AceGreen

Posts updated! June 29, 2025!

ENnjoy!

TRAS Chapter 127: A Friend of Your Father’s

Tottering through the corridors, using her future sight to avoid maids and manservants, Bea went searching for the man who was going to take her to Amière.

It was a knight—a member of the White Knights, specifically. Long before she’d ever kissed her mother’s forehead good night, Bea had already seen her path. The city where all of fate’s threads met was just a horse ride away. 

He was somewhere in the barracks—in a big, stony room, filled with a lot of weapons sitting in wooden racks. It was kind of like a library for swords. 

She walked into a big room with tall suits of armor, and a big, fancy tapestry hanging on the wall. It looked important. The word heraldic fluttered through her mind like a leaf, but she didn’t fully grasp what it meant.

She mostly got the sense that the tapestry was important, because it told you something about the person and made the person feel special. Just like how the butcher back in Venlind had a picture of meat above his door. Everyone in the village knew that you had to go to him to get tasty food.

The picture that was knitted into the tapestry was a huge turtle with a shiny silver shell. And when Bea saw it, she imagined the turtle as Aristurtle’s grandson, who grew up to be big but was maybe a little too materialistic. He probably wasn’t a bad turtle. But he wasn’t wise like his grandpa.

“A rich turtle… would be a target for hawks…” Bea said, shaking her head. “Don’t you think so, Aris—”

Bea’s heart sank. Aristurtle wasn’t with her right now. She bit her lip, but she realized she’d gotten distracted and kept moving. 

After passing a big room where all the knights in it were either talking too loud or too focused on swinging their swords to notice her, she entered the stony room where she’d seen the knight who’d take her to Amière.

There he was. 

He was sitting alone at a worktable. His back was to the door, and he didn’t seem to notice that Bea had come in. 

“More time than I’d like was lost at the Company of Deft Hands—hunting down a mage to send a message…” he murmured with a soft grouse. “But the festivities shan’t begin for a while, yet. A moment this sweet should be pristine, such that it crystallizes perfectly in the mind—it calls for a sword to match.”

He was polishing his sword, a bottle of oil sitting on the table next to it, a rag already in hand. There was an open leather case on the table, filled with smooth, dark stones. They looked wet. Bea guessed he’d just been sharpening his sword, and maybe the oil helped with that part too.

Slowly she walked up to the knight. Then, when she was a few feet away, she called out to him. 

“Does… polishing… make it sharper, too?” Bea asked. 

The knights’ hand slowly stilled. He didn’t