

“Ciel!” the voice shouted. “Béatrice!”

Béatrice? The only one who’d ever called her that was her Uncle Ailn. She knew he was here… but it didn’t sound like him. The voice was sharper. More resonant. 

Bea gasped. 

“Papa…?” She whispered. 

Next to her, Gerhardt’s eyes turned angry. 

The sounds of footsteps got louder, and she squeaked as she heard the throne room door slam open. 

Then, in a brilliant flash of divine light, she saw her father’s face for the first time. 

Posts updated! July 31, 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 141: By Wind

The forest floor gave way to mossy cobblestone, just as Ciel remembered. This time, however, there were no guards at the base of the bell tower. 

Her daughter was waiting for her. Ciel felt her heart pounding, but she didn’t slow. She only went faster. Bea was just at the top. Waiting. Hoping. Afraid. 

She pushed the door open, charging up the spiraling stairs that had dizzied her when she was a child. The bell had long since stopped tolling. But the silence only made her climb feel louder.

“Bea?” Ciel called out as loud as she could, her voice breaking. “Are you up there, Bea?! Mama’s here—I’m coming to you now, so don’t be frightened…!”

Ciel’s footsteps echoed higher and higher into the tower…

_______________

Bea was terrified. 

Emily was the scariest person she’d ever met. She was smiling—a big smile with angry eyes. And as the woman slowly climbed up the dusty rope ladder into the belfry, Bea finally understood.

Emily wanted to hurt her. 

“Your papa just takes… and takes… and takes…” Emily said, with a scratchy laugh. She struggled to get up the ladder, leaning to one side and panting. “Every time I try to take something back… he finds a new way to cripple me.”

The woman reached the top at least—then paused, turning her body to show Bea why she’d had such a hard time. 

Her arm hung there. It swung from side to side without so much as a twitch from her fingers. “I’m like a broken doll now. Isn’t that funny?” Emily rasped, her teeth bared. “Your papa didn’t even cut the side that was already missing fingers. No, he had to ruin the good one. Isn’t that just hilarious?”

Bea slowly shook her head. She was too scared to move. Too scared to even cry. 

But Emily lunged forward. “Laugh!” 

Bea’s feet finally listened. She scampered back, and Emily’s three fingers grazed her cheek as she fled to the edge of the belfry. It wasn’t very big. 

“If you don’t laugh,” Emily spat, “it just becomes pathetic.”

Emily slowly crept forward, then managed to grab her—full strength, with the arm that still worked. And Bea bit her. Hard. As hard as she could. 

“ARRGH!” Emily let out a pained growl.

Bea ran as fast as she could to the ladder. She got about halfway down. But her foot caught on a rung, and she lost her balance trying to yank it free. 

For a moment Bea dangled upside down, her arms flailing. But her foot finally freed and she fell the rest of the way down. 

Emily jumped down right after her, landing right in front of Bea with a thud  that made the little girl squeak in surprise.

“And now you owe me too,” Emily murmured, her smile barely there. She held up her hand to show the teeth marks. 

“So… what’s it going to be, little Bea? A tumble down the stairs, or a fall from the tower?”

Bea tried to run past her but Emily cut her off. 

“I made a decision for the both of us,” Emily snarled, grabbing Bea with her uninjured arm. “Now come on—let’s count how long it takes you to reach the bottom.”

The woman grabbed Bea by the collar of her dress and yanked her upward. Bea thrashed, arms and legs swinging wildly, her feet hitting Emily’s stomach again and again—but the woman didn’t stop. 

She kept moving. Out onto the walkway. Towards the rails. 

They were finally there. As Emily hoisted her up, Bea felt her feet brush over the metal rails. She seized up, gasping, dangling over the edge like a doll. There was nothing beneath her now but air. 

It felt like the wind was wrapping all around her. It was so cold and so loud in her ears. 

“Oops… this hand’s not what it used to be,” Emily whispered into Bea’s ear. “I wonder whose fault it’ll be if I let go. Your papa’s—for stealing pieces of me? Or yours—for biting me so hard, when I was already hurting?”

“...Your… fault…” Bea rasped out. 

The woman’s face twitched, and Bea felt her grip loosen slightly, as if she wanted to drop Bea right there. Bea squeaked, afraid she’d really let go.

“What did you just say?” Emily growled. 

“You didn’t… live good…” Bea sniffled, her eyes welling up with tears. But she didn’t hide her glare as she looked Emily right in the eye. “I wasn’t… bad. You were.”

“Those your last words?” Emily murmured. She gave another mean smile. “Can’t leave the world without pointing fingers, huh?”

Bea didn’t know what to do. She didn’t think there was anything she could do. For the first time in her life, she realized that this might really be the end. And she hadn’t prepared for it. 

She didn’t know if there was much worth in last words spoken to someone as terrible as Emily. They’d be lost forever like a whisper covered up by wind. 

But somewhere deep inside, Bea felt it. Even whispers mattered. Even if no one seemed to hear them.

“I want… to see mama…” Bea whispered. 

“You’ll never get to,” Emily said, her voice soft, syrupy and tender. She pulled Bea in closer, back over the rail, making sure she could hear every word. “But I’ll make sure she gets to see you.”

Bea’s heart dropped. The thought that her mother would be hurt yet again—in the worst way possible—made it ache so bad she thought it would burst. And when she whimpered, squeezing her eyes shut so she wouldn’t have to watch the ground get closer and closer as she fell…

She heard a familiar voice. The voice she knew best in the world. 

It was like her whisper had really been heard—carried by the wind, instead of swallowed by it. 

“Are you up there, Bea?! Mama’s here—I’m coming to you now, so don’t be frightened…!”

“Ma… Mama!” Bea cried out. “MAMA!”

Bea jabbed her thumb into Emily’s eye as hard as she could. Emily shrieked, her grip loosening as pain overtook her, giving Bea the opportunity to wriggle free. 

She dropped onto the rail with a thud.  

It was slick. She was slipping. She kicked her legs like she was swimming, trying to pull herself forward.

“Mama!” Bea shouted desperately. “Mama, I’m here!”

‘BEA!’

Her mother’s voice was getting closer, but she didn’t sound close enough. Emily had finally recovered.  She grabbed one of Bea’s tiny hands.

“Looks like you got your wish,” Emily sneered. “You’ll see her. Just one more time. For just a little second.”

No matter how Bea tried to squirm back onto solid ground, Emily held her there. The sound of her mother’s footsteps echoing up the stairs were like a countdown. Bea’s heart hammered. 

“Bea—” Ciel cried out in relief when she reached the top. 

Until she saw what was happening.

Without a word, Emily let go of Bea’s hand. Then she gave Bea a light push forward, before Ciel could even get close to the rail. 

Bea slipped backwards off the rail. She reached out and desperately hugged the rail post from the outside, but she couldn’t stop herself from sliding down. 

Ciel screamed. 

Bea slid down and down. Her face dropped down below the level of the walkway. Her arms reached the bottom of the poles. Her fingers slipped—

She dropped a couple of feet. But her hands found a pipe. Her feet landed on a narrow ledge. She didn’t know what it was. Just that it wasn’t very wide. And it was slick. And she had to stand at the very tips of her toes to keep holding onto the pipe.

“MAMA!” Bea called out again, her voice cracking.

She couldn’t see what was happening. She could hear a humming sound, her mother and Emily shouting above—but she couldn’t process what they were saying. She was too emotional. 

The sounds continued for ten long seconds. 

Then, Bea couldn’t hear Emily shouting anymore. 

She heard footsteps running up to the ledge. Then she heard her mother gasp.

“Bea…!” Ciel called down. “Bea, hold on! I’m here!”

“Mama…!” Bea hiccuped. She still couldn’t see her mother’s face. But she saw a hand reaching down through the rails, hovering just above her head. The arm reaching for her trembled. She heard her mother's strained grunts, her catching breath. 

Her fingers were shaking. 

“Can you grab mama’s hand, Bea?” Ciel asked softly. 

“I’m… I’m on my tiptoes, mama,” Bea sobbed. 

“It’s alright, Bea. I’m coming down, okay?” Ciel reassured her. “Mama just needs to climb over this rail. I’m almost there.”

The hand reaching out for her withdrew. 

Bea tried to talk through sobs. “Mama… did Emily hurt you…? Is she still up there?”

“Emily won’t hurt anyone ever again, Bea,” Ciel said. “Don’t think of her now. Just hold on tightly—focus on your fingers for mama.”

“My hands… hurt, mama…” Bea said. 

She heard her mother’s breath hitch. 

“Aristurtle’s waiting for you, Bea,” Ciel said, her voice steady as she started to climb over the railing. “He misses you. He says you’ve been trying very hard every day. Can you tell mama why?”

“Because… because living good is like brushing your teeth…” Bea rasped out. 

Her hands were getting numb.

She heard a tinny creak sounding out as her mother threw both legs over the rails. Then a grinding metallic squeal, like they were shifting—rusted and struggling with the full weight of an adult. 

“Bent Ham has been frowning since you left,” Ciel said, as she carefully slid down. “Don’t you think coming home might help him smile again?”

“I want… Bent Ham to be happy…” Bea said, straining to stay upright. She felt one of her feet slipping. “Sad pigs… get turned into lard…”

A tiny, pained noise escaped Bea’s throat once she clearly saw her mother. 

She had cuts and bruises all over. A particularly large gash streaked across her cheek. But Ciel kept speaking gently, as if none of it mattered—soothing Bea, trying to calm her down.  

“And Cant told me you have to keep promises because it’s the right thing to do. Do you remember what you promised mama?” Ciel asked, one foot finding the ledge, one hand reaching out for her daughter.

“I promised… to live together with mama,” Bea said, barely holding it in. Then the tears broke loose and she wailed, “I wanna live with you, mama!”

Bea’s foot finally slipped. And her fingers gave way right after, her hand flailing for her mother’s but not quite reaching. She cried out as she dropped—just as Ciel lunged.

“BEA!” Ciel screamed.

It was a breathless instant. Ciel hadn’t even set both feet down yet when Bea fell. There was no time to think. She dove after her daughter, locking her arms around her waist.

And together they fell, plummeting toward the ground below. 

_______________

It was the final moments before Gerhardt transformed, and before Ciel and Bea fell from the tower. The sylphs were still circling through the amphitheater. The chaos below had reached its peak. Unbeknownst to the mercenaries—who were certain the sylphs had come to deliver divine retribution—the fae spirits of the wind were just as terrified of the dark. 

‘AHHHH I CAN’T SEE! STOP FLYING INTO ME!’

‘YOU FLEW INTO ME! WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING!’

“HOW CAN I WATCH WHEN I CAN’T SEE?’

Of course, to the mercenaries below, this misguided sylph bickering sounded like godly wrath manifest. 

While all the other sylphs had their heads in the clouds, only Sorelle had maintained any sense of purpose. She could see the bright white flashes around the man she was supposed to protect—her new friend’s papa, and her old new friend’s brother. 

‘OW!’ She whined as another sylph ran into her, and their misty forms intermingled for a second. It was actually worse than running into a solid object, because it was far more confusing. ‘Get off me!’

‘Sorry!’

As she reformed, Sorelle took stock of the situation as best she could—which, for a sylph, was already a remarkable show of focus.

‘I think we can go home now!’ Sorelle gusted ‘The arrows stopped!’

Unfortunately for Sorelle, that was the moment Gerhardt transformed. 

The heat in the amphitheater rose sharply—hot enough to sting. To the sylphs, it was unbearable. As fae, they loathed heat more than anything in the world. 

Then the miasma came over the entire amphitheater, a suffocating haze that could rob even a sylph of breath. Their panicked flying finally stilled into genuine fear. Even if they wished to help, this was as far as they could go. 

They all burst upward, high above the amphitheater where the miasma couldn’t reach them. 

It was time to report to her new friend, the little girl up in the bell tower. Sorelle squinted in the direction of the tower, thinking something looked a bit off.  

‘That doesn’t make sense… It looks like she’s hanging off the side,’ Sorelle wisped to herself. She tilted her head. ‘And someone else is climbing after her…?’

Soaring a bit closer, her lightness started to falter, the airy particles she was made of getting heavier with dread.

‘Ah… AHH…. AHHHHHHHHHHHH!’ Sorelle screamed in absolute terror, realizing she saw right the first time. 

‘Everyone follow me!’ Sorelle shouted, taking charge. She flew toward the top of the bell tower. 

‘Why?!’ The nearest sylph shouted back. ‘I thought we were going home!’

‘Just follow, can’t explain, go go go go go!’ Sorelle puffed in a flurry. 

All the sylphs took off after her, realizing one after another just why Sorelle was so panicked. 

And just when they reached the tower—that was the moment Bea slipped, and Ciel leapt after her. 

The sylphs spiraled upward beneath them, flying in tighter and tighter circles until they whipped the air into a trembling little vortex. The mother and daughter kept falling… but their speed was slowing, just a little.

Just not enough.

Flashes of light burst from the mother’s hands, slowing their fall even more. 

Their motion was turbulent. The pair was cast this way by the winds, pushed to the side by Ciel’s bursts of the divine blessing, pulled in yet another direction by the sylphs’ small twister. 

For a few harrowing, ethereal seconds, mother and daughter together flew through the sky. And just before they struck the ground, Ciel pulled Bea close—holding her tight. 

She made sure it would be her, not Bea, who hit first.

Posts updated! July 29, 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 140: A Lost Child

Even as a child, Gerhardt neither revered his lineage nor respected his kin. He saw what they were clearly. 

The Blancs were degenerates. Theirs was a bloodline that had been rotting for decades, and the silver-haired murals of their ancestors that adorned their palace walls looked nothing like the family he knew.

His father Hildebert was a drunkard and a gambler. A man too pathetic to even be cruel, he merely existed—breathing up air and gulping up wine, snoring his days away in a stupor. 

His mother was a baron’s daughter—lowborn nobility, deluded into thinking they’d struck gold by marrying her into a grander house. But Amière was too lifeless for even a petty social climber like her. She vanished to the warmth of mer-Sereia before Gerhardt was old enough to understand abandonment. 

So, he ended up like many boys on the cusp of adolescence: filled with contempt beyond his years and no particular direction. Too young to channel a young man’s rage, too old to weep like a little boy. 

All he could do was fester. He was a lost child, searching for meaning. And like so many aimless Blanc children before him, he wandered into the woods.

“You’ll be a great man one day, Gerhardt,” Puck had said. “All those feelings in you? They mean something. If you feel angry, it’s because you have the drive to change things. If you feel sad, it’s because you know you deserve more.”

“And my father? He never wanted more than a goblet when he was a boy like me?” Gerhardt asked sarcastically, chucking a thyrel at the trunk of a tree. 

“Your father ate too much candy when he was a boy like you,” Puck said, a complicated expression rising to his eyes. “He always liked to come and whine about his teeth.”

“Then he traded toothworms for jaundice,” Gerhardt scoffed.

“Yes,” Puck sighed. “Yes, I suppose he did.” His eyes drifted sidewards. “The wheel has come full circle.”

Gerhardt scooped up another thyrel, tossing it from hand to hand as he gave Puck a curious look. “Tell me. Why do you erase all our memories? Are you afraid one of us might turn on you? Go whispering to the Magic Tower about your immortality so the mages pry you apart?”

“Who’s afraid of mages?” Puck scowled. “I’d like to see them step into my woods. I’ll show them real magic.”

“Then why?” Gerhardt asked. 

Puck’s expression faltered. “I used to do it because I was told to.”

“By who?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Puck shrugged. “But now I do it for me. I like this part. The one who’s always here. A friend—so long as there’s a Blanc child who still needs one.”

“Strange, wanting all your friends to be fleeting,” Gerhardt said, with a miffed expression. 

“Friends aren’t fleeting,” Puck mumbled. “People are.” 

To the two boys in the forest, the world felt as though it was turning just as it always had—and always would.

But only a few nights later, Marcella would give the order: the Argent Guard was to strike Celine’s carriage on the road to the imperial capital. 

And just a week after that, Sigurd would storm Amière.

The Azure Knights came by night, because the Argent Guard had only lasted until the afternoon. The city fell by evening. They swept into the palace, seizing it. And one by one, Sigurd delivered his final judgment upon the Blancs. 

Gerhardt sat on the ground trembling together with his cousins. Alaric and Marcella had both just been struck down—the first, the family’s only true warrior; the second, its strongest bearer of divine blessing.

Neither lasted a minute.

His father was next. Everyone already knew how it would end.

“Raise your sword, Hildebert,” Sigurd said coldly. 

“Fuck… Fuckin’...” Hildebert drawled, voice thick with fury. “You think I had anything to do with that scornful wench’s plan?!”

He muttered to himself, barely lucid. “Lotus-eyed bitch… draggin’ us all to Hell...”

“Raise your sword, or die like a dog,” Sigurd said again, blade pressed to Hildebert’s throat.

For just a second, Hildebert actually looked sober.

“Hol’—hold a moment! Lis’n—goddamn it, listen! I’m no danger t’you! Holy aura? Blessin? I can scarsh ‘member how t’muster it!” He threw a hand toward Edith and Godfrey, still cowering in the corner of the throne room, praying they’d been forgotten. “You sphared them, didn’t you? Saints, th’only one you’ve any cause t’fear’s Therèze—she’s a l’il Marcella, that one—”

“You swine!” Therèze shouted, trembling with fury and tears, but her brother Mirek hushed her in a panic.

“Even my boy’s stronger’n me,” Hildebert laughed, though his face had gone pale and his eyes flickered nervously to the children.

A cold pit of dread settled in Gerhardt’s stomach. His father met his gaze…

Yet Hildebert continued to beg. “You think a stumblin’ sot like me’d lift a finger for revenge? Go’on, extinguish our line! I couldn’ care less! I’ll scurry off like a dead rat, long as I’m left to rot in peace…”

“Enough,” Sigurd said. His sword drew just a nick of blood from Hildebert’s neck. 

The drunkard wobbled back, silent, realizing his words had meant nothing to the young knight commander.

He drew his sword—his trembling hand excruciatingly slow, as if to extend his life by a precious few seconds. Until finally, with a slurred scream, he charged, his overhead blow sloppy and wild. 

Sigurd didn’t even need to meet his blade. He stepped aside and cut the drunkard down before he could find his footing. 

Hildebert collapsed. He gasped for breath. The blood pooled around his body. His eyes still darted desperately through the room, as if they could flee on their own, until they finally stilled. 

His young son watched these pathetic final moments. And the self-loathing he felt deep inside crystallized, becoming the shape of his soul.

_______________________

In the present, a thick heat swept into the amphitheater, like the air itself was boiling. The shrieks of the sylphs had turned into a nothinged hush. The terrified mercenary’s shouts were all instinctively stifled, as if making a sound would cost them their souls. 

The amphitheater was quiet. Everyone felt it at once. Something had entered the world that did not belong.

But the man in the miasma himself felt as if he were in a dream. Light and shadow had inverted, and he could see through the darkness. 

No… he could see because of it. 

All the cowardly bandits who once fancied themselves knights were fleeing at the first hint of defeat, just like they had seven years ago. And up in the parapets, the only man who had come close to loyalty—Sir Voltus—had already fallen. 

Gerhardt still remembered what it felt like to be abandoned by his family’s so-called knights—cowering away in the palace, keeping that final vigil. And he came to a decision. 

His body unraveled itself thread by thread, particle by particle. The process was cool and soothing… 

As if he were being cleansed. 

Then he reformed himself in the center of the amphitheater—in the arena where he’d intended for Sigurd to put on a spectacle as the knight commander met the end of his life. 

Instead, Sigurd had made a fool of Gerhardt. 

…So be it. The stage was his now. He breathed out. 

His sigh swept through the amphitheater like a plague, every single mercenary who failed him—who failed Amière—staggered, clutching their throats. Sigurd and the other holy knight mustered their divine blessings to protect themselves. The second rushed to the parapets to save the life of yet another betrayer. 

Then the wind shifted. A particularly shrill shriek came warbling out of one of the sylphs, followed by more loud cries. They all fled in one direction from the amphitheater. 

Whatever Gerhardt had become… it was enough to terrify even these agents of divinity. The pain he’d always lived with turned sweet. The hate he carried didn’t leave him—it lifted him.

And for the first time, the terror that always gripped him was a weapon in his hands. Gerhardt no longer feared the dark. He was the dark.

_______________________

Camille’s holy aura went out. And Ailn, who’d already been dodging in the dark, heard the branch whipping through the air—he ducked. 

But judging by the loud thunk and grunt that followed, Camille didn’t.

His heart dropped. The branch reared back for another strike, but Ailn slashed through it before it could land. 

“Camille!” Ailn readied himself to catch her. 

Yet she stayed standing. 

“I am—perfectly able—” Camille gasped.  

“No, you’re not,” Ailn muttered. The way she was speaking told him everything—she’d just suffered a concussion. The remaining willows groaned forward. Ailn didn’t hesitate.

She was heavy in plate, but he hauled her over his shoulder, gritting his teeth. His vision was poor, but he started sprinting anyway, banking on sheer speed to keep them safe for a few moments.

Then, having no idea if it would work, Ailn manifested his emerald eyes. 

He could see.

Everything was cast in green, shimmering faintly, like light passing through a jade lamp. And somehow he could see the forest's movement—an ashy fog all around him, breathing against the crystalline green of his vision.

And through all of it, he caught the glint of Camille’s sword tangled in roots and undergrowth. 

“How can you even see…?” Camille mumbled. “Huh? Your eyes…”

Ailn ignored her.

Two willows tried to trap Ailn, their roots rising in unison. He feinted forward, drawing their strike. Their roots slammed down just shy of him and Camille, and he hurdled over them. 

He was pushing his emerald eyes to their limit—to the point that they ached. But there seemed to be a natural path of least resistance in this forest. The trees were thinning out as he made his way through. 

“Your Highness—” Camille started. “I can fight!”

“Camille!” Ailn interrupted her breathlessly. “Need you! But later! Hit your head again and you die! For now, rest!”

There was something strange about the path they were taking. 

The woods were clearing out… and yet the smoky fog was getting thicker. The forest’s breath was all leading in one direction. 

…And they were headed right toward it. Had he messed up? 

Suddenly, Puck’s voice echoed through the woods. 

‘There’s no reason for me to hurt the two of you. I just want you to leave me and my family alone.’

There was something seriously wrong with this evil, immortal child. 

‘The Blancs will keep to themselves and never mess with the eum-Creids ever again. That should be enough for everyone.’

 “Bea… That child is a eum-Creid!” Camille muttered angrily. “She’s our kin!”

Puck’s voice snapped back. 

‘And she came to Amière instead of Varant! Bea made her choice.’

“He can hear us… anywhere in the forest?” Ailn panted. 

“Do you believe he’ll yield if we best him in words?” Camille asked, sarcastically. After a beat, though, her face turned scarlet,  as if she’d suddenly realized the indignity of her position. “What sort of carry is this…?!”

Ailn knelt without a word and eased her down from his shoulders, careful not to jostle her.

‘These are my woods. You ought to consider what that means before you challenge me. I only act cruel to be kind.’ 

Cruel to be kind. He slowed down, breathing heavily. Something pricked Ailn at the back of his mind.

There were two rows of trees on each side that almost seemed to be bowing—ushering Ailnand Camille onward. It seemed they’d been dancing in Puck’s palm this entire time. 

He’d led them here. 

…And Ailn realized this might just be their lucky break. 

‘I’m giving you a choice. Die here in the forest... or walk away with your memories erased.’

“You can’t just trust us to keep a secret?” Ailn asked.

‘I can’t trust anyone. I’ve been burned before.”

“Me and you both,” Ailn said wistfully. “Alright then. What does erasing our memories entail?”

“What are you—” Camille started. 

Ailn shushed her by pointing to his emerald eyes. She looked back in confusion, but said nothing. That was all he could give her. No explanation, just the suggestion that he had something special up his sleeve.

‘Come into my glade. Give me a visit. We’ll talk. And then you’ll leave. No pain. No loss. Just a day you won’t even remember.”

“So, we’ll have a heart-to-heart.” Ailn said. “...Find out if we see eye-to-eye.”

_______________________

It was just after Bea had rang the bell. After she’d asked the sylphs for their help, and a little bit before Gerhardt would transform. 

Bea was up in the belfry, squinting at the amphitheater and trying to understand what was happening. 

All the lights went out a little while ago. But every so often there’d be white flashes of light. They were too fast, the people down there too little for Bea to tell who was winning, or even who was who. 

What she did know was that the sylphs had hurt themselves a lot trying to help her. She heard their howls of pain, and they made her want to cry. 

“I’m sorry Miss Sylph…” Bea whispered. “And all your friends.”

Even though she’d only seen her father from afar, she could finally see him in her visions. She had the information she needed to prevent his death. 

All she’d known before was that the fuzziest paths left to the future brought her to this bell tower. This was where everything converged. If she did nothing, her father’s heart would have been pierced by an arrow. 

But for some reason, if she rang the bell, that future wouldn’t come to pass. Once she did ring the bell, the sylph came, and Bea realized she’d need the sylph’s help. 

That’s when the sylph lady went to find all of her friends. It took her a little bit, but she came back with them just in time to stop all of the arrows.

That stopped the worst outcome from happening. And Bea hoped that by now, everything would have become less fuzzy. 

“All I see in the near future is a lot of darkness…” Bea said, tilting her head. “That’s never happened before…”

Bea pondered what this could possibly mean. 

That’s when she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Her heart jumped, filled with a big, tangled feeling that was halfway between hope and fear. 

Was it Robin…? It didn’t sound like him. 

For some reason… Bea thought it might be her mother. Even though her mother shouldn’t be here, and should be safe back in the fancy room in the fancy city. 

“Bea?” A female voice called up the stairs, gasping for breath. “I know you’re up here, Bea!”

Bea started to tremble violently.

Because the one climbing the last flight—the one smiling up through the trapdoor into the belfry—was Emily.

Posts will be up a bit later today! Away from comp rn

Sorry they're going up a little later than usual!

Posts updated! July 27, 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 139: Fear of the Dark

A few scattered mercenaries watched their contest. Those who’d tried to step in before had bled without fail. It was as if they were testing the worthiness of their master, judging how Gerhardt fared against his ultimate foe. 

Gerhardt swung hard, his holy aura surging wild and erratic, his sweat gleaming as it dripped down his face.

But one arm was all Sigurd needed to shunt Gerhardt’s blade aside. He stepped in and slammed his head into Gerhardt’s face. 

For a moment, the world pitched sideways. Gerhardt’s vision blurred as he stumbled—yet he caught sight of Emily, risen from the ground and creeping up on Sigurd knife in hand.

She raised it, an ugly grin on her face as her eyes locked on his spine.

Without even looking, Sigurd pivoted and swept his blade wide—catching Gerhardt across the chest and slashing deep across Emily's shoulder in the same breath. 

She screeched in pain, reeling back, her arm limp, the knife clattering to the floor. 

Her face twisted in the pale light of their auras. No rage or resolve. Just fear. A gaping maw, with eyes darting like a rat. 

And without a second thought, she abandoned her master, running away into the dark. 

Gerhardt pressed a hand to his chest—pulling it away and staring for a moment at the blood on his palm. 

He clenched his fist. Let the flicker of divine light manifest in his palm. 

Never taught how to wield it, the Blancs’ last young master’s mastery of his divine blessing could only be called fractured at best. His grasp was unsteady, his aura dimming and peaking with little control, its feverish glint more desperate than radiant as it uselessly bled energy away. 

…And yet it was strong. There were times it shone bright—at its best, burning even brighter than Sigurd’s. 

With a raw cry, his aura roared to life—blazing like white wildfire, flaring around him like warping wings. 

“These will be our ruins, Sigurd!” Gerhardt snarled. “Let this entire city stand as your eulogy! The world can hymn your glory and spit on my failure—but your body stays here!”

He struck from below with more force than he’d ever summoned before, born of everything he was. Sigurd staggered back, and Gerhardt charged after him heedless of caution and pain. 

There was no rhythm. No restraint. Each blow drove Sigurd back, a step at a time. 

Gerhardt's aura erupted into his blade. Everything he had—every scrap of rage, every moment of pain—poured into this strike.

For a heartbeat, it seemed as if he were winning. 

He forced Sigurd’s blade back to within an inch of his face. Gerhardt pushed forward, heart hammering wildly—

And his blade slid past—caught and turned aside by Sigurd's guard with just a hair’s breadth. 

The knight commander’s counter came swift and precise. Before Gerhardt could even register the shift, the sword was already through his chest.

Sigurd spared not a word. He hadn’t acknowledged Gerhardt a single time during their battle. 

And Gerhardt was left to die on the cold stone floor, alone.

__________

The moving willows didn’t exactly resemble treants. Their roots dragging along the ground looked more like the limbs of a crawling corpse, while their branches hung mournfully low. 

In fact, it seemed like they were trying to hang Ailn outright. 

Ailn sidestepped and sliced what seemed like the tenth branch that tried to wrap around his throat. 

He missed the eleventh. 

“HRK!” Ailn gasped, sword slipping from hand as he desperately clawed at his neck to keep the branch from crushing it. 

Camille spun at the sound. In two paces she was at his side, her blade flashing down to sever the strangling branch.

“Now is not the time to be clumsy, Your Highness!” Camille shouted, halfway between knight and cousin mode. 

A vine curled around his ankle. Ailn grabbed his sword in a rush, stringing together a number of unkind words toward his cousin as he did so. 

‘Your Highness! Behind you!’

“What?!” Ailn spun around at the sound of Camille’s voice. How had something snuck behind him? 

There was nothing there. 

And then something slammed into his back. He staggered but kept his footing, turning to slash the wooden root that had tricked him.

‘Your heel, Your Highness! A vine’s crept behind!”

Ailn almost fell for it again. He turned and cut the vine from his flank—and that’s when the one at his heel grabbed him.

It yanked hard, but Ailn twisted with it, slicing himself free. But not before he’d been dragged far from Camille. 

Meanwhile, Camille wasn’t doing much better. 

‘Camille! Help!’ 

“Your Highness?!” Camille’s eyes searched frantically for Ailn. “What’s wrong?!”

His head snapped her way. “It’s not me!”

“What? OOF—” Camille, frozen with indecision got hit with a root in the back of the knees and toppled forward.

‘No, it is me! Help!’ 

“Ignore it!” Ailn shouted, with increasing frustration. 

‘Camille HELP I’m STUCK UNDER A LOG! My arms are wrapped up in VINES!’

As she rose to her feet, she wavered for a moment—until the voice came again.

‘ARR! Cut my bonds at once! At once, y’hear! Or I’ll plunge me hook into you!’

“They must think we’re fools!” Camille snarled.

The willow above her groaned with a sound like a ship on rough seas, raising its heaviest roots before slamming them down on Camille. But she merely rolled aside, delivering a series of heavy blows that felled it. 

She turned to the next willow, ready to do it all again. But just as was about to—

Her feet momentarily halted. Long enough that the willow was already bearing down on her. She snapped out of her daze, gasping—uncertain whether it was from the heaviness of the blow or the sound of her mother’s voice. 

That’s when she heard Ailn again. 

“Uhhh, I know you’re not gonna believe me, but I actually need you right now! I’m surrounded by willows!” 

‘I’m telling you that's a fake!’

“I already understand that!” Camille growled, ignoring the plea for help. 

She rolled forward beneath the willow's thrashing limbs and came up swinging. Three chopping strikes was all it took.

All she had to do was concentrate.

Unfortunately for Ailn, he really was in trouble.

The problem wasn’t that he didn’t know how to fight. The problem was he couldn’t see. And it didn’t help that without holy aura, he didn’t have the strength to cut trees down wholesale. 

So, when one willow came slowly lurching toward him, he’d kept his distance. But he found himself hacking through a thicket of thorns. This gave a second willow enough time to lumber up to his left. 

Then a third willow came stomping up front. 

He was stuck in a triangle of very patient, very determined trees. 

One branch came thrashing down. He jumped out of its way. 

“Ugh!” 

A root swung into his stomach. 

“Camille!” Ailn called for her, dodging a lashing vine. “CAMILLE!”

She was still ignoring him.

“The White Knights are better swordsmen!” Ailn shouted. “Ennieux told me how when you were a kid you cried whenever you lost a duel!”

“She what?!” Camille finally glanced his way, squinting. And just at the edge of her vision, she could see a frantic figure weaving through thrashing trees. 

Flustered, she sprinted toward him, her sword blazing bright.  She dove between two willows and rolled to her feet beside him, immediately taking a defensive stance. As their branches whipped at her in a flurry, she spun her blade, cleaving through limb after limb in one graceful motion.

"Move!" she barked, pushing Ailn toward the nearest gap in the trees. “Stay close to me this time!” 

“That wasn’t—” Ailn started. 

“I know. Guard my flank.” 

Camille steadied her breath. They were too close to each other for the trick to keep working. 

She ignited her aura. 

Then, with one mighty chop, she gouged a quarter of a way into a willow’s trunk, her aura bursting as it met wood. Ailn slashed at the ensemble of vines, branches, and brambles creeping toward her. 

What power did the voices have, now that they saw through the lies? 

‘You’ll become a fine knight, Camille. And you are as dear to me as a daughter.’

…That was Aldous. 

Her aura faltered at just the wrong moment. A willow’s heavy blow shunted her sword aside, forcing her to dive for it. 

‘Fearless, Camille. Fear not the dark, because the shadows are our prey.’

Her breath seized as she heard the heavy groan of wood above her yet again, ready to crush her. And for just a heartbeat panic sprung in her chest. 

Her aura blinked out. 

Leaving them in darkness.

__________

Alera leapt at Voltus from the shadows. She’d run all the way around the ramparts, attempting to sneak up on him from behind. 

It was a furious, strong slash—the kind she’d always seen as wasteful and inelegant. 

“A strike brimming with derring-do!” Voltus exclaimed. “How terribly out of character—did someone swap out Dame Alera’s soul for a reckless romantic’s?”

He let her blade slide harmlessly off his. Of course he would—he had to. The density of orichalcum in his sword made it vulnerable to direct clashes. 

Voltus slipped effortlessly backward, using his divine blessing to keep her at bay. She pressed on with the kind of crude, hammering strikes that would have made her first instructor weep, throwing her whole body into every swing. 

Yet Voltus’s blade simply danced away. Threads of light threatened her at every heartbeat. Her forward motion was filled with desperation and fury, an acrobatic ugliness she hated with every fiber of her being. 

She felt like she might be on the precipice of victory. Voltus was forced to rely on indirect parries—he couldn’t meet her blade head-on. If she landed three solid strikes against that brittle orichalcum, it would crack. Maybe even shatter.

The first strike: she opened for his shoulder—then twisted, redirecting the blow straight into his sword.

The second: she took a hit. Light slipped beneath her arm, searing hot across her side as a twist of her wrist snapped her blade upward, crashing into his again.

And finally—

Her body slowed. 

She gasped for air. Voltus’s stance which had been almost infuriatingly easygoing sharpened in an instant. He’d been waiting for this. 

Finally, Voltus advanced. The silvery threads of light pushed her back, inch by inch, foot by foot. She was giving ground fast. She was moving more than a hair slower than usual, her footwork turning clumsy as she navigated the parapet’s curve in the dark. 

But she didn’t break. She let the light graze closer and closer, yielding more and more space, showing more and more unsteadiness in her rhythm. 

Her foot brushed against the object she’d been leading him to. 

She stumbled over it. Voltus moved, divine light lancing toward her throat. 

Alera crashed to the side, her shoulder slamming into the parapet’s inner wall. She threw her sword wildly and desperately, as if it were all she had left. 

Voltus batted it aside without effort. Then he flinched, his body seizing up as if he meant to leap away. There was a sharp, mechanical snap. The crossbow bolt struck dead center, burying itself in his chest. His arms went slack.

The orichalcum blade slipped from his hands—and shattered the moment it hit the ground.

“Ah… so this is how it ends,” Voltus murmured with a smile, his legs folding beneath him as he slumped against the inner wall. “What a pity… I’d been saving that final flourish for many moons.”

“You could have been a great man, Voltus,” Alera said. “If you’d wanted meaning, Varant would have welcomed you. If it was war you craved, then you would have found no shortage of fights joining the dragoons.”

She picked up the broken orichalcum blade. “Why waste this on a fool like Gerhardt…?”

“The Argent Guard… were curs and vagabonds…” Voltus gasped. “But Edmund Blanc was my liege. I raised my sword for his successor.”

“I won’t dignify such an empty lie,” Alera said quietly. “If that were the truth, then his daughter Astrid wouldn’t be alone.”

Voltus’s breath came in shallow gasps that barely moved his chest. Then, suddenly, one of his ragged sighs turned into a chuckle. 

“Quite correct. ‘Tis a falsehood I spoke to ease the sting of dying,” Voltus said, his voice growing soft. “Lately, I’ve had trouble telling truth from tale.”

His easy-going smile faded. “I merely went where my wretched heart led,” he said. “And when it whispered whom to serve… I obeyed.”

Panic crossed his face. He latched onto Alera’s arm, his grip trembling with the last dregs of his strength.

“This is… the truth,” Voltus croaked. “I lied not, when I said my lover—my betrothed—waits for me where we both grew up. Mavis. Her name is Mavis. You’ll find her in Kor.”

His fingers trembled slightly. “Please. I beg of you. Let her believe I died… for something noble.”

His breath hitched once. It shallowed and shallowed. And then it stopped.

Alera’s chest felt stiff. The man hardly deserved it. Yet she found his final request hard to deny. 

“I’ll try,” she muttered as she reached her hand out to shut his eyes. “But I’m a terrible liar now, Voltus.”

She slumped down next to his still body, too tired to question how macabre it was. Then she sighed, looking up at the sky. “A wretched heart, is it? It seems to me you had every virtue one could ask of the gallant—if only you so chose. I truly don’t understand.”

Her gaze stayed fixed on the stars, tracing the constellations as if they might offer an answer. 

__________

As Alera gazed at the stars, Gerhardt lay where Sigurd’s blade had felled him—already forgotten, where the starlight didn’t reach. 

His breaths were so faint they barely stirred the air. The din of the amphitheater made for a noisy death. He knew better than anyone else he wasn’t deserving of a peaceful one. 

His vision was going dark. 

There was a secret he never told anyone: he still hated the dark. Just as he had when he was a child. 

The night Sigurd killed his father had left something in him. Something primal. It never left. A terror that called out to him when he was alone, like the pitch-black through the throne room window.  

Laying there helplessly, as the dark came for him, Gerhardt could no longer push away his fear. So he decided to embrace it. 

He decided to make his fear into power. 

“One last duel… Sigurd,” Gerhardt gasped. 

Chest heaving and eyes dimming, his fingers fumbled beneath his surcoat for the obsidian jar still strapped to his belt.

With what little strength he had left he uncorked the jar. The moment his fingertips brushed the substance inside, he felt it trying to devour him. 

So he devoured it instead.

Posts updated! July 24, 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 138: Into Darkness

The lights went out. The entire amphitheater went dark. A chorus of shrieking sylphs rose over the already howling winds. Then the mercenaries started shouting too. 

Blinded by what they mistook for divine judgment, the mercenaries never noticed that the bolts destroying the lighting artifacts were fired from the upper reaches of the amphitheater. 

The upper parapet ringed the highest level of the amphitheater, set apart from the audience stands below. When the amphitheater was still in use, the Argent Guard stood watch along the upper parapet.

Especially during executions.

But today, two knights—one Azure and one White—ducked low behind the stone lip of the amphitheater’s parapet, the carved edge just high enough to shield a crouched form from view. 

“Are… those sylphs the work of Duke eum-Creid?” Alera whispered, awestruck. 

“Surely he would have told us,” Kylian muttered. 

A flash of white lit the dark below, followed by the sound of steel being crushed. For an instant, Sigurd was visible—outlined in light. 

“This feels unwise…” Alera said anxiously. “Blame me not if my arrow is errant.”

The light faded. In just a breath, both lifted their crossbows and fired into the thick of the crowd furthest from Sigurd. 

It was risky. But if they couldn’t break the crowd, Sigurd was as good as dead. 

Without warning, they heard the sound of a bolt biting stone roughly ten meters off. It wasn’t particularly close. But there was no mistake who it was meant for.

“...The enemy’s realized we’re here,” Kylian said quietly.

_________

The amphitheater was filled with the sounds of wind and shouting. But Sigurd moved with perfect clarity, like a man walking through the eye of a storm. So many times, the violence of the battlefield would sharpen his focus until the world seemed to slow. 

This time, there was no focus—no separation. The border between him and the world had blurred.

There was only motion. Man and wind and steel became one. The intent of every soul in the amphitheater revealed itself in a glance. 

A man screamed skyward toward the fae. Another fled and fell, before being trampled. A third came low, blade drawn. Sigurd let the strike pass just shy of his shoulder, hooking the man’s arm and pulling him into the arc of another blade.

Arrows were falling from above—reinforcements? Who? He didn’t question it. With another flash of his aura, Sigurd lit the amphitheater. 

One woman stood her ground amid the disorder, laughing hoarsely as she darted in, a longsword in hand, striking at his injured right side in a flurry. She pressed in with sharp angled strikes, forcing him to twist uncomfortably around his bad shoulder. 

Each slash hunted at the same answer: how close was he to breaking? Her long sword sang faster with each swing, harrying him too tightly for his blade to free. 

His aura dimmed to darkness, and there was a glint of steel as the woman’s offhand snapped forward with a hidden knife. But her offhand was weak, her form crude and sloppy. 

The knife slipped past his temple. Sigurd stepped in, driving his knee into her ribs. Something cracked. There was a flash of white. 

It wasn’t his. 

Through it, Sigurd caught a glimpse of the woman’s gasping, bared-teeth grin. He turned—just in time to meet Gerhardt’s sword. 

_________

The entire forest was Ciel’s enemy. Vines reached for her limbs, branches clawed at her sleeves. Every tree leaned in like giants trying to grab her, so far forward their roots should have torn free from the earth. 

A vine slithered along her calf, coiling fast. Gasping, Ciel seized it with both hands, divine light pulsing faintly from her palm. Her holy aura slowly burned through the vine—when she tugged her leg free too swiftly, a jolt of pain shot through her shin. 

Roots and shadows blurred together in the pale light of her aura. Her control of it had always been weak and clumsy—like a child trying to push a string. She was close. Just a little more… The bell tower where Bea waited was beginning to peek above the trees. She just had to cut through the willows up ahead—

But then, at the farthest reach of her light, Ciel saw him: sullen and shadowless, the boy who was this forest’s master. 

“Puck…!” Ciel gasped out. “Ugh!”

Before she could stop it, a vine thicker than the last had wrapped around her leg. 

“You shouldn’t do that to your friends, Ciel,” Puck said with a hurt smile. “Let alone your family.”

He walked toward her slowly. With trembling hands, Ciel tried to do what had always eluded her as a child—send her blessing outward, beyond herself. Thin strips of light shot toward Puck, held his arms wide as he took them head-on. 

He groaned, but didn’t resist. He accepted the pain, eyes wincing as he stood right before her, head craned up. His hand rose to touch her cheek.

Ciel seized it, and without hesitation, surged her aura as violently as she could. He recoiled. His form flickered tenuously. But he didn’t let go. 

“Family hurts each other sometimes too,” Puck whispered. His grip tightened, fingers pressing into her face as if to lay claim. “We’ll get past this.”

He was still smiling. His eyes were jet black. A split-second of lightheadedness was all it took for her to realize what was happening. 

She shut her eyes. But a moment later both of his hands cupped her face, his thumbs pressed to her lids to hold them open. 

“Leave me and my daughter alone, Puck!” Ciel screamed—not in fear, but in fury—pouring every last ounce of light she had into her palm. 

“It won’t work, Ciel,” Puck said. “Stop hurting yourself.”

His voice warped as much as his body unraveled. His entire existence seemed to be fraying at the seams, yet that only made his grip on Ciel more desperate. 

Her mind was getting foggy. 

She was losing. 

But just as the haze threatened to overtake her, Ciel heard Puck scream. There was a humming sound. And… there was a sword piercing his side.

“He… he looks like a child!” Camille shouted, the hilt trembling in her hands. 

“Children aren’t made of miasma! ” Ailn shouted back. He turned to Ciel. “Get to Bea!”

She didn’t hesitate. Just a quick, grateful glance to both of her saviors. Then she took off. A flicker of dismay crossed Puck’s face as he reached out weakly toward the passing Ciel, as if to catch her. 

But she brushed his hand aside without a word. Then, running through the sunken willows, she manifested her divine blessing, slicing through branches she didn’t trust to remain inert. 

The trees thinned, and Ciel finally burst past the willows’ last veil. And for a breath… it felt as if the forest let out a sigh, one of the soft branches trembling as it tried to stir. 

“Always the eum-Creids…” Puck gasped. “You have your happy family. Why do you always take away mine…?”

For a moment, it seemed the battle had been one before it even started. His head dropped, and his body broke apart into thin strands of black mist. 

He snarled, clutching Camille’s sword with both hands and ripping it from his chest as his darkness swallowed her light. 

The forest stirred from its drowsy lull, branches thrashing, vines grasping once more. The willows which Ciel had passed through earlier heaved their way out of the soil, roots and all, dragging their masses across earth. 

Then, as Ailn and Camille stood gaping—Puck darted into the shadows. 

_________

“...I have a feeling I may know who our foe is,” Alera murmured. 

A bolt whistled past Kylian and Alera, closer than ever. It struck the inner wall of the parapet just behind them, having missed Alera’s shoulder by a mere handspan.  

“Whoever it is,” Kylian said, voice low, “there’s no need to meet them on their terms. That last bolt came from across the way. We can flank from both sides.”

Alera nodded and slipped off to the left while Kylian circled the opposite way around the parapet’s curve. Both kept to a crouch. 

Near the first exposed bend, Kylian cocked his crossbow. Catching the faintest motion in the dark, he fired—then ducked back.

No sound except an arrow hitting stone. A bolt flew his way, clattering against the inner wall. A shadow rushed him. Kylian dropped the crossbow, drawing his sword just in time to catch a slash aimed for his throat.

But the figure leapt back as soon as Alera was upon him from the other side. 

“Ah, swords make for a worthier contest by far! Both of you honor me,” the man said. “Some might cry two-to-one foul odds, but I once dueled twenty men with only a chipped blade and a fever! I can only commend you two for your tremendous courage.”

He let the words hang a moment, then continued, voice low and almost amused, “Though I’m at a loss for what praise to offer Dame Alera’s charming charade of loyalty.”

“Voltus,” Kylian muttered. “I thought you a mere braggart.”

“Do you call it chivalry, abducting a child, Voltus?” Alera asked coldly.

“I merely escorted the young miss where she asked to go,” Voltus said. This close, his genial smile was finally visible, yet it somehow seemed to glower in the dark. “Is it now a crime to bring a girl to her homeland? To place her in the arms of kin and the care of her many loyal servants? Why, one day, Lady Bea may even be my liege!”

“...Go and help His Grace Sigurd, Sir Kylian,” Alera said. “For Voltus, my sword will be enough. If the former duke dies, then everything we’ve done tonight will be for naught.”

Kylian met her eyes. 

“Very well,” he said, and turned on his heel. He dashed along the parapet, before finding the stairway down and vanishing into the chaos below.

That left only two figures atop the parapet. Their battle began silently, with movements that were almost excruciatingly subtle. 

Alera feinted high with the barest shift of her wrist. Voltus didn’t bite—his blade stayed proactively still. Then his own wrist gave a sudden twitch, testing her. 

She didn’t flinch. 

There was no clash. There was a minimum of footwork. 

Deliberately wrong-footed, Alera lunged forward a half-step, just enough to invite a counter-thrust. Voltus’s flinch was exaggerated, as if he were facing down a bull. 

She didn’t blink.

Like proper fencers, both of them were lying with their swords. It was the type of swordplay that the White Knights excelled at—the type that won duels. And Alera and Voltus were the very best.   

To outsiders, it was baffling and boring. To those who’d experienced the battlefield, it was a complete farce. But both knights knew: only a fool disrespects a lying blade. 

They both moved at once. 

Voltus committed first, a thrust aimed precisely at the gap beneath her arm. Alera sidestepped and countered in the same breath, her blade cutting upward toward his throat. 

She was just a heartbeat faster. A lesser swordsman would have lost right there, but Voltus jerked back at the last instant, Alera’s blade cutting a thin line across his jaw instead of finding his throat. 

“Well! All those years of politely avoiding the dueling circle with you have been thoroughly vindicated!” Voltus cried. “Truly, the most brilliant strategy I never dared admit. They say Sir Voltus ducks the sharpest blades; I say, a fine lunatic it is who stands still as it flies toward his face!”

“The next strike will find its mark,” Alera said. “You don’t deserve mercy, Voltus. But I’ll grant you a chance to yield, all the same. Toss that absurd orichalcum blade of yours.” 

Voltus went quiet, eyes dropping to his sword as if truly weighing her words.

He stood too far to catch her by surprise, but Alera kept her gaze locked on him all the same. Sir Voltus was clever. She had no doubt he could conjure a hidden knife, or trigger a planted trap. 

All she had to do was watch his hands. 

So when he moved—suddenly, sharply—what she felt wasn’t fear. It was relief. At least it was honest.

Or was it? 

Alera read blades faster than anyone else. And all she could see was a straightforward thrust. An inch off could mean the difference between life and death in a duel. Yet the tip of his sword would fall at least two feet short. 

For a second, she had the absurd thought that his blade might extend—

She felt a cold pulse of dread and twisted her neck away on pure instinct. A silvery thread of light flashed just past her face. 

“You—” Alera gasped, swiveling left to avoid another thread of light. “The divine blessing?!” 

Alera took a step back, certain she was beyond Voltus’s range—

His sword released another flash, farther than the last. Had she not leapt back at the last second, it would have pierced through her eye. 

“How?! Who even bestowed it?!” Alera shouted, backpedaling fast—she had to sprint for cover unless she wanted to be skewered a dozen times over. “Don’t tell me—don’t you dare tell me all those stupid lies were true!”

If Voltus truly were a Blanc or a eum-Creid, then she was done—utterly done—with both families. 

Was it Astrid? No…

“Therèze?!” Alera gasped, jumping behind the parapet’s curve. 

“The duel is won before the combatants meet in the circle, Alera,” Voltus lectured, his voice cheery.

He was right. So she acted accordingly. Her gaze flicked to the object lying nearby.

_________

As Alera dealt with Voltus above, Kylian was handling the mercenaries below, giving no quarter as he worked to shatter the last of their morale. Mercy here would be neither wise, nor deserved. His blade extended with a gleam, right through a fleeing foe’s leather gambeson. 

He steadied his breath as his holy aura dispersed. More would come. And he needed to be ready. But in the darkness of the amphitheater, Kylian’s eyes couldn’t help but be drawn to the clash of light below. 

The battle down there was nearing its end. 

Gerhardt was being dispatched by Sigurd with effortless precision. 

Posts updated! July 22, 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 137: The Bell Tolls

It was a few minutes before the bell would ring. 

Left alone at the bell tower, Bea knew she had to act fast. He’d left her outside, where all she could do was watch the city below. 

She took just one short glance down at the amphitheater, peeking through her hands. She didn’t want to see her father suffering, but…

Bea needed to know that he was still fighting. That she could still save him.

“Papa’s still alive…” Bea whispered. 

Slowly, Bea’s eyes went out of focus. She’d seen a future where she could help everyone. And though she hadn’t known what exactly was going to happen, or how she’d get here, she’d seen flashes of this bell tower. 

She concentrated even harder. Her sapphire eyes began to manifest. She could hear the clanging of the bell—feel the wind on her cheeks…

Her eyes came back into focus. Then, steeling herself, she nodded. 

“I have to do it…” Bea said.   

Tottering over to the door, she tried to reach on her tiptoes for the wooden latch. She could brush it with her finger, but… 

No good. She couldn’t apply enough force to it. 

Bea ran around the walkway which wrapped around the tower. She knew she reached the bell somehow, so there had to be a way back inside. 

Then she found it. A broom. She didn’t really know why you would need to sweep outside, but she grabbed it anyway.

“I gotta make sure… not to get splinters…” Bea said to herself softly.

Going back to the door, she jammed the top of the handle against the door’s latch over and over until it finally popped open. Then she ran inside.

“Where’s the stairs up…?” Bea asked. “Is there a hidden door?”

She thought she’d just missed it when Robin was carrying her up. There were winding stairs down, but nothing that went above. There had to be a way to reach the bell, though.  

Not sure what to do, Bea sat and thought. None of her stuffed friends, unfortunately, were bell tower owners. 

Examining the ceiling, Bea noticed. There were lines. Not cracks. They were neat and square. It was an opening. A trapdoor. 

“But how are people supposed to reach it?” Bea asked herself, puzzled. 

With no other lead, Bea went and retrieved the broom she’d left outside. Then, she stood on her tiptoes again—whacking the broom’s handle against the trapdoor. 

Nothing.

This time she jumped, ramming the broom upward with all the strength her little arms could muster.

Something creaked above her. The trapdoor tilted open with a wheeze, spitting out an old rope ladder like a dusty tongue. 

“I found it!” Bea whispered excitedly. She started climbing. 

The rope ladder swayed, which frightened her a little bit, but she clung to it with her whole body, moving carefully. 

“It’s just… a playground…” Bea said softly, trying to convince herself. She reached the top, and climbed onto the small wooden platform, grabbing her hammering heart. 

For a four-year-old, a ten foot climb was quite scary. But now she was in the belfry—the bell’s house, as she called it—and in the enclosed space, the winds were louder than when she’d be on the walkway just below. 

There wasn’t any light up there, either. She could just barely see, using the ambient light from the floor below. But right above her, grandly hanging from its yoke was a bell as big as Bea herself. 

Its surface was mottled and aged, and it looked as if it hadn’t been used for a very long time. 

A thick rope hung from a wheel attached to the bell’s yoke. Reaching up on her tiptoes, just able to grasp it, Bea tugged.

Nothing happened. She tried again, yanking the rope as hard as she could. The bell didn’t even creak. The rope barely moved. She stared up at the bell, frustration bubbling up into tears at the corners of her eyes. 

“I did it… I saw it,” Bea whispered. 

She let go of the rope. 

This time, she didn’t just pull. Stepping back, she took a deep breath, and ran toward it as fast as her small body could manage. And with a short hop, grabbed the rope, her full weight pulling down. 

There was a jolt. The rope went taut, and Bea dropped sharply as the bell groaned above her, clanging to one side. Then as the bell swung back toward its center, the rope yanked her upward—-dropping her again as it clanged the other way. 

The bell continued to ring, as Bea was pulled up and down over and over again. She squeezed her eyes shut. 

“It’s so loud!” Bea whined. But she couldn’t even hear herself. 

_______________

The patrols had thinned for some reason. 

Ailn, Camille, and Kylian slipped through to the edge of the Playground, finding an old opera house where they couldn’t be overheard. 

Both Camille and Kylian manifested their holy aura. And all three of them nearly jumped out of their skins. Standing right between them was an angel statue with a grotesque expression—caught in a laugh it couldn’t stop, until it curdled into a scream.

“For God’s sake…” Camille breathed out. 

Ailn let out a quiet sigh before turning to the matter at hand.

“Bea’s here?” Ailn asked incredulously.

“So her mother Ciel alleges,” Kylian replied. “I have no reason not to believe her.”

The words hit Ailn like ice. How in the world had she even gotten here? Did she come here on purpose? 

No, that didn’t matter now. 

“Saving Bea’s the top priority,” Ailn muttered.

“She must be within the palace,” Camille said steadily. “Our objective remains unchanged.”

But Kylian crossed his arms. “Ciel… seemed to believe otherwise,” he said. “She was convinced there was something amiss with the forest.”

Before they could reach a conclusion about Bea’s whereabouts, a chime rang out. Ailn glanced at the others, before pressing the dial on his echo stone. 

‘...God willing, these words find you still breathing. This is Alera.’ 

She spoke in hushed tones, yet her voice carried through the foyer, amplified unnaturally by the echo stone.

As the message played, Camille’s shoulders visibly relaxed. She’d clearly been burdened by the worry that she’d doomed Alera by asking for her help. 

‘I know where the duke’s brother is. He’s alive. But time is short. This message is fifteen minutes old, and as I speak the former duke is in the amphitheater fighting for his life for his enemies’ amusement.’

‘If I’m being perfectly honest, attempting to save him is a fool’s errand. The former duke is completely surrounded, and the mercenaries are armed with crossbows. 

Ailn’s jaw clenched. The only worse news would’ve been a body.

‘...Nor is that the end of it. The duke’s daughter was kidnapped. Bea is in Amière. Gerhardt’s son Robin brought her to the Playground.’

“So she really is here,” Ailn said under his breath. 

‘That boy—the mercenaries fear him. Deeply. Supposedly the boy is already ten years of age, but… Gerhardt Blanc is only eighteen.’

Kylian’s brow arched at the detail. 

‘They speak of him as if… as if he’s the master of the forest. I can only suggest acting with due prudence.’

They heard Alera sigh at the other end of the echo stone. 

‘This is foolish of me to propose. For all I know, you’ve both been cleaved in half or bludgeoned to death. But, if the both of you are still alive… I’ll need one of you to meet me in the armory—whoever is capable of using a crossbow. I have a plan.’

Ailn and Camille looked at each other with dubious looks. Then they turned to Kylian.

“...It’s been some years. But I can,” Kylian said. “I’ll meet with Alera, then.”

“Then, we’ll search the Playground for Bea,” Ailn said, glancing at Camille. 

“We’re on the edge of the forest,” Kylian said thoughtfully. “And Ciel seemed to have a notion of where to find Bea… It would be best if you met up with her.”

Alera’s message continued with instructions on where to find the armory. Then she had one last sign-off. 

‘Let’s make it through this night alive.’

_______________

Somewhere in the clouds above Amière, meanwhile, a certain sylph was waking up from a long nap. 

She’d gone to bed early because she had an eventful day. Tired from spying on humans, accidentally passing through humans, and overall just dealing with humans, she was convinced she’d have a wonderful night’s sleep. 

Unfortunately for Sorelle, she’d fallen for a classic trap. Having drifted off to sleep three hours before her usual bedtime, three hours later was exactly when she woke up. 

So, she tossed and she turned. She tried cloud hopping. A soft one. Then a cool one. And finally one that was very dense and firm. 

Still no luck. 

Sorelle was, in human parlance, lit up like a candle. But it was so dark out that there surely wouldn’t be anything fun to do. That human she’d talked to earlier was probably asleep, too. And if she woke him up, he might change his mind about telling her a secret. 

The sylph pouted, prepared for a long and miserable night. 

That was when she heard the ringing of a bell. 

She knew where it was coming from. But she’d never heard that bell ring. She didn’t even know it still could. 

Was it the human who’d talked to her, maybe? It could have something to do with the person he was looking for. Or…

He could be trying to reach her. 

Her tiny bit of nosiness sufficiently justified, Sorelle gleefully went flying toward the bell. And to her surprise, she didn’t find a tall man with a brown coat and hat. 

She found a little girl in a blue dress, with strawberry blonde hair, being tugged up and down by a bell swinging from side to side. 

‘Hello?’ Sorelle called out. 

The little girl didn’t hear her. So, she flew right up to her. 

‘HELLO!’ Sorelle yelled. 

The girl’s eyes shot open, and she let go of the rope in surprise, falling to her backside with a thump.

The bell continued to ring for a few more seconds, before coming to a dead halt. 

“A sylph came…!” the girl whispered in excitement. 

‘Were you trying to reach me?’ Sorelle asked, puzzled. Was this another human who could understand her?

The girl stared at her for a moment, her eyes wide. Then, slowly, she began to shake her head, a sad look settling on her face. "I can't... understand you, Miss Sylph. I'm sorry." Her head lowered. "You just sound like happy whistles..."

Then she looked up again, eyes meeting Sorelle’s.

"But my name’s Bea! Like a bzz! And if you can understand me... I was hoping you could help me save my papa!"

_______________

The bell was an old one—its toll dulled with age, muffled by the trees it passed through. 

But Ciel heard it. She blinked. And she took a breath.

Puck’s eyes flicked momentarily toward the bell tower, as if exasperated. “That little scamp…” he muttered fondly. Then he laughed. “To Bea or not to Bea… I guess that girl can’t help but be anyone but herself.”

Then his gaze drifted back to Ciel’s, his smile soft yet boyish. His hand rested on her cheek. “You don’t have to carry it all alone anymore. We’ll raise her together.”

She leaned into his caress, closing her eyes to rest. Then she raised her hand to his, weaving their fingers together.

“Robin…” Ciel whispered. “I missed you, Robin.”

“I missed you too, Ciel,” Puck said. His smile held together, even as his cheeks scrunched in and his lips trembled. He was trying not to cry. “You came back because you remembered me. You fulfilled your promise in the end.”

He stepped forward to embrace her. Ciel was still kneeling. Their heights matched. And for a moment, it was like she was a child again. She accepted his embrace, resting her head against his as if in quiet surrender.

Then she summoned her holy aura.

“AGH—!” Puck seized. 

Dark smoke billowed off of his body. His form warped, twisting at his core, his limbs unraveling into wisps. 

But Ciel heard the forest stirring around them. 

She pushed Puck off and ran.

She’d realized it the moment she heard the bell’s toll: Bea was at the bell tower. Puck took her there, in one of his twisted displays of affection which he repeated generation after generation.

And Bea was calling for help. 

Faster than she’d ever gone, Ciel raced toward the bell tower.

_______________

In the amphitheater, meanwhile, the bell had started to toll shortly after he’d slain the lion. Yet it was filled with portent rather than triumph. Every crossbow in the amphitheater was now trained on Sigurd. And to him, it sounded like a funeral chime. 

The truth was, he saw no way out. He could perhaps deflect a volley of arrows with his holy aura. Yet even if he reached the stands, he’d likely be hacked to death. 

Escape? Less likely still. The only exits were in the stands—and the way he’d come. The moment he turned his back, he’d be shot right through. 

He tensed. His breath was calm and deliberate. These could very well be the last moments of his life. He understood that. His mind saw no solution. But his heart had not yet given up the fight. 

“The only consolation I have is that this was as empty for you as it was for me,” Gerhardt spat bitterly. “I’ll at least take that from you.”

Without warning, Gerhardt fired. His aim was true. The arrow tore through the air, straight for Sigurd’s heart, and the knight commander instinctively flared his aura in front of his body to try and divert the bolt’s path. 

But the bolt never came close, veering off-course well before it reached him.

Those in the amphitheater had been too focused on Sigurd to notice that something—someone—had drifted in unseen, the contours of her form thin as a wisp. 

‘OWWWWWW!’ Sorelle shouted, as the bolt flew through her. 

Mid-whine, she spun sideways—flailing, and leading the bolt off-course, slowing it until clattered to the ground

‘YOU GUYS HELP!’ Sorelle exclaimed toward the sky.

“What…?” Gerhardt sputtered. “A fae?!” He raised his arms and shouted toward his mercenaries. “All of you fire! Now!”

The mercenaries fumbled with their crossbows, and Sigurd began sprinting toward the stands. 

A volley of arrows was loosed, dozens at once. It would have been impossible for him to deflect all of them with his divine blessing. But there were more sylphs already flying through, the volley scattering into them. Each sylph cried out as they slowed the barrage.

‘AHHHHH!’

‘OUCH!’

‘I SHOULD’VE JUST SLEPT!’

Their cries filled the arena. 

And to those who couldn’t understand sylphs… they sounded like shrieks of judgment, cast on those who dared to harm a man blessed by divinity. Their airy flailing came off as graceful twirls, effortlessly commanding the wind to reduce crude, corporeal tools of man to nothing. 

It was as if the heavens themselves were protecting him. 

“Draw your swords!” Gerhardt snarled. “Hack him to pieces!”

One of the lighting artifacts suddenly shattered. A bolt had flown into it. Gerhardt cast his gaze toward it in bafflement. 

“Is this the sylphs’ doing…?!” Gerhardt muttered angrily. “No… Which one of you imbeciles shot that artifact?!”

Another artifact shattered. Bolts struck them one by one, killing the light in the amphitheater as Sigurd dashed toward the wall. 

He leapt, just as the final light shattered, plunging all of them into darkness. 

Posts updated! July 20, 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 136: Blue Skies from Pain

Over the years, Ciel still returned to her haven in the forest. She sat beside her friend on that hollow log, just as before, but always with half a foot between them. The empty stare she saw that day didn’t rupture their friendship. But it left a gap. It never widened, and never healed. 

Rather than drift apart, they stayed in parallel. Ciel never quite tired of the taste of thyrel. Not exactly sour, never fully sweet, her time with Puck took on the comforting taste of familiarity. 

She grew taller. And he didn’t. 

Her body grew a little sturdier, though she was still underfed. By contrast, her mother grew increasingly frail, her mind addled and her appetite ruined by the tinctured wine she perpetually sought relief in.

Perhaps this slow reversal of their health and strength had struck at something within Marcella. Because one day, mother and daughter sat at the dinner table—a particularly lavish meal set before Ciel, whose growth had made her hunger pains unbearable.

A whole roast chicken, a bowl of pottage with thick slices of bacon, warm rolls of bread already slathered with butter…

And a goblet of honeyed wine. 

It was the finest meal Ciel had ever been given. Her instincts screamed at her that something was wrong—that these foods were too sumptuous, her mother far too quiet. Had she not been so hungry, she might have noticed the honey’s sweetness masking the faint numbness on her tongue. 

The host of aches which always plagued Ciel eased. Her limbs tingled faintly. Her motions slowed in a way she’d never experienced. When she reached for her goblet, her hand slipped, and wine spilled across the table.

Yet her mother did not berate her for clumsiness, or for ruining the fine white cloth. She simply stared at Ciel, a tired smirk crossing her face. 

Only then did Ciel realize the wine had been tinctured with something else.

“It feels nice… doesn’t it?” Marcella slurred. “Go on. Act as if… you’re above it.” 

Her face was caked with sweat. Yet she closed her eyes, lightly parting her lips as if she were the only one who could feel a pleasant breeze. “Pretend like you’re better than… me.” 

Ciel sluggishly rose from the table, and left the room without a word. Marcella didn’t stop her. 

There was nowhere to go but the forest. Every step felt as if it belonged to someone else—like her body was moving ahead of her, through air as thick as syrup. No ache in her ribs, no cuts from stinging wind. There was a coziness to it. 

For once, Ciel understood what it meant not to feel pain.

When she reached the edge of the forest, she sat against a tree, completely unbothered by the wet ground, nearly consumed by a kind of bliss she’d never felt in her entire life. She was steeped in a soothing balm, floating gently on the wind.

Curling her knees to herself, Ciel rested her head on them and began to sob. 

____________

It was about an hour later that Puck found her—a while after Ciel had stopped crying, and just around the time the effects of the poppy tears were reaching their peak. 

She’d progressed to lying on her back, staring up through the leaves of the tree she was under. Frogs croaked somewhere off in the distance. Her back was cold, and a voice in her head told her she’d catch sickness if she kept laying there. But she couldn’t quite will herself to get up.

“Ciel…?” Puck asked.

Ciel’s gaze vacantly drifted sidewards. Just like the first time they’d met, she didn’t notice him. This time, though, her mind was too dulled to flinch.

“Hello Puck,” Ciel said. 

“Are you alright, Ciel?” Puck asked, his voice small. 

She thought the question over. Then, she slowly shook her head. “No,” Ciel said bluntly. “I’m not. I will be. Eventually.”

Through her haze, she became dimly aware of Puck’s fingers softly curling around hers, as he took her hand to coax her upright. His other hand hovered near the small of her back, steadying her as she rose to her feet.

“There’s somewhere I want to take you, Ciel,” Puck said. 

“Now?” Ciel asked. “While I’m like this?”

“It’s close by,” Puck said. “I’ll lead you there.”

“Okay, then,” Ciel muttered. It was easier to follow than to think. 

The small part of her that could still feel alarmed noticed he wasn’t leading her deeper into the woods. They were headed towards the palace. 

For a moment, she was simply bewildered. She hadn’t even realized Puck ever left the forest. What would happen if a guard saw him? Or worse—a member of the family? 

And they’d see him dragging her along—this mysterious boy, who none of them remember, leading along the young girl they already hate. 

“I don’t want to go back home, Puck,” Ciel said, fear managing to edge back into her voice. “Not now of all times.”

Her mother’s face flashed in her mind and she felt the sudden onset of rage. Like needles pricking at her chest, or the crash of thunder and lightning in her head—it came so swiftly, so violently, that even she was startled. 

The anger pulsed all the way to her fingertips—and with it came a pang of guilt. Because Puck was still holding her hand, so tenderly.

“It’s okay. We’re just going to the Playground. The very edge of it,” Puck told her. 

“That garish place?” Ciel mumbled. Reluctantly, she let her worries go and sank into her haze. 

The willows bowed low as they ran through, their leaves brushing lightly—almost ticklish.  As they emerged, forest floor turned to cobblestone grown mossy, and soon the bell tower beside the palace loomed into view. 

Even in her dulled state, though, Ciel noticed: there were guards. Just a couple of them, since the tower wasn’t particularly important. Thinking they were going to be caught, she felt her stomach clench.

‘Oi! Drill muster! North quarter formation, on the double! Meet at the gate!’

An angry man’s voice bellowed loud and clear from one of the courtyards between the tower and the palace. Confused, the two guards exchanged a glance before starting toward it.

Puck, breathless, led a dazed Ciel into the bell tower and up its spiralling steps, until they emerged near the top. 

“That voice was you, then,” Ciel said, still trying to string thoughts together as they tried to float away. “I’ve never been up here—”

The sight of Amière sprawling below caught her breath. “Oh,” Ciel whispered. “So… high up.”

The sky seemed to tilt. Clutching at Puck for support, Ciel held her breath, struck by the horrifying sensation that the bell tower was swaying, while the city beneath seemed to spin.

“What do you think, Ciel?” Puck asked her. 

“What should I think?” Ciel asked quietly.

Her knees bowed in. She lacked the full faculty of her movements. Was it possible she might lean too far and slip past the railing?

“Marcella and I used to look down at the city from here,” Puck said, his smile as soft as ever. “I’d do that same old trick to call away the guards. It always works. Even after all this… how long?” 

His brow furrowed thoughtfully. 

“My—mother—?” Ciel blurted thoughtlessly, her mouth drying out. “Right now, we’re talking about my mother?”

“...Sorry,” Puck said. His voice went limp, and his expression turned to one of genuine remorse. “She’s... probably not something you want to talk about right now.”

“That’s not… exactly…” Ciel rasped the words out, attempting to shift her weight back from the railing but feeling the ground shift beneath her feet instead. Her ankle rolled and she stumbled backward—caught by Puck’s arms. 

“Marcella’s not what she used to be,” Puck frowned, steadying her against him. His eyes, crestfallen, scanned the city below. “She lost something that you still have.”

Ciel felt herself hanging in his embrace, her head tilting back, her eyes turned skyward. The stars were circling now. Terrified that any more flailing might send her tumbling off the tower’s edge, she forced her movements still, trying to make the world stop spinning with just her gaze.

One of Puck’s hands rose, slowly and carefully, brushing lightly against Ciel’s cheek. “You’re still innocent, Ciel.” 

She shuddered. Her stomach dropped. And when his hand gently turned her face toward his, she looked into his eyes and saw they were jet-black. 

Iris to sclera, dark as obsidian.

“The humiliations of Marcella’s life transformed her,” Puck said, his voice growing softer with each word. “Like a hundred little cuts, all over her body, until she could only feel the sting.”

“Puck,” Ciel pleaded. “I want to… go down…”

“I’m going to take them away, Ciel. The painful memories, starting with today,” Puck said. “Just look into my eyes…” 

Then with his usual smile, boyish and comforting, he added, “I’ll eat them.”

That was the moment Ciel realized the truth of her friend from the forest. The look that crept into his eyes when the voices of the past dragged him back. The way he spoke kindly, yet always halfway lost in memory. 

“You’re… empty…” Ciel breathed out. “Just like her…”

“Ciel?” Puck asked. His voice trembled. “Why are you…?”

Ciel didn’t know what kind of expression she was making at that moment. But she knew that for the very first time in her life, something scared her more than her mother. 

She didn’t remember much after that.

A few hours later, she woke near the bottom of the bell tower’s steps, trying to piece together how she’d gotten there. She remembered the dinner, and her mother’s trickery—the tinctured wine. And that’s how she accounted for the gaps in her memory. 

But Ciel wouldn’t realize just how much had been taken from her that day. Or why she was filled with an inexplicable fear of the forest. 

Whatever face she made had been too much for Puck to bear. Because that was the day he ate her memories of him. 

____________

Now in that cozy glade tucked away in the forest, so many years later, the two were face-to-face once again. Physically, the shadowless boy looked just as he had when Ciel was a child. But there was a darkness in his expression that hadn’t been there before. 

“It hurt me, Ciel,” the boy said. “One day I saw you running back in the forest and… I thought it was because you remembered me somewhere deep inside. Just like you said you would.”

“Puck, I—” Ciel began.

“I told you I go by Robin, now,” he said in a low voice.

Puck’s face twisted, gaze fixed on the dirt at his feet. “You just went looking for a way out.” Then he slowly raised his eyes. “And I helped you. Did you think you found that hollow log into the tunnels by yourself? I always watched over you.”

“You’re the one who erased my memory… Robin,” Ciel whispered. “I don’t understand. You chose this. Isn’t this what you’ve always done?”

“There was always another child,” Puck said softly. “Another Blanc to find. Another name to remember… even after they forgot mine.”

Puck glared at her. “What I don’t understand,” he shouted, voice rising, “is how you could fall in love with the man who killed your family!”

He stood up from the hollow log and took a step closer. “He killed your mother, Ciel. No matter what she did to you—no matter how bad it was—he still killed her.”

“My mother… killed herself with the way she lived,” Ciel said numbly. “She was dead before Sigurd’s sword ever reached her.”

“Don’t say that,” Puck murmured. His expression crumpled, and he shook his head like he couldn’t bear to hear it. 

Ciel’s stomach knotted at the sight. 

Now that he stood in front of her, she saw it clearly—just how small he was. He had the stature of a ten-year old boy. And now she towered over him as an adult, a full head taller.

He was ageless. He would live longer than she ever could. But in that moment, all she could see was a child pleading. 

“Robin,” Ciel started softly. She knelt to match his height. “I just… want to see my daughter. She’s a Blanc, too, isn’t she? I want her to be safe.”

“She’ll always be safe with me,” Puck snapped. “The only question is whether you’ll be with us, too.”

Ciel froze. 

“…What are you saying, Robin?” Her voice was barely audible.

“She’ll stay with me, Ciel. And if you’ll be a family with us, you can join too,” Puck said. His voice was flat, straightforward. It wasn’t a threat. 

It was simply the future, as he saw it.

“I’m playing family right now, too,” Puck said. “I’m Gerhardt’s son. He was the only one who actually came back.” His voice took on a sad note. “He’s the one who looked for me.”

Then his eyes turned cold. “But I know he’s just using me. That’s why I’ll act the father this time. I’m done being passive. I’m going to do what I want.”

“Did you plan this, Robin…?” Ciel asked. “For Bea to come here?” 

“It wasn’t me that brought her here,” Puck said. “It was fate. My father asked me for a favor… and I helped him.” His looked away, jaw tight. “I have my grudge against Sigurd, too.”

Then he met Ciel’s eyes coldly. “The forest is my domain, Ciel. When Sigurd ruined this city, I reclaimed it. And the moment Bea entered Amière, she was just another lost child… wandering into my woods.”

Ciel felt it again. That same repulsion that had driven her away in the first place—the fear that had made the forest more terrifying than the palace. 

“Then… you want me to play wife and mother,” Ciel choked the words out in a whisper. “And what about when Bea grows up, Robin…? What then? Will she become your wife then, too?”

“Of course not,” Puck said, his brow curling as if he’d heard something absurd. “She’ll still be my daughter.”

“Bea will never be your daughter, Puck,” Ciel said, her voice cracking. 

“Then she won’t be yours!” Puck yelled. “You’ll forget she ever existed! And I’ll make sure she knows you abandoned her!”

‘That child? I was… relieved when she left. If she ran away of her own desire, is it truly my fault anymore?’

It was her voice—stolen from her to speak disgusting words.  And imagining Bea’s face if she ever heard them was like a blow to Ciel’s stomach, worse than any time her mother had ever struck her.

‘All those peculiar thoughts she has. There has always been something bizarre about that girl. She speaks to those toys as if they were real friends because she simply can’t make real ones.’

‘I see her father in her face sometimes, and it makes me terribly ill.’

‘I always find myself dreaming… what sort of life might I have had, if she had never come to be?’ 

Ciel staggered back. Her mouth opened, but no sound came. Her knees began to wobble until they gave out, and suddenly the ten-year-old boy in front of her seemed to look so tall. 

“…Don’t take her from me.” Her voice caught, and a tear slipped down her cheek. “Not Bea. Please.”

Like he had so many years ago, Puck lifted a hand to her cheek. “You deserve to belong, Ciel. Even if you turned your back on your real family… You didn’t do anything wrong. You never hurt anyone yourself.”

Then his voice fell to a hush—more tender than it had ever been, and all the more malevolent for it. “It’s alright. I’ll take away your memories of Sigurd. It won’t have to hurt. This time we’ll all be happy.”

Ciel was paralyzed. 

She thought of never being able to hold Bea again, reading her bedtime stories as she fell asleep. Never hearing her soft, thoughtful voice. She imagined going back to that room in Calum. Seeing Bea’s stuffed animals lying there on the bed… and not knowing why they were there. 

The nightmare of losing not just Bea, but the memory of her entire existence was too much for Ciel. And as Puck’s eyes turned dark as obsidian, all she could do was gaze back in stricken terror. 

But at that moment when she was about to surrender to her deepest fears, Ciel was pulled out of the darkness by the clanging of a bell. 

Posts updated! July 17, 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 135: Bitter Paste and Sour Thyrel

It was over a decade ago when Ciel first met Puck.

Dawn in the forest behind the palace always felt cleansing; the damp air like linen steeped in honey, dripping softly over her wounds. Some days, that was only a figure of speech. But not that day. 

Of course, Ciel didn’t have anything as lavish as honey or linen. She had old rags and yarrow—and she was currently chewing away at it, trying not to gag as her teeth ground the hairy leaves into a bitter paste.  

She spat the paste onto the rag, then a few times onto the ground for good measure. Some of the bitter taste still clung to her teeth. Nonetheless, she wiped the cuts carved all over her hands, gritting her teeth through the pain, the bitterness running to the back of her tongue. 

‘Picking weeds again, you dumb little mooncalf? Trying to say you don’t need me, is that it?’

Words from the night prior slipped into her thoughts, and her hands froze. Just for a moment. Then they kept moving.

“I’m not… dumb,” Ciel muttered.

She stared down at her hands—wet with spit and smeared with a green-yellow paste. Shame swept over her, prickling under her collar and creeping up through her face.

What other choice did she have? When her mother had caught her using the dregs of Hildebert’s wine to clean her wounds… that night Marcella had washed them herself. 

Shifting her weight, Ciel felt a twinge at her ribs and winced. She didn’t want to move around too much today. Even as a dull hunger gnawed at her, she couldn’t quite trust herself to tell the edible berries from poisonous ones. 

She wasn’t going to return home until she had to. 

Her fingers were sticky, her belly faintly hollow, and the sun was warm on her back. Ciel let herself settle into the stillness. Alone was peaceful. All she needed to do was sit and enjoy the blue sky. 

“Were those flowers tasty?” A voice asked from right behind her. “Must not have been since you spit it back out.”

Ciel gasped, swerving around and holding her hands up in front of herself defensively. “Who…?!”

A young boy stood there. How hadn’t she noticed? She wasn’t an easy person to sneak up on. He must have been exceptionally quiet. No, more than that…

She stared at the ground in front of him, where the sun lit the grass. A tremor fluttered in her chest. 

“You can call me Puck,” the boy said cheerily. 

But Ciel didn’t look up. 

“You… you cast no shadow,” Ciel breathed out in disbelief. 

“I think I might be sick with something,” Puck laughed. “Know any good plants for pasting my shadow back on?”

Shaking her head, and rubbing her hands on her skirt, Ciel rose and ignored the stinging sensation. Slowly she lifted her gaze—scanning the boy’s eyes without meeting them. 

“Boo?” Puck tilted his head and raised his arms. 

Ciel ran.

Back toward a house where she knew she’d be hurt, but probably wouldn’t die—to a dark room with no bed and a single blanket, which reeked of lavender, lye, and something metallic. She hid in her room all day, where thankfully none came to find her. But she slept terribly that night, because she didn’t even have a chance to put a poultice on her ribs. 

__________________

The next time Ciel met Puck in the woods, the boy who had scared her to death offered her something she couldn’t refuse. Food. 

She likely shouldn’t have trusted fruit from a stranger, but she was starving that day, and he came with an armful—even taking a bite of one first. 

“They’re thyrels,” Puck explained, wincing as she tore through fruit after fruit. “Most folks won’t eat them because they’re too sour.”

Covering her mouth and taking a moment to swallow, Ciel gave her own opinion on the fruit. “Citrons are sour. Eaten alone, they feel like they’ll burn your stomach open.” Her lips pursed a moment, and her eyes wrinkled with aimless envy. “These are… fine.”

“I’ve got too many of them,” Puck said. His voice warmed. “Come here whenever you don’t have anything to eat.”

“...Thank you,” Ciel said. “I… will.” 

Then, after a beat. “How do I even find this glade again?”

“Second star to the right and straight on ‘till morning,” Puck replied. 

“I’m sorry?” Ciel tilted her head. 

“...Nevermind,” Puck said, chuckling wistfully. “Just follow the thinning trees. You’ll never get lost in my forest. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Then, I’ll be sure to be back,” Ciel said quietly. 

She meant it. And she did. 

Her vigilance stood little chance against the only consistent kindness she knew. Ciel began to visit the strange boy in the forest more and more—at first for fruit, and later for friendship. It took time. Not because she didn’t like him. But because it took time to gather what little trust she had left in her heart. 

A season passed, and a warmth had started to bud in Ciel’s chest whenever she visited the boy. They’d sit side-by-side on a hollow log in a cozy little glade where the trees always leaned sunward to cast a comfortable shade. Most days, Puck stayed beside her in silence, content to listen to the way her voice carried through the forest.

“What about your father?” Puck asked one day. 

“My father is a charlatan,” Ciel said. “His coin purse was supposed to save this family from ruin. But all he ever brought were failed ventures and more debt. That’s why my mother treats me like this.”

She bit gingerly into a thyrel, gripping it in both hands as if she were afraid someone might take it away. “When I was younger I thought he might take me away from here, once he succeeded. Now I know, he never will. And if he ever did… he’d stop showing up altogether.”

There were times Puck looked at a loss, listening to Ciel. But she never held it against him. Just having someone to listen meant the world to her. It gave her something to hold onto whenever she had to return to the mansion and endure her mother’s onslaughts. 

For once she had a place just for her. She couldn’t always be there. But she could always come back. Deep in her heart, Ciel wondered if this little glade in the forest might be a truer home than home.

One day, though, Puck showed her a strange trick.

‘Blegh! It tastes like a mean pear!’

Ciel couldn’t help but jump at the sound of a new boy’s voice, and she glanced around looking for him. 

But there was no one. 

She laughed. The boy could move earth and roots like a mage. And he had no shadow. It wasn’t so odd that he could conjure voices then, was it?

“And who was that supposed to be?” Ciel asked. 

“Guess,” Puck said.

“Someone I know?” Ciel tilted her head. “But the only boys my age I know are you and my cousins… Perhaps one of the servant’s children…?”

“Here. I’ll give you a hint,” Puck offered. 

‘A Blanc scorns not providence, however modest. Victory must come, at times, from the most bitter of fruit.’

What an absurd thing to hear from the boy who just spit out a mouthful of ‘mean pear.’ Ciel was flummoxed. Somehow it sounded so very familiar. 

“Alaric?” Ciel gasped, recognizing the stateliness and pride. She let out a breath that turned into a soft, disbelieving laugh. “That man who puts on war medals before his morning walk? Whose night robes bear the family crest?”

She couldn’t help but imagine a little boy with all his shiny accolades pinned to his pajamas, and a real laugh slipped out—one that was deeper, freer than before.

Then, after a moment’s thought, she froze. 

“Was that something… he really said, then?” Ciel asked. Her hands settled into her lap, still grasping the fruit as she worked up the courage to ask what she really meant. “...Do you not age?”

“Not for as long as I can remember,” Puck smiled.

“And how long is that?” Ciel asked.

“I can’t remember,” Puck said with an exaggerated shrug. “Long enough that all those adults in the mansion you live in were kids once to me. And their parents were kids. And so on and…”

He paused. “Let’s just say I remember the very first Blancs.”

Ciel shivered. The thyrel she’d just eaten suddenly felt so very cold in her stomach. Despite her instinctive fear, though, she knew that Puck had shown her nothing but kindness. 

So, she chose not to dwell on it. 

“The first Blancs…” Ciel said softly. 

She fought her instincts, scooching closer to her friend on the hollow log, letting her mind wander where Puck was trying to take her. 

She was searching for connection. To Puck, who was sharing something important.  To Alaric, the proud war hero who haunted the mansion’s halls, silent and unreadable.

“They all came here, then?” Ciel asked. “Into this forest. Became friends with you.”

“Most children have a time in their lives when they decide to go play in the forest,” Puck said with a fond smile. “When a Blanc wanders and gets lost… I come and find them.”

‘You must get hungry out here. Do you like chicken? I can bring you chicken.’

‘No, no, no. You listen to me. I’m afraid those are the rules because I’m the older one.’

‘I would love to live in the forest. You must love every day, sleeping under the starry sky.’

A chorus of voices emerged from the past, so many that Ciel couldn’t keep track. All of them still children, many of them saying things Puck must have found awfully amusing. 

For a moment, it felt like her heart might catch—like she was standing at the cusp of something vast and warm. She could almost feel the hands of her ancestors, reaching out through time to take her own. Just for that moment… Ciel wanted to feel like she belonged to the Blancs. 

Then she thought of her cousins who wouldn’t so much as come near her. She thought of the way the adults’ eyes skimmed over her, like she was something shameful.

She thought of her family and she just felt cold. 

“Even Alaric sounded like a spoiled little boy once, hm?” Ciel muttered. 

“Oh yeah,” Puck nodded. “He was a scared brat before he was ever a soldier. Funny how that turned out.”

“...If you ask me, he never grew out of it,” Ciel said bitterly. “Or else why would he avert his eyes when he sees me being… being hurt by my mother?” She bit her trembling lip. “Fearless of swords but can’t grab a woman’s dainty wrist?”

She turned her face away and wiped her eyes. Ciel detested crying in front of others. 

“Does no one ever try to protect you in that house?” Puck asked gently. “Hildebert? Edmund?”

“Hildebert’s only devotion is to his goblet,” Ciel said. “Edmund… is domineering toward anything weaker than him.”

Then she added softly. “...And my mother isn’t weaker. Not even as she is now.”

Ciel kept her eyes on her thyrel for a few moments, thinking of the children her uncles must have been—coming to this glade, perhaps sitting on this very log. A complicated feeling stirred in her, and she let her gaze drift back to the boy next to her, suddenly noticing. 

He looked so sad.

“Do they remember you, Puck?” Ciel asked. “Any of them?”

“...No,” Puck said. “Because when they get old enough, I take away their memories.” He smiled sadly. “I watch over the Blancs, Ciel. I help them while they’re still small. I’m their friend.”

It wasn’t easy for Ciel to do what she did next. Her arms were shaking as she did so, and she worried he’d take offense. Sitting on that hollowed log, in that tucked away glade, she gave Puck a hug. She squeezed tight, because she wanted him to know that she cared. 

“That sounds… terribly lonely,” Ciel said. “I don’t know why you… have to do it. But if we ever have to part ways…” She found herself unexpectedly choking on the word ‘part.’ “I know I’ll remember you in my heart.”

The strange boy stiffened in her arms. And in that moment, Ciel understood: in his own quiet way, Puck—who always seemed at ease, who never asked for anything—carried his own kind of pain.

But then he said something she truly didn’t know how to respond to. 

“...Marcella said that too, once,” Puck said.

“Is that so…?” Ciel asked.

“She had… such a bright voice as a child. She always sounded excited,” Puck said numbly. “Now her voice is slow and quiet.”

Ciel drew back from her hug in a soft and careful motion. But as she pulled away, she ventured what she so rarely did: a gaze into someone else’s eyes. And the emptiness in Puck’s as he stared off into the trees convinced her. 

“I… should go home for today, Puck,” Ciel said, clutching her shoulder. 

“Mhm,” Puck hummed. He was hardly listening. 

So, Ciel left him in that glade. And if she were being truthful, part of her felt betrayed. The thought of her mother, loud and excited and childish was… painful. And Marcella had already caused her enough pain. 

That hollow log, where Ciel could sit without worry—with a full stomach, where she didn’t have to listen to her mother’s insults… of all places, that should be left untouched.

“Of course she speaks in a fog…” Ciel murmured. “That’s what poppy tears do to you…”

Though she wasn’t fully conscious of it, something subtler lingered beneath her feelings of betrayal. A seed of doubt, planted in a mind that had always been churned by fear. It was a small thing. But like a vine in the forest, their friendship caught on it—and never quite walked the same way again. 

“Is he always listening to us…?” Ciel whispered.

Posts updated! July 15, 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 134: Words to Live By

Ailn and Camille had been diverted from the palace. And even if they reached it, they weren’t certain of what they would see, or if they’d even be able to help. Really, their mission hinged on being able to sneak through completely unseen. 

That hadn’t happened.

They’d spent more time running than anything else. Ducking into one courtyard, then sprinting into the next. Their pursuers were too many to face. All they could do was try to lose them, always opting for areas with more cover. 

Inevitably, they found themselves constantly retreating to the parts of the Playground where the forest had reclaimed more ground. 

They crouched low in what had once been a courtyard. By now the cobblestone and statues had been covered with moss for so long that it had begun to look slimy. 

A nearby sculpture of a rotting tooth looked particularly disgusting. 

“This approach… is doomed to failure,” Camille said. Her breathing was strained, and she sounded as if she were losing hope. “What use could we be to Sigurd…? We can hardly fend for ourselves…”

Ailn didn’t have a response. Truthfully, his expectations weren’t high at this point either. 

As far as he could tell, when they left Bea in Calum, they had a fifty-fifty shot at success. He wasn’t sure what wrong turns they’d taken or what mistakes they’d made. But it was hard to imagine a path to victory. 

The logical thing to do was cut their losses and try to escape. Ailn knew that. He had responsibilities that went beyond taking care of the eum-Creids. 

He leaned back, staring at the sky. “...If we die here, that’s the end of this world,” Ailn muttered. 

Camille arched her brow.

“The situation is bleak enough without you being overdramatic,” she sighed. Somehow, she looked a little less hopeless than before. “But this truly might be the end for us.”

Suddenly, the sounds of shouting guards could be heard. Both Ailn and Camille tensed as the glow of a lantern slipped uncomfortably close. 

They held their breaths, hands reaching for their swords. But soon enough, the light disappeared, as the guards that had neared went off in some other direction. 

Letting out a breath of relief, Camille also leaned back against the wall. “We need to move on soon,” she muttered. 

For a moment, they both looked up at the stars.

“I would have liked to say goodbye to my father and Nicolas,” Camille said, wistfully. Then, her voice wavered, and she sounded a little choked. “... I wouldn’t have fought with my mother over something so stupid.”

Ailn slowly rose to his feet. “Quit acting like we’re already dead,” he sighed irritably. “You’re letting the ‘art’ get to you.”

Their gazes shifted—drawn, almost unwillingly, toward the enormous rotting tooth built directly into the mountainside.

“Besides,” Ailn said. “Alera might come through for us.”

“... I hope at the very least she’s unharmed,” Camille said. 

They both kept still, listening—half-expecting the echo stone to chime. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking.

What they heard instead made their blood run cold.

A voice was coming from the tooth.

A man. Calling them by name, speaking just loud enough to be heard.

‘Ailn. Dame Camille.’

Both froze, gazes fixed on the sneering face which Kylian’s voice was inexplicably echoing from.

‘...It’s me. Kylian. Stay calm. I can explain how I got here. Just give me a moment—I need to create an exit.’

“Did you not say there was a demon which could imitate voices?!” Camille hissed over Kylian. 

“I… sure did,” Ailn said, hand reaching for his hilt. “Well, I didn’t call it a demon actually—”

Camille’s holy aura began to flash.

‘...Why do I hear aura? If you collapse the chamber inward, I’ll be crushed by the rubble. Don’t do that. Are you listening to me? Do not do that.’

At the last moment, Ailn got the sense that he should stop her. But it was too late. Camille struck, slamming her holy fist into the already cracked molar. 

There was a second flash. A second, sharper blast amidst the sounds of falling rock, as well as uncharacteristic cursing. 

Kylian emerged from the statue’s caved-in nose, covered in dust, looking vexed.

“For God’s sake, if I were a demon, why would I have warned you?”

___________________

“Let me witness it, Sigurd!” Gerhardt shouted. “The moment your divine blessing fades! Then I’ll know for certain that you died hopeless and afraid!”

The mercenaries joined in, the clamor in the amphitheater rising. 

Sigurd steadied his breath. The jeers swelled around him, but within, the noise was fading. What kept him moving was the thought of Ciel and Bea. If they were still in danger—

‘Ciel’s dead. And so is your daughter, Bea.’

A tendril swept in from the left, aiming for his neck. The knight commander parried, but half a beat too slow. Before he could disengage his blade and recover, a second tendril flung itself downward. 

Sigurd pivoted, barely avoiding it, feeling the tendril scrape across his shoulder where his pauldron had been torn away.

The third tendril thrust forward, aiming straight for his heart. Even with Sigurd’s mind fogging, he could predict its path—there was a rare chance to meet it head-on and cleave it through. His holy aura ignited—

‘Did you wish to see their bodies? Not even I’m that cruel.’

And it faltered. His blade whipped back, and the tendril scored his adamantine plate, cutting across his chest. 

No. He couldn’t think of them. Not right now. If he did, his aura…

He had to fall back on what never failed him: conviction. The belief that duty mattered. The strength that came from knowing what failure would cost.

The stakes had never changed since he was a boy. Sigurd had always fought to protect the empire. The duchy. 

Words from his mother echoed faintly at the back of his head, as he called upon his divine blessing. 

‘Never forget. A eum-Creid stands strong against the tempest.’  

Once again, one of the lion’s tendrils lunged straight for his heart, and Sigurd met it with his blade, the divine blessing surging through. Steel and light scraped against flesh and shadow, and once again the lion craned its neck back in a silent roar. 

The creature could feel pain. 

‘We climb to the highest peak to stand vigil. That’s what it means to lead.’

The two other tendrils came lashing—a beat slower, and with less force. But Sigurd was already sprinting along the third, skimming it with his sword as if he were carving the thinnest sliver of meat. Holy aura burst at his heels as he rushed the lion’s flank. His speed alone brought him within striking distance.

‘Always remember. Your blade is the light which cuts through the dark. This is not a privilege. It is your duty.’

The lion’s first paw came crashing down to crush him—perhaps it was even aware that Sigurd only had the use of his weaker arm. But Sigurd slipped to the side. Holy aura flared as he drove his blade down into the paw. 

Then he tried to wrench it free—

But the blade stuck. As if the miasma itself had seized it.

Gritting his teeth, Sigurd poured holy aura into the sword, flooding the lion’s wound with light. The beast flailed in pain, thrashing to throw him off—but he held fast. He was dead if he lost his sword.

Finally, the blade violently tore free. And the lion’s strength hurled Sigurd across the arena, where he crashed into the far wall. 

‘You must never fall, my son.’

___________________

Ciel’s mouth went dry. Her tongue felt slack and leaden. Even swallowing felt as if sand were scraping her throat. Her body was fighting her in a way it hadn’t in nearly a decade. But she forced herself to her feet. 

‘Lost, are you? Come then. Follow me.’

The little girl’s voice echoed out from the brush ahead. It was leading Ciel somewhere. 

“I… have no time for ghosts,” Ciel breathed out. “I’m searching for my daughter.”

‘I’m the one leading, and you’ll listen to me!’

Despite herself, Ciel flinched. Her mother was dead. She knew that. But as she leaned against a tree trunk to steady her breathing and bring herself back to calm, she felt her legs threatening to give way. 

Her hands were clammy and her heart was hammering. 

‘Follow along, or I won’t help you.’

Closing her eyes, Ciel drew a breath. “Is Bea with you?” she demanded.

‘Are you coming or not?!’

Knowing no good would come from responding, Ciel followed in silence. She didn’t rush. All she had to do was put one foot in front of the other, listening to the sound of the forest crunching underfoot. 

It was a familiar chill. The air in these woods was always wetter… heavier than the rest of the mountain. Thick brush and trees which loomed tall gave way to scattered clearings. 

She remembered running through these trees. There were happier times, when she would take naps where the sun cut through. This was the only place she could get away from her mother. 

So, why was she now following her mother’s voice? 

‘If you fall behind, that’s your fault. I’m not waiting.’

Ciel could tell for certain now. Earlier, she’d fallen for the trick—believed, for a moment, that there was a child running through these woods just out of her view. But the woods had thinned to the point that there were too few places left to hide. 

There was no child. Just… the pattering sound of footsteps and a voice, emanating from nothing at all. 

The bodiless voice led her to a glade tucked away. Ciel walked through two leaning trees which had formed an arch, growing into each other and tangling at their crowns. As she passed, she shivered.

The trees both drew back, as if beckoning her into a sacred space. The glade’s floor was carpeted with forget-me-nots, which must have looked lovely by day. But caught in lantern light, their gentle blue dulled to something almost gray and mournful. 

A boy sat waiting for her on a hollow log.

‘This spot feels peaceful, so I’ve decided to claim it!’

“Ciel,” the boy called out to her with a sad smile. “Do you remember me, yet?”

He tossed her a fruit.

___________________

Sigurd’s desperate battle in the amphitheater seemed to be nearing its end.  Once again, he crashed into the arena’s wall, struck senseless by the lion. 

His best efforts weren’t bearing fruit. The tendrils were hell to cut through, and even when he reached the lion, its natural limbs struck back without pause.

He’d scored its flesh more than once, but it barely seemed to matter. The lion would rear back and let out a soundless roar—then continue the fight as if nothing happened. 

Its body was hazy and shifting. Sigurd struggled to tell if he’d hurt it at all. 

…The only visible wound was the gash in its neck. What seemed like a decisive blow had only served to produce the tendrils that would soon kill him.

For a moment, Sigurd lay there, trying to recover his breath. His armor was cracked. His right arm limp. Blood ran into his left eye, clouding his sight. 

Against the protests of his body, despite the pain—Sigurd rose. Grinding his teeth, he attempted to force his aura to life with every fiber of his being, grasping at the spark of divinity that flowed through his blood.  

And yet—

‘I made it swift, Sigurd. Neither suffered.’

…His sword was lightless. 

“Looks like he’s out!”

Emily’s jeers were particularly loud. “I want to see your face twist, you bastard! I want to see you piss yourself when that aura won’t come out!”

‘Shield your people—’

‘Sustain their hopes—’

‘Carry their faith—’

‘Our blood is their tomorrow—’

The precepts which always sustained him had become a hollow litany as merciless as the jeers. None of it moved his heart. Everything he'd fought for. Everything he'd believed. Everything he'd been taught to hold sacred.

‘Give everything, Sigurd—’

Sigurd was tired. 

The lion stalked forward. And Sigurd closed his eyes, reaching for a memory. Not of his mother. Not his siblings, nor even Ciel. To those in the stands it must have seemed he’d given up. 

“Guess that holy blood’s thinner than we thought!”

“Come on, brightboy! I’ve got money on you dying tired, not pathetic!”

“So, that’s it, then…” Gerhardt muttered. “He’s broken.”

Sigurd desperately tried to remember what his daughter looked like. 

The girl with strawberry blonde hair who he’d only ever seen from afar. Who everyone called Bea—except for him. Who’d smiled when she got her first stuffed animal, and hugged it like it meant the world. 

But the image was too hazy. A single memory, hardly a glimpse, was too fragile no matter how he held it close. Without realizing it, he’d already lost her smile. 

The lion’s tendril lashed out, aiming to kill. The crowd’s roar rose to a fever pitch, cheers and jeers and laughter blending with the howling winds. 

At that moment, Sigurd heard neither crowd nor precept. He heard the ache of his own heart. 

‘I want to see her.’

The man bound by duty finally chose for himself. And in doing so, he seized destiny. 

The pain, which should have extinguished his aura for good, roused it to life instead. His aura flared white, its crystal chime answering the winds. It burst forth, filled with the faith that his daughter was still alive… and waiting for him. 

The tendril shot for his throat—and was cut clean through. The second came, and then the third, lashing out to either slice the man or break the blade. He cleaved one in half, and the other recoiled the instant it brushed his aura.

The lion brought its paw down to crush him. Sigurd met it with his blade. He nearly buckled from the sheer weight of the blow, but his aura held, burning through the lion’s flesh.

Finally, it snapped at him in desperation. The tendrils were gone, but its head still hung limp, and its bite was weak.

Sigurd drove his sword into the roof of the lion’s mouth, meeting unexpected resistance. He could feel the miasma attempting to seize his blade—the lion tensing its body to hurl him into the wall once again. 

He let his aura surge through the steel. The miasma erupted from its throat like smoke from a furnace. With a final push, he drove the blade through its skull.

The beast bucked once before it crumpled, twitching pitifully on the ground as it began to fade. 

The jeers had faded to silence. All that remained was the wind—and the faint, crystalline chime of Sigurd’s aura.

“...What a bitter taste,” Gerhardt said. His voice was low, his eyes hollow. “If you’d died there, I would’ve been free.”

___________________

Like a missing puzzle piece, the sight of Robin filled the nauseating void that had always been in Ciel’s head since she was a child. 

In glimpses and murmurs, the memories came back. Of a childhood spent wandering the forest, because only the whispering trees ever had kind words. Of the comfort that always came to find her even in the dark. 

Of her first friend. The strange young boy who cast no shadow.

“...Puck,” Ciel breathed. 

“Robin, right now, actually…” the boy replied. He patted next to him on the log. “Come sit with me for a moment.”

Ciel stiffened. And she slowly shook her head. 

“I see,” Robin said. He didn’t look too surprised by his answer. He merely kept his sad, knowing smile. 

“Where’s my daughter, Puck?” Ciel asked. Her voice didn’t shake. “Where is Bea?”

‘And what right have you to make demands of me?!’

The voice came booming from beside Ciel, imperious and loud as a young girl could be. 

This time, though, Ciel refused to flinch.  Her skin still prickled. Her heart still thrashed. Her fingernails bit into her palms.

She had no time for games. Especially for any this cruel. 

“Answer me—” Ciel started.

“You’re braver than you used to be,” Robin said, ignoring her. His voice was fond with memory as he closed his eyes. “Funny thing is, even back then you were braver than Marcella ever was.”

Then he frowned. “But she turned out… like that.”

This time the voice came from all around Ciel. And it was no longer a child’s.  

‘Hide in the forest. See if I feed you again.’

‘You’re weeping over a bruise I’ll heal tomorrow. You should be thinking about what you did to deserve it.’

‘Is it your father you take after? The filth you spit—who else would know what I said, if not me? Don’t you dare stand there like my keeper.’

Quiet. Bitter. Tired. Arrogant and lilting, even when adrift in a fugue. That was her mother’s voice, just as Ciel always remembered her.

‘I wonder every single day what I did wrong. And then I remember—I chose to keep you.’

A breath stuttered out of Ciel, a half-sob caught between her teeth. She held the rest in. Her past hurt didn’t matter right now. 

“What do you want, Puck?” Ciel asked, her voice low and each word deliberate. “Tell me.”

“...I want us all to be together. You, me, and Bea,” Robin said softly. “A little family. What do you think?” 

Posts updated! July 13, 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 133: The Hollow

Even from within the northern tunnels of Amière, Kylian could hear the harsh winds outside. The relative silence within was eerie—punctuated by the occasional whistle through cracks in stone, low droning moans bleeding through in the distance.

"You truly remember these tunnels after all this time?" Kylian asked.

“Yes, I…” Ciel hesitated, raising her lantern as she considered a split in the path. “I used to dream of escaping Amière. I’d find my way through the tunnels, all the way to the bottom of the mountain. Then I’d… stop.” 

The ground sloped upward as they made their way through.

Though the Blancs had only ever struck significant lodes of orichalcum in the western crags, their efforts had scarred the entire mountain range—and the land north of the palace was no exception. 

Whatever thin veins they’d found had evidently amounted to little, if the exploratory shafts left behind were simple enough to be memorized by Ciel.

“To think there were tunnels which led straight to the palace,” Kylian murmured. “I have no idea what His Grace Sigurd means to accomplish, but if he’d only known…”

“No.” Ciel shook her head. “For Sigurd, I believe this would have been an even more dangerous path.” Her gaze lifted to the ceiling. “This tunnel doesn’t lead to the palace, exactly. It leads to the forest just north of it.”

“And in that forest…?” Kylian’s brow furrowed. 

“...I don’t remember,” Ciel said. “Something… friendly only to Blancs. I know that much.” She cast him an apologetic glance. “Still, I believe—”

“Then let’s hope you can negotiate my safety,” Kylian sighed. 

He never expected to return to this city—certainly not with a member of the family he thought long destroyed. Kylian’s mind was still trying to catch up. 

The flood of information he’d received since Ciel broke him out of the dungeons of House ark-Chelon nearly overwhelmed him. To begin with, as far as he’d known, Sigurd should have still been in Varant patrolling the northern wall. Hearing that the level-headed knight commander had ridden willingly into peril was shocking enough—to say nothing of where. 

Amière was a shadow in the memories of the Azure Knights. For Kylian, the city had marked a departure point. 

He’d marched on the city and battled the Argent Guard. But at the threshold of the palace doors, Kylian chose to turn away. And upon his return to Varant, he followed the path of a peacekeeper. Whatever meaning the divine blessing once held for him had shattered when the Blancs were extinguished. 

But Sigurd had not wiped them out entirely. He’d shown mercy to the young heirs. What was Kylian to make of that? The grace Sigurd extended that day had sown the seeds for such strange fruit. 

An inscrutable heir. A plot intent on his demise. 

A child.

Amidst a legacy of pain and enmity, love—or something like it—had managed to blossom. Yet it drew from the same gnarled roots. And now the grief of two houses, bound together by the divine blessing, threatened to suffocate it.

“It’s still here,” Ciel murmured. “My entrance.”

The groan of the wind was getting louder, and Kylian felt the gusts of fresh air. Ahead, the tunnel began to narrow and shorten, the incline steepening. 

“I always entered these tunnels through the hollow of a tree,” Ciel said. “When I was younger, the forest was my haven. But one day, I realized it was no better than the palace.”

There was a hint of nostalgia in the misery of her voice. “These tunnels terrified me. And yet I always returned to them, finding my way to the edge of freedom.” She nodded toward the path behind them. “To this day, I still don’t understand why I could never leave.”

As the tunnel narrowed, Ciel slouched, the lantern in her hand shaking as she lit the way. She swallowed hard. “I came crawling back… every time.”

She dropped to a crouch. 

“Hold on.” Kylian stopped her. He squinted into the narrowing passage. “...I doubt I’ll fit through.”

Ciel halted. It seemed she didn’t at all consider this possibility. 

“The exit is through the hollow of a tree—upwards. All force would do here is collapse the passage…” she said, voice uncertain. “We’ll… have to find another path, then.”

She didn’t seem keen on it, the way her eyes flitted ahead.  

“If you believe time is of the essence, then prioritize finding your daughter,” Kylian said. “You said yourself the forest was hostile to those who lack Blanc blood, correct?” 

“You might be able to find your way... this close to the palace,” Ciel murmured, though her tone held little conviction. “There are surely other exits. But the tunnels can be unstable.”

“I’ll find another way out—and focus on locating one of my companions,” Kylian said, his voice steady. “If I get lost, I’ll keep my wits about me and ensure my own safety, at the very least.”

Then, with a small shrug, he added, “Strangely enough, I’ve had a wealth of experience navigating caves.”

_______________

The miasmatic lion stood in the center of the ring, craning its neck back as if to proudly roar. Yet no sound came out—at least none he could hear over the jeering. 

“A jester in the end, is it…?” Sigurd muttered, as he narrowed his profile like a fencer’s. 

He kept his blade at chest height, its tip angled upward—daring the brace to pounce.

…Yet he held it in his weaker hand. He’d let his fear and rage get the better of him. And because of it, he’d taken a critical injury he didn’t need to. 

His right arm hung at his side. 

The lion crouched low and leapt. Its claw flashed, slamming against Sigurd’s sword, attempting to crush him with sheer impetus. 

The knight commander did not resist the impact. He used it. 

The lion’s weight drove his blade back, and his feet slid along the stone floor of the amphitheater—his left heel catching as he pivoted. 

His holy aura flared to life for an instant, and his blade arced upward from his hip in a single, radiant stroke. 

Swifter than the lion anticipated, Sigurd’s sword swept across its shadowed limb. Struck flesh burst into miasma, yet its claw remained intact, crashing to the ground as the lion’s other limb drove into in a heavy, hooking swipe. 

Sigurd stepped forward, slipping beneath the strike. His footwork was precise, his movement minimal. Once more his holy aura flared and vanished, the tip of his blade thrusting toward the soft flesh beneath the beast’s jaw. 

The lion reared back, yet Sigurd’s sword still scored its shoulder—and from its mane billowed out a smoky plume.

Jeers flew down from the stands.

“What in the saints’ piss is it doing?!”

“Sink your teeth in!”

“Shut the hell up!” Emily snapped. “We wanted to see at least this much, didn’t we?!” 

The lion lashed out again and again. For what felt like an endless minute, Sigurd slipped past each blow, his sword lit with aura. 

Its glow grew brighter. Its crystalline hum suddenly pierced the din of the wind, and Sigurd lunged forward—his blade meeting the lion’s crushing paw. Broad ribbons of white light burst forth, dispersing the mist and threatening to engulf the lion. 

But the ribbons thinned as they tore through. And the lion’s hazy form resolidified.  

Alarmed, Sigurd fell back, lowering his stance. The lion pressed the attack, and Sigurd seemed to be purely on the defensive, his blade no longer gathering divine light. 

“Don’t tell me you spilled all your divinity at once!” Emily spat. “No one respects a man who finishes in a minute!”

The mercenaries joined in on her vulgarities, as the lion’s attacks started to cut closer and closer. 

The lion’s jaws snapped at Sigurd, graceless and instinctive. But Sigurd rushed forward, ducking as low as he could, twisting so fiercely it felt as if his shins might snap and his muscles tear clean from his ribs. 

The bite came so close, Sigurd could feel its teeth scrape through adamantine—his left pauldron ripped off, crushed within the lion’s mouth. 

He slashed across the lion’s throat, the flash of white clear through the darkness of its form. 

It leapt backward. The beast convulsed. Dark mist billowed from its throat with a hiss. For a moment, its entire existence seemed to distort and flicker, and its neck craned back as it writhed. 

The lion’s jaws fell agape, opening its maw as if to unleash a pained roar. And yet… It was silent. 

A tendril came lashing out from its wound. 

Sigurd had seen this before, from the tigers at the north wall. The whip-like appendage would attempt to seize his sword… No. This was different. 

He barely raised his sword in time. 

The lion had attempted to return the favor. The tendril which emerged from its throat was razor-sharp. He felt a thin sting along his throat. The drip of blood. 

For a moment, Sigurd thought he was dead. 

One tendril. Then a second. Then a third. Three tendrils burst from the wound in the lion’s neck, writhing as if they had their own will. 

Swift, sharp, and erratic, each tendril came slashing one after the other, a flurry of shadows which threatened to fell Sigurd instantly. 

Slowly, but surely, the knight commander was being cornered. The miasmatic lion slowly advanced, its tendrils alone seemingly enough to defeat Sigurd. 

Yet the lion’s head hung limply. Its jaw was slack. The tendrils which dominated the arena were dominating the beast itself—as if the appendages were the true body, the beast they sprang from nothing more than a vessel.

And to Gerhardt up in the stands, it was the most disgusting thing in the world. 

“So this is the true nature of these beasts…” Gerhardt muttered. “It’s vile.”

His hand drifted unconsciously to the crest upon his surcoat—that of a lion twined with a serpent. And as he watched Sigurd struggle below, Gerhardt grit his teeth. If the man’s aura was fading, it wasn’t showing yet.

And if Sigurd died, while his light still burned bright… 

Gerhardt clutched his chest, his fingers curling white-knuckled over the sickening emblem of his house. And that old pain flared again. 

Like wind over scourged flesh. 

_______________

An empty space. Just like the hollow of a tree trunk. 

Something had been missing from Ciel since she was a child. It was a void in her head. A hole in her heart which she feared may one day still its beating. 

There were nights when Ciel would lay awake with Bea curled against her, and she feared the empty spot in her head would consume her daughter too—steal her away, eat up every memory that Ciel had of her. 

She couldn’t explain it. But she remembered ever since she was fourteen, she would run through these forests terrified, desperate to reach the tunnels. 

Even now, she desperately wished to make haste. But she didn’t. One wrong step in the dark—one root—could leave her limping.

The forest was dark. The wind howled through trees, occasionally snapping brittle branches. Shadows loomed large in lantern light, and Ciel wondered how she’d ever found these forests comforting. 

Ciel made haste. She was afraid. 

She knew her way to the palace. Yet somehow… She knew that wasn’t her destination. Not if she wanted to find Bea. 

Slowly, the winds began to settle. She passed through a low grove of willows, a sunken hush where the rustle through the leaves started to sound like whispers. Her lantern’s glow caught on their thin, swaying branches, casting shadows like slender fingers. 

The willows’ leaves brushed gently against her body as she walked through, but she winced when a branch grazed her cheek, just beneath her eye. 

Suddenly, Ciel heard a voice. 

A small voice. A little girl’s. She couldn’t make out what it was saying. It was hard to see through the willows.

“Bea?” Ciel called out. “Bea! Is that you?!”

She heard soft footsteps scurrying through the thicket and bush. And despite her better judgment, she went rushing after them.

“Bea! It’s mama!” Ciel pleaded, her voice breaking. “I’m here, Bea!”

The steps continued, a light patter that always seemed to be just out of sight, scampering in one direction and then the next. At times Ciel thought she caught a figure fluttering in the corner of her eye, barely catching the lantern light. 

She heard the steps from behind, so close she almost swore she could feel a brush against her leg. 

Her breath caught in her throat. But hope overcame fear. 

“Bea!” Ciel spun around. Yet there was no one there. Suddenly, the little girl’s voice whispered in her ear. 

‘Papa says I’m touched by grace.’

Ciel’s heart froze. It truly did sound like Bea. But Bea never spoke like that. 

‘I mended a bird’s wings today! It could soar again, because I laid hands blessed by divinity upon it!’

It wasn’t Bea. Bea didn’t even have the divine blessing. 

Then why did it feel so familiar? 

The voice started to echo from every which way, as if the little girl were weaving through the bushes, running rings around Ciel in the dark. 

‘Shall we play apothecary? You can be the ailing one, and I’ll be the miracle.’

She shuddered. Was it her own voice—from when she was a child, cast at her as if it came from another’s mouth?

‘I’m this family’s hope!’ 

No… it couldn’t be. There was far too much pride in it. 

Ciel had never dared to be proud of her own blessing. It was too weak. Too unworthy. None in her family had ever acknowledged it.

‘When I’m grown, I’ll be the most blessed in the empire. Then those feckless nobles will have to respect this rotten household!’

Unconsciously, Ciel’s breath began to shallow. This wasn’t just a fear of the dark—or even of the supernatural. 

This was a physical fear. It was learned. A sense of helplessness so deep and familiar, even as it wore the voice of a little girl. 

‘Everyone in this wretched little family is useless except for me!’

The voice shifted. It was a little older. Sharper. Ciel understood—what this girl would sound like, after she’d been twisted by years of bitterness.

‘I said let me mend you!’

“Stop!” Ciel gasped. Her shoulder hitched up and she fell, crumbling to the ground, cowering from a hand that never came. 

There was silence. Ciel shook where she lay, flinching at every whistle of the wind, straining to catch where the voice may come from next. 

Then, it came back. Soft and almost sweet, once again at its youngest, like a soft breeze brushing Ciel’s cheek. 

‘Are you hurt? Shall I kiss it better?’

And yet… still arrogant.  Ciel would never mistake that lilt—that way of speaking with a conceited little curl.  

‘My name? Marcella. Mind it well.’

TRAS Chapter 132: A Whisper at Her Side

“I tell you, I hate coming down here,” Tarn muttered with a dry chuckle. “Feels like that so-called son of Gerhardt’s is gonna spring out of the dark and gut me.”

“You give credence to ghost tales now?” Alera said, arching a brow. “Unbelievable. Cutthroat mercenaries terrified of a little boy.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve never been on the receiving end of one of his pranks,” Tarn said. His face had gone pale just recalling it.

The pair descended into the palace’s old wine cellars, Tarn leading the way through.  Voltus calling upon the guards to form patrol squads had given Alera an excuse to leave the fortress. 

“This is the closest thing we’re going to get to an armory in this decrepit old place,” Tarn frowned, holding up a lantern. “You really do have the devil’s tongue, getting me to abandon my patrol…”

“Why stay on cleanup?” Alera asked, letting her voice drip with venom. “I don’t see why we can’t join the fun. Two crossbows and a brisk jog to the amphitheater—who’s going to say no?”

“Maybe one of us’ll get the killing bolt,” Tarn laughed. 

And Alera laughed along. Even though it churned her gut. 

At that moment, as if it had been listening into their conversation, their echo stone chimed. 

‘Sigurd eum-Creid is fully surrounded in the amphitheater. See to it his friends provide no succor. The pair of them were last spotted nearest The Reverie Garden.’

“Succor?” Tarn gawked. “Voltus must be the only blow hard in the entire empire who talks like that.”

“He needn’t repeat himself,” Alera muttered, tone sharp with irritation.

She knew it couldn't be anyone but Camille and Ailn. But there was nothing she could do to help them directly. At best, she could join one of the patrols and form an opportunity for sabotage. But waiting felt intolerably passive. There was no guarantee they’d be the first group to find the pair.

The best thing she could do now was trust them. They hadn’t come here by chance. And now that she was deep in the enemy’s camp, she had no intention of turning back.  

…Even if the mercenaries would rip her apart limb from limb if they ever figured out she was a traitor.

A cowardly thought crept into Alera’s mind. If she wished to save her own life, all she had to do was avoid them. Her treachery would never be revealed to the Argent Guard. Just like seven years ago, she could scurry into the safety of plausible deniability, and the silence of her comrades. 

Comrades. The word sat in her gut like spoiled meat. And she stayed silent, throwing out the occasional smirk or dry laugh as Tarn continued to fantasize about Sigurd’s death. 

Finally, they reached the wine cellar which the mercenaries had converted into an armory. 

The stone walls that once held rows of wine bottles now bristled with hanging swords and crossbows. Spears were lined up against the back wall, while quivers stood where the casks once rested. 

“Alright,” Tarn said with a grin. “Let’s go and join the fun.”

“Indeed,” Alera nodded, with a smile. 

The moment he turned away to draw a crossbow from its rack, she moved. It was a smooth motion, drawing her sword and driving her pommel in a single breath. 

“Sorry, Tarn,” Alera murmured. “Truly.”

He crumpled, unconscious, and she caught his echo stone before it hit the ground. 

“This is Alera,” she said, speaking into the echo stone. “Tarn and I confronted the quarry. Tarn was knocked unconscious—they were no match for my blade, yet I failed to fully subdue them and they fled toward the western quarter.”

____________________

The lights shone bright in Sigurd’s face, their soft buzzing blending into a single, ominous drone. His enemies stood above him, sneering—but silent. They let their moment of triumph speak for itself, not even bothering to lift their crossbows as Sigurd slowly bared his blade. 

Despite his best efforts, he had landed exactly where they wanted him. And the worst of it was he still didn’t know where Ciel and Bea were. Or if they were here at all. 

He could only hope that he’d been legitimately tricked—that they were still in Venlind safe and sound. 

“You look tired, Sigurd,” Gerhardt said. 

The boy from seven years ago had grown into a hulking yet haggard man. Sunken eyes, face coarse and unshaven—a tattered surcoat bearing the Blancs’ twisted emblem, the lion’s head on the coiling serpent. 

It was the look of a man who’d kept his pride and lost his dignity.

No. It was the look of someone who never had his chance to claim either. Despite Gerhardt’s imposing frame, Sigurd knew that he was only eighteen. The same age Sigurd had been when he marched on Amière.

“So, this was your aim,” Sigurd said, as he gazed wearily at the crossbows trained on him. He knew he was already dead. “Where… Where is Ciel?”

“Ciel’s dead,” Gerhardt said. “And so is your daughter, Bea.”

Sigurd’s blood ran cold. Bea. Ciel’s nickname for her. He clenched his gauntleted fist, swallowing hard.

“That’s a bluff,” Sigurd said hoarsely. “She’s your kin. It beggars belief.”

“She betrayed our kinship the moment she lay with you,” Gerhardt said, his voice flat. “She wished to be a eum-Creid. I honored that.” 

“...I heard the strange echoes in the maze,” Sigurd said. Desperation edged into his voice. “They were never in your possession—it was some artifact’s trick.”

“Did you wish to see their bodies?” Gerhardt asked. “Even I wouldn’t be that cruel.”

His gaze held steady. There was no glee in his voice. “I made it swift, Sigurd. Neither suffered.”

Sigurd couldn’t stop himself. He broke into a sprint, aura bursting from his sword and flaring beneath his feet. A ten-foot wall separated audience and arena, yet Sigurd vaulted it in a single bound, his blade crashing down to cleave Gerhardt in two.

____________________

Compared to the small flickering lanterns which dotted the city, the amphitheater’s pale glow was eye-catching—almost disorienting. The amphitheater had slowly come to life, its lights rising like the start of a play.

Bea could finally make out people. But from the top of the bell tower, they almost looked like toys. 

“Your father’s down there, Bea,” Robin said. “I know you wanted to meet him.”

“Papa…?” Bea asked. 

Her heart was beating so fast, racing with anticipation at the same time that it ached. She’d dreamed of meeting him for so long, imagined it more times than she could count. 

He’d pick her up. Ask her name. And smile. She couldn’t put a face to it, but she always thought about his smile. She wanted to know what it looked like. 

Sometimes her fears took over. The blank face in her mind would turn away in disgust and indifference. And she’d have to watch him walk away. 

But… she never thought the first time she saw him would be like this—from so far away, she could barely make out the color of his hair. 

“His hair’s like… Uncle Ailn’s,” Bea said softly. 

“That’s eum-Creid hair,” Robin said. “Silver as starlight, even from here.”

“Yume Craid?” Bea echoed. 

“It’s your family, Bea,” Robin explained. “Your mom’s a Blanc. And your dad’s a eum-Creid. And for a loooong time, both of these families didn’t like each other.”

He smiled and ruffled her hair. “Which makes you... sort of a walking miracle.”

“Why… why didn’t they like each other?” Bea asked.

“Because adults are stupid, Bea,” Robin said. “All they do is hurt each other.”

Bea didn’t think that was quite right. Kids could hurt people too. She hurt her mom when she ran away. 

“They’re doing it right now, even,” Robin said. “I’m sorry, but I want you to watch this.”

The tiny figure in the center of the amphitheater started moving. It jumped to reach the stands, and it glowed. 

There was a white flash, bright even against the amphitheater’s lights. And there was a blasting noise which Bea could hear over the wind. 

“They’re using the divine blessing to hurt each other, Bea,” Robin said. “Your papa’s trying to kill your uncle. And your uncle’s trying to kill him, too.”

There was just the howl of the wind for a while. Robin held Bea quietly, giving her all the time she needed to respond.

“...That’s because… all those people wanna hurt papa,” Bea said. 

“You’re right,” Robin said. “And they want to hurt him because he hurt them. And he hurt them, because one of your grandmothers hurt him by killing your other grandmother.”

He paused, softening his voice. “Do you know why your mama has no family, Bea?”

Tears welled up in Bea’s eyes. And her voice cracked. “...I don’t wanna hear you talk anymore. You’re just a liar.” 

Then she closed her eyes, not wanting to watch what was happening in the theater, and trying her best not to cry. 

____________________

Two blades surging with holy aura clashed, and the blast that followed shook the air. 

Gerhardt flinched, staggering backwards—surprised that Sigurd could still produce so much energy. 

The knight commander of the Azure Knights was wrathful, but that didn’t mean he was lacking in technique. Sigurd let loose a second overhead strike the moment his feet hit the ground. His blade was fast, furious, and precise. Gerhardt could barely hold the blow. 

But Gerhardt wasn’t alone. The mercenaries swarmed Sigurd, grabbing both of his arms. 

A clean slash from Voltus knocked Sigurd’s blade from his hand, and it flew into the arena behind. 

Yet still, Sigurd broke free. With a burst of aura, he threw three men off as if they were light as children. He lunged forward at an astonishing speed, his fists smashing through two more who stood in his way.

Gerhardt reflexively slashed. But Sigurd’s gauntlet met the blade and knocked it aside—then crashed into Gerhardt’s face like a mace. 

For a moment, everything went black. When he came back to his senses, the mercenaries had seized Sigurd yet again. 

Enraged by his own moment of weakness, Gerhardt’s holy aura burst to life. His glowing fist struck Sigurd across the chin. A second drove deep into Sigurd’s stomach. He rained blow after blow until the man hung limp. Then, seizing him by the throat, Gerhardt heaved him back into the arena as if he were garbage.  

Cold sweat clung to Gerhardt’s back as he caught his breath. A moment’s carelessness had almost cost him. 

“You nearly ruined everything, Sigurd,” Gerhardt growled. “All this preparation would have been for naught if I killed you so hastily. Pick up your sword. Come at me again, and you’ll be buried in arrows.”

Sigurd was fast to respond, but slow to get up. With ponderous steps, and a hollow expression, he walked over to his sword and lifted it—gripping it with his left hand, while his dominant arm dangled limply. 

“I thought I should honor your life’s work,” Gerhardt said dryly, as a mechanical chug echoed from the far end of the arena. “It’s only fitting that you die as a eum-Creid is meant to.”

Sigurd’s gaze drifted toward the lifting gate, which finished their ascent with a loud clang.  And from it, something emerged which should only have existed past the northern wall. 

“There was a time when Astrid pled with her father for a menagerie,” Gerhardt reminisced. His expression darkened. “And now the only creatures she ever sees are glimpses of rats, scurrying through rotted walls. If she saw so much as a stray dog, she’d scream.”

He closed his eyes. “We were all such despicable little wretches back then. Don’t think I don’t understand, Sigurd. While you were being raised to fight beasts, we were begging to own them.”

A lone creature made of shadows stalked out of the gates. 

“...I wished for a lion.”

____________________

All Béa could see was the darkness behind her eyelids, and the wind drowned out any noise. 

But now she knew—her father was no phantom.

He was real. He was down there, in the amphitheater, surrounded by people trying to hurt him. And if the future didn’t change, he would die.

“I know you may never forgive me, Bea,” Robin said. His voice was shaking, as if he were the one who was hurt. “You don’t have to watch any more. I’ve seen this play enough times for the both of us…”

His tone softened. “Your papa’s not as good of a person as you thought he’d be. Maybe he was, once. I remember when Gerhardt was kinder.”

He said words that hurt. And he showed her things that hurt. And then he acted like he had nothing to do with it. 

“...Do you want the pain to go away, Bea?” Robin asked. 

“Don’t… Don’t trust you…” Bea said.

He reached out to stroke her hair comfortingly, but she smacked his hand away. 

“Stop… talking,” Bea said. 

She did want the pain to go away. 

Her hurt and anger were swirling together, threatening to twist into hatred. All the courage she’d felt that brought her to this city, to this bell tower, to find her father—all of it wanted to flip over into regret and self-loathing. 

A big part of her wanted to nod. 

But Bea bit her quivering lip. She covered her ears. And she didn’t cry. 

The whisper in the back of her head was talking to her. Reminding her that goodness is a habit. That sometimes pain is a rock you trip over when you run toward happiness. That you do the right thing for its own sake.

So many of the world's cruelties crashed upon her all at once. But the thoughts of all those thinkers who tried to live good lives protected her like a shield—the whisper of her past life, a guardian angel at her side, hugging her.

“Then… we can try again later,” Robin said, sadly. “That offer is good any time. Alright, Bea? I’ll never get mad at you. I—”

Robin's voice broke off, abruptly.

“Bea, I’m going to bring you back inside the bell tower, okay?” Robin said. He seemed distracted. “I have to go somewhere for a little bit. Don’t do anything dangerous. Please.”

He walked back over to the inside of the tower, and met Bea’s gaze even though she was glaring at him. “I think I’m gonna have a really nice surprise for you soon. You miss your mama, don’t you?”

Bea’s glare softened, scrunching up into an expression which showed just how much she longed to see her mother.

“You might just… get to see her sooner than you think,” Robin said, with a warm smile. “I’ll make all of us happy. I promise.”

Bea didn’t realize it, but that very moment her mother was headed her way. Deep inside the mountains which surrounded Amière, Ciel and Kylian raced through tunnels known to few even within the Blancs, desperate to find a happy ending in all the chaos.

Posts updated! July 8, 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 131: Flashes of White

The Blancs’ Playground was just up ahead. But Ailn and Camille were pinned in a narrow alley of aging rowhouses, having just finished fending off a large patrol group that had caught them from behind. 

“This is… getting pretty bad,” Ailn said. His breaths were heavy. “More of them are showing up.”

“Then we’re hemmed in on both sides…” Camille muttered in a low voice.

There were more guards filtering in from the lower city. As for why, Ailn couldn’t be certain. But there was a high possibility it was because they’d been discovered. If so, then the Argent Guard was using the city’s structure itself to trap them—clamping down on them like a vice.

___________

Crouched against the cracked egg sculpture, Sigurd drew a slow breath. A torch flickered in its iron sconce, fastened to a column about twenty feet away. The archers were likely still nocking their next volley. 

He felt along the ground and found a loose piece of rubble. Then, peering over the sculpture’s edge, he hurled it.

A metallic crack rang out. The torch fell from its bracket, its flame hissing and flaring as oil sloshed onto the ground. Within a second, it sputtered out. 

Sigurd dashed for the nearest column. There was the whistle of a single arrow through the air, and he heard it strike the pillar just as he slipped behind it. Only one archer had been bold enough to loose a shot into the dark. 

The impact had been too loud for a typical arrow hitting stone. Back against the pillar, Sigurd reached behind, grasping for the arrow and ripping it out. 

It had struck deep. But it pulled free effortlessly. He couldn’t see the arrowhead, but he immediately knew. This was adamantine—the same material as his armor, and it would pierce right through. 

He wouldn’t let that daunt him. Sigurd broke into a sprint, running alongside the columns toward an elevated gallery which overlooked the far end of the colonnade. Arrows cut through air, biting into pillars as he ran past. 

The archers were growing desperate as he approached, their aim increasingly erratic. He flew past their range, too close to hit, flashing his holy aura just long enough to find the gallery’s stairwell. 

As he darted up, panic broke at the top of the landing—frantic movement, men arguing, the scream from an archer who leapt down rather than face him. But just as Sigurd reached the top, he shuddered, slamming flat against the wall, his body moving before his mind could catch up. 

A spear skimmed past his face. 

Instantly, Sigurd seized the spear shaft with his off-hand, drawing his sword in the same breath. He didn’t stab—just swept the blade across the man’s abdomen as he passed, rather than risk a lodged sword.

Only three stood atop the gallery now, two clad in plate armor, the third in a leather gambeson, armed with shield and spear. 

The two swordsmen advanced to flank him, their steps heavy and cautious. The spearman held his ground behind them, waiting for an opening. 

The first swordsman came in high while the second closed in low, ducking beneath the clash, half-swording as he drove his blade toward Sigurd’s armpit.

Sigurd blocked the first blade while twisting his upper body away from the second. The spearman’s thrust immediately followed, aiming for his face—clearly thinking Sigurd had been staggered.

But Sigurd knocked the first swordsman’s sword aside, caught him by the elbow and heaved him toward the oncoming spear. 

The spear shattered on impact. And with a sudden glow, Sigurd’s sword extended, piercing the first swordsman’s throat and driving straight through the spearman’s chest. 

Sigurd turned to the last one, who stood frozen. That hesitation was all he needed—he moved to end the battle. But in the pale glow of his holy aura, he barely caught movement in the darkness of the lower floor.

He’d made a mistake. 

He should’ve released his aura immediately. 

The glow vanished, and Sigurd sprinted to the other end of the gallery as arrows keened through air, piercing the wall behind him. He’d veiled himself once again in the dark, but he was exposed. 

Leaping from the gallery, Sigurd cushioned his fall with a short burst of aura, which revealed his location to the archers anew. 

The battle was no longer his to dictate.

___________

The bell tower wasn’t very tall, but it was tall for a four-year-old. Bea had never climbed so many steps. Its musty interior offered a break from the wind, and compared to outside it was warm enough to make her yawn. 

She’d started her climb a little drowsy. Now that she was halfway up Bea was already huffing and puffing. Her legs ached. And she wanted someone to carry her who wasn’t Robin. 

“Your legs are still too stubby, huh?” Robin mused. “You can only act so grown up, you know.”

The boy picked her up, and Bea let him. She wasn’t going to reach the top of the bell tower otherwise. 

Robin carried her the rest of the way, stopping at a doorway near the top. There were a few more stairs, but they didn’t take them—they went outside instead. 

Immediately, Bea was shocked awake by the wind, louder and colder than ever. She was afraid she might be blown away by it.

It was scary up here. They were in a little walkway which wrapped around the tower, just under the bell—like a ring around a finger. 

There were torches all around, and there were guardrails, but…

Despite herself, Bea began to cling to Robin for dear life. 

“You see the city below?” Robin asked. “This is my favorite place to watch it. Though I haven’t always been allowed up here.”

Bea barely worked up the courage to look down. 

All she could make of Amière below were drifting lights. Bea guessed they were lanterns, held by people trying to see in the dark. From up here, they looked like little fireflies—except they moved in slow, looping paths. 

It was pretty. But it was a little boring. Even if she weren’t so scared, this wouldn’t be that fun. And Bea just couldn’t understand why Robin had brought her here. 

“Are you feeling alright, Bea?” Robin asked worriedly. 

Bea shook her head, even though she knew it wouldn’t matter. “I want… to go inside…”

“Well, if we go inside you’ll miss the show—” Robin trailed off. “No. I’ll be honest. This is more for me than for you. There’s something I want you to see.”

“O…okay…” Bea said softly.

It wasn’t as if Bea had seen a future where she fell from a bell tower. And for all the things that disturbed her about Robin, he didn’t seem to intend any physical harm. 

But the sheer drop in front of her felt realer than anything she’d ever felt. Even she knew. There was no amount of thinking that would make it less terrifying. There was nothing she could tell herself to trust Robin’s young arms, holding her over this precipice. 

Suddenly, Bea saw a little flash of white down below—a distinctly different color from the bright orange of the lanterns. 

“Looks like things are starting,” Robin said, sounding a bit excited. “I don’t suppose you know what those white flashes are, do you, Bea?”

“No…” Bea replied. 

“I guess you were never taught about it, then…” Robin muttered. 

Bea’s face scrunched up in confusion. There was another flash of white below. 

“You know Bea, both your mom and your dad come from very special families,” Robin explained. “They’ve got this power called the divine blessing which—well, you can see it below. Can you guess what the divine blessing does?”

“I don’t… I don’t know…” Bea said. 

“You can heal with it,” Robin said. “Or you can hurt with it. That’s what it comes down to.”

Biting her lip, Bea caught another flash below, this one brighter than the previous ones. “Then… Then people are… being healed…”

“Hmm,” Robin hummed. And he said nothing else. 

___________

Those in the throne room stood by, watching not Gerhardt but Voltus. The typically jovial knight stood in the center of the room, his expression unusually serious, as he held an echo stone. 

The room was silent. Though the crowd was composed of rowdy mercenaries, they waited patiently, their excitement evident only in their eyes.

The artifact chimed. Voltus pressed the dial.

‘Sigurd… is halfway through the Blancs’ playground,’ a miserable voice said. ‘Seven have already lost their lives, that I know of. And I am bowing out. ’

“I told them!” Emily snickered. “Those dumb bastards really thought they could kill him! If it were that goddamned easy, none of us would be here!”

The confirmation of their comrades’ deaths had a perverse effect on the room.

It began to burst with grins. 

To an outside observer, it might have almost seemed like Sigurd was their hero, arriving in triumph. A faint smirk broke through even Gerhardt’s brooding, like the first sight of sun after rain. 

“...The vow of a friend, the promises of family—worthless,” he chuckled. “Only an enemy never disappoints.”

The odd one out was Voltus, who looked ill at ease gazing at the echo stone he held in his hand. His brow furrowed, his jaw tense—his usual cheer reversed, as if to temper the room’s rising mood.

This didn’t escape Emily. 

“The hell’s your problem?” she muttered, a dissatisfied growl in her voice. “Watching you grimace is ruining my mood.”

Ignoring Emily, Voltus addressed Gerhardt.

“Several of the watchmen in the lower quarter believe further intruders yet linger within the city,” Voltus said. 

“Then call more men from the fortress,” Gerhardt said blithely. “Have every patrol converge on the palace. One way or another, they’ll be caught. And Sigurd will have no chance at escape.”

He stood from his stump, suddenly invigorated. His posture was tall and confident, his gaze finally sharp with purpose. “There’s only one guest who matters to me.”

Beckoning the mercenaries to follow, he strode out of the throne room in long, deliberate steps. “Let’s be sure to greet him. The stage has already been prepared.”

___________

Sigurd was being corralled. 

He sprinted through a maze of tall hedges and statues—all parts of the human body—in the center of which stood a massive, grasping hand. 

It was a slower path to the palace, but it was better than being in the open, vulnerable to arrows. There were no high vantage points for archers to perch. Only a few men dared to give chase. 

Turning a corner, he reached a dead end, where a solitary statue of an eyeball stared at him in reproach. Spinning around, he traced his way back to the last fork in the maze, turned down the other path and found only a stone face, its expression caught between laughing and weeping.

This entire branch was a dead end. 

He never took a wrong turn twice, but his pace was still maddeningly slow. He eyed the top of the hedges. They were wide enough, but he doubted they could hold his weight. 

In sheer frustration, he flared his holy aura and leapt—trying to clear as much of the maze as he could in a single bound. He heard a shout.

“Loose!”

His blood froze, and his head flicked in the direction of the command. Sigurd’s holy aura surged along his right side, flowing almost as if it were an extension of his cloak. Already airborne, there was little else he could do. 

Most of the volley flew wide. A single arrow grazed his cheek before he tumbled back into the maze. 

A battle cry rang out from around the corner—along with the metallic clink of armor. 

He didn’t bother with finesse. Manifesting his aura long before he turned the corner, Sigurd drove his fist through steel, grimacing as he crushed the man’s rib cage. A second man was just up ahead. 

Refusing to slow his pace, Sigurd surged forward, his aura bursting beneath his heels as he closed the gap. He crashed into his opponent, knocking the man’s flailing sword aside with his pauldron—drawing his own in the same breath, and slamming the pommel into the man’s throat. 

Suddenly, he heard a voice from behind.

‘Got you!’

Flinching, Sigurd twisted fast, hitting the ground hard as he raised his sword. There was no one there. 

For a moment, he’d thought the guard had somehow survived his last attack. 

‘Right there! Hit him!’

This time the sound came from above—an absolutely nonsensical location. 

‘Loose!’ 

He didn’t know what was going on. But it didn’t matter. Artifacts were capable of plenty of tricks. He was near the end of the maze, about to reach the palace. All he needed to do was continue on. 

But as he ran, voices rang out in every direction. From behind, from around the corner of a hedge, from right beside him, foes seemed to threaten every turn.

A sharp thought splintered his focus, and a cold weight settled into his gut. If they were capable of conjuring voices, then…

No. It didn’t matter. The sound of Ciel sobbing wouldn’t leave his mind. The thought of Béatrice waiting for a father who never came was unbearable. 

He broke free of the maze, cutting through the courtyard into a corridor which led straight to the palace’s outer wall. The open gate yawned before him. Unbarred. Undefended. And even as he ran beneath the arch, Sigurd couldn’t shake the sense that it was an invitation.

No torchlight greeted him as he entered. The space was surprisingly empty, and the path sank gradually into what felt like a shallow basin. This wasn’t a courtyard.

A low buzzing sound rose around him. Cold light crept in, the basin getting brighter, and Sigurd’s gaze flickered to the walls—the light was coming from mounted artifacts, all triggering in unison. 

It became all too clear where Sigurd was. He was standing in the center of an amphitheater. And looking down from the gallery was Gerhardt, along with everyone who’d been trying to kill him. 

All wielding crossbows.

Posts updated July 6, 2025!

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 130: Robin

If Voltus had been emotionally unsettled by Gerhardt’s strike, he certainly didn’t show it. 

Bea almost wouldn’t be able to tell that he’d been hit at all, if it weren’t for the splotches of blood on the handkerchief which Voltus had used to wipe his face. 

In fact, no one in the room seemed to have been affected much at all. 

A few winced at the wall Gerhardt just destroyed. But they seemed used to it. If anything, it seemed as if Gerhardt had been broken down by his own withering assault. His breathing only kept getting heavier. 

“That was surely a terrifying sight for one so tender of age,” Voltus said, picking Bea up with a smile. “Yes, yes, your Uncle Gerhardt has quite the temper. He’s prone to fits of passion, upheavals of the spirit most grievous. Why, back in my hometown, we used to say such was the mark of a man born under a colicky star—” 

“If you’re not gonna hold her hostage, then what are we gonna do with her?” Emily cut in flatly. "Don’t tell me one of us is supposed to deliver her back to your little harlot of a cousin.”

Hearing her mother called a word that she knew wasn’t kind, Bea hid her face in Voltus’s chest. 

He was a liar. And he was a kidnapper. But in this room, it was clear he was the closest thing to a safe presence she had. 

“...The girl is not our concern,” Gerhardt said. “I have no reason to spare a single man on her.” His hands still clutching his face, he glared through his fingers. “Not that I could trust a single one of you vile tramps. You least of all.”

Emily didn’t respond—not even with a smirk. 

“If she wishes to go home, she can find her way on her own,” Gerhardt said. “She managed to find her way here after all.” One hand dropping limply to his lap, he turned toward Bea with half his face exposed. “If she’s clever, she’ll make do.”

Voltus raised a hand as if asking for permission to speak. Gerhardt merely faced him with a scowl.  

“Well, I hardly see how leaving her to die in the mountains is any kinder,” Voltus said, frowning. “Perhaps after our current business with her father, something can be arranged.”

“...As long as she doesn’t meet with Sigurd, we’ll be fine,” Gerhardt said. “We know she exists. There are intelligent ways to use that information.”

Then Gerhardt met Emily’s gaze. “...If she’s harmed by any of your hands, I’ll know. I’ll find out who. And I’ll kill you.” His aura flickered to life, its light pale yet steady. “In your last moments… you’ll remember what it’s like to be a frightened child.”

“Clearly, you never forgot,” Emily snorted, crossing her arms.

“Why should he?” a boy asked quietly, entering the room. “She laughs at scars because she’s never felt a wound—”

His gaze fell to her three fingers. “...Is what I’d say. But it looks like your pain’s never made you an ounce more compassionate.”

He looked a little younger than Bea’s babysitter Iain, so maybe he was about eleven? 

…But Emily didn’t talk back to him. 

She stayed painfully silent, her lips tight and her eyes angry—her three fingers clenching the whole while. 

The boy gave Bea a curious look as he passed by. 

“I was wondering what you were up to, father,” the boy said, walking up to Gerhardt. 

“...Robin,” Gerhardt said. “I told you not to enter here.”

“I got tired of playing with the toy horse,” Robin said, with an embarrassed smile. He held up a stick with a hobby horse. “Don’t you think I’m a little too old for this?...Ah.” 

Robin’s gaze fell to Gerhardt’s hands, which were still bleeding at the knuckles. “You hurt yourself.” 

His warmth and sadness sounded genuine. But the room suddenly felt very cold.

___________________

Ailn trusted Camille's capabilities. She’d catch up soon. Probably. Hopefully. 

As he ran along the curving ramp though, he realized there were no streets or alleys. Nowhere to turn or hide. If he ran into a guard here—

He spotted the glow of a lantern coming from up ahead. He’d already run into one.

Turning around, he started back down the ramp. Ailn felt he could probably take the lone guard, but there was no reason to engage before he reunited with Camille. 

“How the hell did Sigurd already get through here?” Ailn muttered. The city was tougher to sneak through than he expected.

Uh oh. 

Light flickered from the bottom of the ramp. 

Ailn made a split second decision, and began sprinting toward it. He turned the curve, drawing his sword and catching the guard by surprise as he did so. 

“What the—” 

Squinting through the glare of the lantern’s light, Ailn thrust his sword downward—one hand bracing the pommel—aiming for the seam beneath the guard’s arm. 

At the last moment, the guard twisted away, flinching as he took a shallow cut. Ailn attempted to press the advantage, but the guard slashed back faster than he expected. 

He gritted his teeth. His geomisil suit and trench coat were as strong as mythril—or so he was told. But there was one thing he hadn’t accounted for. 

He didn’t have gauntlets. He couldn’t grip his blade. And without the ability to properly half-sword, it was hard to produce the force necessary to deal with platemail. 

There was a guard behind him, who’d surely heard the sounds of battle by now. He’d probably arrive in ten seconds. 

An image formed in Ailn’s mind. Something that couldn’t quite be called a plan. His blade was still angled downward from the failed thrust.

He let his weight drift back slightly, as if faltering.

Just as Ailn hoped, the guard stepped forward, convinced he was staggered.

Ailn met his blade before it reached full extension, circling right with footwork he hadn’t used since his duel with Sigurd. He guided its momentum, deflecting rather than clashing, almost as if he were brushing it away. 

It was all one fluid motion. 

He disengaged, slipping his offhand into his coat pocket to grip the blade’s center as it slid free. Then, he let gravity and momentum do the work—driving the point into the seam just below the gorget. 

The guard couldn’t even gasp. And despite the pang of pity which ran through Ailn, he didn’t have time to pay his respects. 

A lantern flew toward his face. The other guard, who was swiftly descending the ramp, had thrown it.

Ailn craned his neck away, raising his arm to protect his face. The glass smashed into the wall. His coat caught the shards, but splattering fuel singed his temple. 

If he’d been any slower he could’ve lost an eye. 

Thankfully—

He heard a familiar hum from behind. High-pitched, like the tremble of a blade still ringing after a clash, a flash of white lit up the area.

The last thing the guard saw was Camille’s radiant fist before it crushed his throat. 

And as the light slowly disappeared, the two cousins were left to mull over their situation in the dark. 

Ailn let out a ragged sigh. They’d only taken out two guards but he was exhausted. 

“You know…” Ailn muttered. “We might actually die before Sigurd does.”

He slowly regained his bearings, as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He could faintly pick up the sound of yelling in the distance. The blast of holy aura had been loud enough to alert the guards.

He couldn’t exactly complain since Camille had just saved his life. But he found himself wishing she’d been quieter. 

Actually, she was a little too quiet right now. 

“You hurt your hand?” Ailn asked, noticing she was staring at it. 

“My hand?” Camille stared at him blankly for a moment. Then she shook her head. “Nay. It’s perfectly intact.” 

She clenched her fist for a moment, before letting it fall limply. Her gaze was pensive, but she seemed to have anchored herself. “Forgive me. That was the first time I’ve killed a man.”

___________________

Robin’s eyes flicked to the mural, lingering for just a moment before coming back to Gerhardt.

“Give me your hands, father,” Robin said softly. 

Gerhardt didn’t respond, keeping them clenched. But Robin softly unclasped one. He pressed the open palm to his cheek, nuzzling into it as a few tears slipped free from his eyes. “You know I don’t like seeing you hurt father.”

“Leave it.” Gerhardt grit his teeth and snatched his hand away. “This is nothing. And I expect you to stay exactly where you were told.”

“... I understand,” Robin said, sadly. “You’re busy right now.” 

He traipsed over to Voltus and Bea. “But I did hear something interesting. I’ve got a cousin you never told me about, don’t I?”

Bea felt Voltus’s arms stiffen. But the knight didn’t resist as Robin took Bea into his arms.There was something… off about the boy’s appearance. Something was missing. 

“What’s your name?” Robin asked, eye twinkling. “Well… I already know, but I’d like to hear it myself.”

“B…Bea. Like a bzzt,” Bea said. 

Robin laughed. “I guess a Bea by any other spelling is still sweet as honey.”

“Mama… mama calls me a honey Bea sometimes,” Bea said. 

“Does she now?” Robin asked. 

The boy seemed at ease carrying Bea. She was small and light—but he wasn’t all that big either. And he felt practiced, as if he were used to carrying children. Alera’s admonition of Camille from earlier in the day came to mind: 

‘You must never have had a younger sibling—making you the babe of your family. So much is suddenly clear.’

Did Robin have a little brother or sister? That seemed possible, but…

Why would Robin handle a child so much better than his father did?

“I heard all of you talking about what you were going to do with Bea…” Robin frowned. His arms shook as he clutched Bea tighter. “If none of you are going to take care of her, then I will.”

Gerhardt didn’t respond at first. His jaw tightened. His lips pursed. And he stared at his son for a long time. “...Where do you plan to take her, Robin?”

His voice was quiet and cautious. 

“To the Playground, of course,” Robin said. “Where else would Blanc kids go?”

___________________

Robin carried Bea, a lantern in his other hand, as they stepped into a place with yellow pillars. It wasn’t quite a building, and the roof was gone, so the wind came straight through. 

Bea didn’t really understand what kind of Playground this was supposed to be. It sounded sinister to her. The same kind of bad as candy offered by strangers. 

She was in Robin’s arms, but she didn’t snuggle into them. She hugged herself instead.

Just like the palace, the Playground was overgrown with plants. It looked worse, even, and had all sorts of strange sculptures. 

One, carved directly into the mountainside, was shaped like an enormous molar. The sculpture itself was green and slimy all over, because it was covered in moss. The mountain face it was carved into was painted a pink which had faded—and looked like swollen gums. 

Just looking at it made Bea’s teeth hurt. She thought of all the sugar she ate early in the day, and wanted to brush them. 

“Are you alright?” Robin asked. “It’s cold out here, I know. But there’ll be blankets where we’re going.”

Unsure if she was shivering from the cold or fear, Bea bit her lip. “I want to… I want to walk,” she said. 

She really didn’t like being carried by Robin. There was something in the way the boy carried her that reminded her of her mother. He was warm. And he seemed nice. Not the fake-nice like Voltus. 

But she didn’t like him. She didn’t quite understand why not.

“Oh? Okay…” Robin muttered a little sadly. “Kids really do grow up fast nowadays.” He scratched his head. “It’s gonna take a long time to get over there if we move at a toddle, though.”

“Where are we going…?” Bea asked, resisting the urge to flinch when Robin softly grabbed her hand. 

“There’s a pretty little bell tower that looks down on alllll of the playground, Bea,” Robin said. “A favorite spot for Blanc children of generations past. You’ll get it when you see it.”

As they went on, more and more plants covered the floor. Earlier, they’d barely clung to the stone, fighting against the wind. Now, the ground was starting to look like it belonged in the woods. 

It was a tough walk for Bea, and she almost regretted asking Robin to set her down. Little roots kept trying to trip her. “We’re going to look at the playground?” Bea asked. “Not… play in it?”

“Watching fun stuff is a form of playing too, isn’t it?” Robin responded. “Like watching a play. Why do you think they’re called plays?”

It was hard for Bea to argue with that logic. But she still noticed something odd. 

“But… it’s so dark…” Bea said. “I don’t get what we’re going to watch…”

“The dark makes it even better, Bea,” Robin said. Despite her slow walk, he matched her pace. And he gave her a warm glance as he spoke. “We’re gonna watch your papa while he lights up the night. Isn’t that neat?”

Post updated, July 3, 2025!

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 129: The Blancs’ Playground

The Blanc palace was in such ruins, it was hard to believe the family had only fallen seven years ago. What time alone couldn’t ravage, pillaging gave a helping hand, and disgruntled servants and commoners had inflicted no small amount of destruction for its own sake. 

If there were a chief culprit in the palace’s rapid deterioration, however, it would be the forest itself. Vines decorated the walls like tapestry, and small trees had sprouted from the ground unnaturally fast. 

Nature had woven its way back into all of Amière, reclaiming the city as if the Blancs were but momentary regents, their designs the passing fancy of lords who overestimated their place. 

Sir Voltus carried Bea through the greening corridors, telling her stories of things which had never happened. Perhaps he hoped to arrest her with tales so gripping, she’d ignore the decay around her. 

“Yes, you see, this was the favorite hideout for your father and I, back when we were children,” Voltus said. “An old king named Derelict the Third used to rule these lands—long before your father and I were knights, mind you—and we were the only children brave enough to enter his haunted palace.”

“How brave was papa…?” Bea asked, indulging his yarns. 

“...So brave, I imagine, that none have ever seen his eyes filled with fear,” Voltus said, his words slowing from their usual frolicking pace. 

The terrifyingly jovial man went silent, and all the way to the throne room he remained so. 

The throne room was nearly empty of the furnishings you’d expect. In fact, it had been cleared of all shrubbery, which only served to make it feel more desolate, while huge holes in the ceiling brought in the open air. 

It was almost like a huge patio. 

Milling about were a motley crew of knights, mercenaries and bandits—to Bea, a bunch of dangerous people with swords, wearing faces that somehow looked happy and angry at the same time. She didn’t yet understand that narrowed eyes and lop-sided smiles were the look of cruelty. 

“Sir Voltus, if you came any later, you’d miss the show—” a female mercenary grinned, approaching like she was meant to slap him on the back. 

Her hand froze in mid-air. All the grins and bluster bled out of the throne room as, one by one, all its dangerous occupants realized that Voltus was holding a child.

Confused mutters, some quite irritated, started up. 

“What the hell is Voltus doing…?”

“That his kid? Thought he mentioned one once…”

“That was drunken bullshit, you moron. He said he had a son!”

In the center of the room, a tall and muscular young man sat on a stump, brooding over the dark jar he held in his right hand. His other hand gripped the hilt of his unsheathed sword, its blade stabbed into the earth. Even with what little she knew, Bea could tell he didn’t take very good care of it.

“...Voltus,” the man said darkly, and his gaze lifted at a disdainful pace. “You were told to make haste.” Then, seeing Bea in Voltus’s arms, his eyes glinted dangerously. “Why would you bring a child?”

“The little tyke all but landed in my arms, Gerhardt,” Voltus said with an easy smile. “Wouldn’t you say a real hostage is better than a fake one?”

Gerhardt stood up. “What the hell are you talking—” 

“She’s Sigurd’s daughter, Gerhardt,” Voltus said. 

“...Is this a jest?” Gerhardt raised his voice threateningly. “Another one of your stupid tales?”

The muttering in the room which had been like a rustling breeze picked up its pace, sarcastic comments more mean-spirited than amused pelting her like hail. 

“That bastard had a kid?! No way.”

“We oughta test her divine blessing, don’t you think?” 

“A daughter? Always figured that prick for a eunuch, ” The female mercenary sneered, right in Bea’s face. “Why shouldn’t I believe she’s a street rat, like the rest of us?”

“Yes, Bea has quite noble blood in her,” Voltus said, raising his volume so everyone in the throne room could hear. “For she is not only the daughter of the eum-Creids…” He paused dramatically. “But also the Blancs.”

____________________

The density of guards thickened as Sigurd approached the east wing of the city. Until this point, their patrols had been loose—easy enough to sneak by so long as he was patient and watched for the glow of their lanterns.

Now, the paths were more lit than shadowed. 

Crouched behind a building, Sigurd watched one guard’s retreating back, waiting until he was far enough before climbing.

The wind howled, loud enough to cover the clink of his armor. Cracks in the stone façade gave his fingers solid purchase. Once on the roof, he crawled prone to the far edge.

Twenty minutes. That was how long it took Sigurd to memorize the guards’ patrol routes. Dropping down from the roof, he timed his movement through the winding roads, slipping between the sweeps of passing lanterns.

He ascended a spiraling stairwell, reaching a landing which split into three paths: two staircases and a ramp. 

A flicker of lantern light vanished beneath the arch ahead, a guard’s shadow thinning as he climbed the stairs.  

The patrols never passed through the staircase on the right. That one was a certain dead end. The ramp on the left was long and curving—as well as patrolled from both ends. If he ran down that route, he’d be boxed in before he made it through. 

The center staircase was the surest path. Guards passed through regularly, but their routes never converged. 

Sigurd counted to twenty, then climbed the center staircase at a precise and measured pace which kept him in the seams of their patrols. 

Step by step, Sigurd traversed the eastern ascent, until he’d reached Amière’s most notorious quarter. 

…The Blancs’ Playground. 

The Blancs’ Playground was an uncanny little world of its own: a series of arcades and courtyards climbing the mountainside, filled with unnerving sculptures.

Torches sputtered in their sconces. Sigurd passed under an archway, into a colonnade lined with bright yellow columns. 

Much like the Blancs themselves, the colors of their ‘Playground’ were more lurid than rich. 

The family had made a point of patronizing the arts.  Believing that the greatest artists living close together would lead to the greatest art, they invited painters, musicians, architects, artificers, and more to realize this garden of inspiration. 

The premise was flawed. The execution mangled. And the fruits of the garden were notoriously sour—paintings of questionable pigments, music filled with screeching, ballets whose dances were as disturbing as they were risque. 

Before Amière had fallen, the Blancs’ playground had been something of a joke among the empire’s nobility.

But now nature had begun to reclaim the space, ironically lending it a kind of dignity. The gaudy colors had dulled without fresh coats of paint. The vines which crept over the columns and the trees which sprouted through the cracks almost made it seem like a temple from a lost era. 

Just as Sigurd cautiously passed a sculpture shaped like a cracked egg—yolk and all—he felt a chill run down his spine. 

He ducked behind the egg-shaped structure, and a volley of arrows pierced its stone shell. 

____________________

While Sigurd ascended the mountainside with ease, Ailn and Camille were already running into trouble.  Sneaking around with two people, it turned out, was a lot harder than going solo.

The mountain shoulder had been empty, and west Amière sparse. They’d slipped past guards by relying on instinct. But as the pair crossed over into the east wing of the city, where the guards increased, their lack of coordination started to show. 

Amière’s verticality made bottlenecks inevitable. There were only so many ways to go up. And the two of them had just reached the very same junction which Sigurd had cut through simply by being observant. 

The moment the guard turned an archway to check on the next level up, Ailn and Camille broke into a sprint. They flew up the staircase, one after the other, but the instant they reached the top, they split.

Camille had started toward the narrow staircase on the right, which angled sharply out of view. Ailn veered left for the opposite fork, where the path opened into a wide, gently curving ramp. 

Noticing Ailn breaking off, Camille spun on her heels. 

“Where are you going?!” Camille whispered harshly—at least, as loudly as she could without attracting the guards’ attention. “This way is clearly faster!”

Stifling a sigh Ailn came pacing back.

“You’re headed toward a dead end,” Ailn said. 

“...And how exactly have you determined that?” Camille glanced behind at the staircase she was about to take, before regarding him skeptically. “Did you memorize all the city’s streets when you looked down from the mountain shoulder?”

“Can’t you feel the wind?” Ailn asked, taking off his hat, letting the air flutter through it. “It’s howling, but barely going that direction. The space is closed off.”

“Why would that staircase lead to a dead end?” Camille asked skeptically.

“What? I don’t know—they were fitting some houses in where they could, maybe?” Ailn responded, sounding a little baffled. “It’s not like I’m an expert on mountain architecture.” 

“And yet you’re an expert on the movement of the wind—”

As the two bickered, the archway ahead lit up once more—the guard’s shadow stretching into view.

Already split, with the guard about to cut into the space between them, the two cousins broke off, each ducking into their separate paths.

Dashing up the stairwell which Ailn had so confidently declared as a dead end, Camille found herself increasingly certain that it would lead to the next tier of the city. Flanked on each side by tightly packed residences built shoulder to shoulder, she ascended the stairs until she reached… 

A sheer mountain face. 

Camille stared at the mountain wall for one long, silent breath. Then, with a sigh, she descended the staircase swiftly yet quietly, returning to the junction. Peering around a wall, there was no sign of the guard from earlier. 

That was surprising. It was mildly concerning, in fact.

____________________

The throne room fell silent. 

“She’s… what?” Gerhardt’s voice sounded hoarse. His sword clattered to the floor unceremoniously. “Who? It couldn’t be…”

“She is not so different from myself,” Voltus sighed dramatically. “I am actually the lost son of a duke and duchess. Nay, a grand duke and an archduchess—”

“Tell me what your mommy and daddy’s names are,” Emily growled.   

“Mama’s name is Ciel…” Bea couldn’t stop her shivering. “Papa’s name is… Sigherd…” she rasped out. 

“That so?” Emily said quietly, reaching out to caress Bea’s face with mocking tenderness. “Your papa borrowed something important from me. I ought to get it back from him, don’t you think?”

Her hand, missing two fingers, brushed Bea’s cheek. “And your mother’s sullied the good Blanc lineage, crawling into the first warm bed—”

Swiftly, Voltus pulled her away. “Miss Bea, I’m sorry you had to learn so early in your life that not all knights are gallant,” he said, the ease never quite leaving his tone. “Emily here is not nearly so pretty in face or character as her name.”

To Bea’s surprise, Emily backed off, saying nothing even as she retained her steely glare. In whatever loose hierarchy they had, Voltus must have been important. 

“Bring her here,” Gerhardt said, his words clipped.  

“...She’s Ciel’s child, Gerhardt. She serves us best, unharmed.” Voltus spoke cautiously.  

But Gerhardt said nothing as he took Bea from Voltus’s hands. He raised her up high like a benediction, arms stiff, hands tense. It was clear the man wasn’t used to holding children. 

For the longest time he held her there, examining her. 

“It… it hurts…” Bea said, eyes watering.  She’d been dangling for too long. Camille’s gauntlets had felt rough at times, but she’d always tried her best not to hurt Bea. Gerhardt’s gauntlets, meanwhile, dug into Bea’s skin.

Gerhardt didn’t respond. He simply sat her down on the stump he’d previously been brooding on. 

Then, without so much as a warning, he struck Voltus across the face.

“Ugh!” Voltus gasped. He staggered back, a welt already swelling red on his cheek. 

“Is that what you think of the Blanc name, Voltus?” Gerhardt said. His voice slowly got louder. “That we’re nothing but common knaves?!”

When Gerhardt raised his fist to once again strike the knight, Bea whimpered—and he stopped. Taking one glance at the small girl covering her face and trembling, he grit his teeth, striding over to the wall behind the throne. 

There stood the plaster remains of the once orichalcum-gilded mural, the man and woman who represented the family’s esteemed ancestry. 

A small flash of white filled the room, and there was a sound like the clanging of rattling chains, growing louder and louder as if a prisoner were trying desperately to break free of their shackles. 

A blast rang out as Gerhardt punched the plaster. Over and over, he struck the mural as if the man and woman had done something to offend him. 

“This is the legacy I inherit!” Gerhardt shouted. “Our own knights think us scum who’d use children as shields—and who can deny it?! Our family made the bed, and now the few scions left rot in it!”

His breathing strained, and his holy aura dimmed. The sounds of his fist striking the wall softened, until finally it seemed he’d worn himself out. 

He walked back over slowly to Bea. 

Tears in her eyes, and biting her lip, she flinched at his approach. But Gerhardt merely picked her up and roughly dropped her on the floor. 

Then he sat on the stump himself, looking as if he were completely exhausted. Blood dripped from his knuckles. 

“So, you’re…the mutt of… the eum-Creids and the Blancs, eh?” Gerhardt said through ragged breaths. He regarded her with a cold look, before covering his face with his bloody hands. “...Disgusting.”

Somehow, Bea felt as if his heart wasn’t in it. 

TRAS Chapter 128: A Ruined City

The remnants of Amière’s mining operations could still be seen in the western crags and the mountain shoulder. Shanties cluttered the area, thrown up wherever there was room. The stench of cheap, rotting pine filled the air. 

The Blancs’ desperation to find ever more veins had scarred the mountainside. 

Tucked away into the Singing Mountains like a spoiled child too large for its cradle, Amière was its own little world, already half-dead from terminal short-sightedness long before the Azure Knights ever reached it.  

Varant’s retribution had merely forced out its final gasp. 

“The city nears…” Sigurd muttered. Only a short climb remained to the mountain ridge, and beyond it upper west Amière. 

Gerhardt was likely waiting for him in the Blancs’ palace—perhaps in the very hall where Sigurd had executed the family elders. Among them… Gerhardt’s father.

Unfortunately, the ridgeline itself wasn’t a viable path to the palace. It was too narrow, its surface too jagged. Instead, he’d need to descend into the city, reach its eastern half and ascend from there.

By the time he reached the edge of the city proper, it was night. The city’s rim was marked by a natural cliff, five to ten feet high. Some buildings had been built right against it, their second stories rising above the drop to offer an upper-floor entrance.

Sigurd pressed himself beside a doorway, listening for signs of life before slipping into what had once been a home. He let a faint trace of holy aura manifest as he descended the stairs. The place hadn’t been abandoned in a hurry. 

Furniture still stood—stone tables, wooden benches, a tattered mattress. In the pantry, most goods were gone. Only dried fruit husks remained on the shelves.

He crossed the parlor and found the exit. But just as he stepped outside, something snapped underfoot. 

It was a child’s wooden toy—a small fairy. He’d crushed its arm, splintered both of its wings. And the dim light of his holy aura only made it look more pitiful, as if it were a real fairy, smashed by a giant as it tried to escape the dark. 

Sigurd let out a shaky breath, ignoring the dread which twisted his stomach and the prickling fear which crept through the hand which held the broken toy. 

___________________

Bea wasn’t alone. But she felt lonely. Because the knight currently taking her to Amière couldn’t be called a friend. 

“Are you comfortable, young lady?” Voltus asked genially, as if he were merely escorting a young girl to see her father. 

Not wanting to look at him, Bea gave a tiny nod. 

She knew with her precognition that he wouldn’t hurt her. But she also understood that he wasn’t a good person. 

“Your father shall be thrilled,” Voltus went on, his merry tone unchanging. “The two of us are old brothers-in-arms, you know. Why, I saved his life once or twice—though I could hardly pretend a debt. To his swordarm, I owe a dozen of my lives!”

Sir Voltus was a huge liar. And a very friendly one, who Bea would have liked very much if she didn’t know better. 

But right now, she was a liar too. She’d lied to her mother. And she’d even lied to Voltus, by pretending she believed his pretending. 

It was confusing and scary. Bea very much wished she had Aristurtle to help her think things through.

“Soon enough, we’ll come up on the old fortress your father and I used to guard together,” Voltus reminisced. “‘Tis a colossal slab of stone which looks—and feels—as comfortable as a prison, flanked on both sides by mountains. Now, I won’t be taking you inside, much as your father’s comrades would be pleased to meet you, as I think the sight of you would distract them too much from work. I shall be taking you to a big palace instead. Would you like that, Bea?”

Once again, Bea just gave a trembling nod. She didn’t like how easily Voltus wove truth with lies. 

“Your father’s coming from a very long way to meet you, Bea,” Voltus said. “It may take him a while. So, while you wait for him, you’ll have the company of one of his dearest friends: Mister Gerhardt.”

___________________

Ciel’s breath was still shallow as she waited to enter Ashton’s office. 

A commoner meeting the duke’s son without any prior notice was almost unheard of. And Ciel knew Ashton respected the ties of blood least of all. 

The fact that they were cousins would mean nothing to him. But one whispered word to his retainers had been enough for him to agree to meet. 

Amière.

A ruined city now occupied by the honorless dogs who used to fill its kennels: the Argent Guard. Displaced and bannerless for nearly a decade, Ciel could only imagine how the years had corroded their souls. 

What would they do to this little girl if they figured out her lineage? The blood of two houses that should never have touched—eum-Creid and Blanc, joined in a single heartbeat. 

Of the former, its proudest son and their greatest enemy. 

Of the latter, the broken daughter hated even by the woman who bore her. 

“The duke will see you now,” the retainer murmured, ushering her in.

When Ciel entered, Ashton was staring at his orchids, one hand cradling a glass of citron juice over the pot as if he were considering pouring it in.

“A little sugar couldn’t do too much harm, could it?” Ashton murmured. “No. Orchids are delicate—beautiful because they’re fickle. But how then shall we explain my father, who’s just as nitpicky as you, yet uglier by the day?”

He sighed and drank the citron juice all at once. 

“Ashton,” Ciel interrupted him. 

"What are you here for, Ciel?" Ashton asked, not even turning around to look at her. "And why," he added coldly, "would you remind me of such a revolting place?"

"Bea’s been abducted, Ashton," Ciel said, her voice trembling. “Both hers and Sigurd’s lives are in danger. They’re both headed for Amière—or perhaps they've already arrived. The Argent Guard is plotting against Sigurd and they’ve massed in force, but Bea believes she can save him. I've come to ask you to deploy the White Knights. If we leave now, we might still reach them in time—both of them can be saved—

"Slow down," Ashton cut in. "Why would anyone return to that godforsaken city? No, before that, your daughter is four, is she not? How could she reach Amière?"

He turned around, slowly and deliberately, making no effort to hide the bewilderment or the deep skepticism in his gaze. 

“She—she left a note, Ashton!” Ciel stomped up to him and shoved said note into his hands. “Bea is a special child and I have no time to explain it.”

"Every parent imagines their child is special," Ashton said. His face crinkled at the note. "You believe your daughter’s found her way to a city whose name she can’t spell?”

Ciel’s fist trembled with rage. 

“Your daughter is likely just wandering the estate,” Ashton said. “At worst, she's slipped into the streets of Calum, in which case we should be speaking to the night guards—”

“Maids saw her departing with one of your knights, Sir Voltus!” Ciel cried. “We don’t have time to debate this, Ashton, please!” 

He froze. 

"...Even if I believed you," Ashton said flatly, "I lack the power." He looked away bitterly. “As of this moment, the White Knights have been commandeered by Princess Isolde for the purpose of hunting down Duke eum-Creid.”

“The duke’s son can’t deploy his house’s knights?!” Ciel snapped. 

“Based on hearsay? Of course not,” Ashton said. “Naturally, the White Knights would need to confirm your words through reconnaissance first. And if the broken remnants of the Argent Guard have truly gathered in the corpse of a mountain-fenced city to form a last stand, what folly would drive us to meet them on their terms?”

“Just—just a few knights then! I am not asking for an army—” Ciel pleaded. 

“Do you not see how that would be worse?” Ashton sighed. “Suppose your words prove true. Then I’d be sending a handful of knights to a helpless death against dozens of bandits.”

"...Then is it better," Ciel whispered, staring at him in stricken disbelief, "that Bea dies helplessly instead?”

“That’s not…” Ashton’s words faltered, caught by the pain in Ciel’s eyes. 

He returned to his desk, sinking into his chair. 

“Then… what of your debt to Sigurd?” Ciel asked. “That means nothing to you?”

Ashton considered this for a long, silent moment. "Would Sigurd rush headlong into scores of men who want him dead?" he asked quietly. "Why would he?"

"I don't know," Ciel said. "I… truly don’t understand why he would. But I know he is not a fool. He is not a man who would throw his life away for no reason.” 

Her gaze turned determined. “If not for ties of blood, then why not for the sake of your politics? Trust that your ally has a reason for his actions, and send him your support.”

“...That nearly sounds convincing,” Ashton said. 

But he said nothing more. 

For a moment, disgust flickered across Ciel’s face—then vanished into a blank expression.

“Then if you can’t help me, I shall take my leave,” Ciel said, emotionlessly. She turned without another word and began to walk away. 

And before she reached the door, Ashton called after her.

“You know, Ciel. I was hoping to poach Sir Kylian today,” Ashton said idly. “I even retrieved the key to his cell from the strongbox.”

Ciel’s head turned slowly—just in time for her to notice and catch the small metallic object tossed her way.

"But it seems I misplaced it," Ashton said lightly, "while tending to my orchids."

___________________

While Ciel and Ashton were discussing the reoccupation of Amière, Alera was testing her luck behind enemy lines. Ponying along three horses was a rather tedious task. But the monotony of the task distracted Alera from the gutsiness of it. 

The southwest pass, a series of terraces and ramps winding up to the fortress’s rear, had been built for wagons and beasts of burden. It was the main supply route—and likely held more members of the Argent Guard than anywhere but the Blanc palace itself.

Alera held her lantern high as she rode, hoping to disabuse any guards of the notion that she was attempting to sneak in. 

Both her hands felt clammy—one on her own horse’s reins, the other clutching the rope which led the three behind her. Could the telltale signs of a nervous liar be spotted from a distance? It certainly felt like it. Alera wondered if she might be felled by an arrow before she even opened her mouth. 

The fortress’s gate came into view. “Halt!” one of the guards called out. 

There was a pause. 

“Approach!” the same voice called, sounding a bit friendlier. Then, once Alera had come within a few paces, the guard came ambling up. He eyed her up and down. “...That you, Alera?”

The guard took off his helmet. 

“The very same,” Alera nodded. Then she gave her best cocksure grin. “I take it the life of a mercenary grew tiresome, Tarn?”

“The mercenary life led me to my current dispensation,” Tarn replied, giving her a bright and affable smile. “Quite a hefty sum was paid, before allegiances were ever considered, you know?” 

A bit of suspicion edged into his voice. “Though I’d… be curious how it compares to the pay of a White Knight.”

“The salary is good, and my reputation is sterling,” Alera shrugged. “Yet I get paid to waste away and duel. I’ve come seeking fulfillment, consequences be damned.” She tugged at the rope leading the three horses, curling her lip with a dash of conceit. “All the better for you, I’ve come bearing gifts.”

Before Alera had left Ailn and Camille, they’d unbarded the horses. 

“From where, exactly?” Tarn asked, with a curious look.

“...Taken from travellers,” Alera said. “To make sure it’s known—a few years haven’t been enough to dull my blade.”

Tarn shook his head, but admiringly, as if he were admitting defeat. “Swift and terrible as the old days… I wouldn’t have faulted you for losing a step,” he laughed. “You made certain to leave no survivors?”

Her blood froze with how casually he suggested it. Nonetheless, she smiled wickedly. “Of course.”

Reading Tarn’s expression, she didn’t see an ounce of guilt on his face. But Alera had never remembered him as cruel. As far back as she could remember, the man was normal, pleasant to talk to, unfailingly courteous. 

What disturbed Alera the most wasn’t that he’d changed—just the opposite. He was the same as ever, with an easy demeanor that even suggested he’d navigated the strife-filled life of a mercenary with grace. 

He was just a normal man who didn’t give murder a second thought. And Alera had once been the same. 

The unpleasant reality of who she used to be rose like bile in her throat. But at the same time, some small part of her couldn’t believe she’d become so squeamish in a mere seven years. 

“Then let’s get a move on,” Tarn said. “It’s a relief to have you here, I say. The more skilled blades we have the better.” He gave her an apologetic look. “Though… some of the others may be slow to accept you. Some feel resentment towards those who managed to emerge from Amière pristine.”

“Envy befits rogues,” Alera shrugged. “Anyone who protests can duel me if they like. Then we can see whose blade and whose neck remains ‘pristine.’”

“Try not to provoke them,” Tarn sighed. With his command, the portcullis rose and they both entered. 

Then he lightly chuckled, meeting Alera’s gaze with the warmth of an old friend. “Nostalgic though, isn’t it? It’s as if we’re all truly knights again.”

___________________

On the other side of the city, a certain man waited in the throne room of its forgotten palace. 

It was a place that had once been all marble and opulence. The floral moldings along the floor and ceiling used to swirl with gold, while serpents and dragons coiled in silver around the chamber’s columns. 

The throne room used to have a throne. 

Now it had a stump. The throne had been stolen, the gold and silver stripped. The marble had been ransacked, and the beautiful mural of a man and woman with silvery hair, rendered in orichalcum leaf, had been scraped clean. Only their plaster ghosts remained. 

Gerhardt Blanc sat on the stump, waiting for Sigurd eum-Creid’s arrival, a single obsidian jar in hand.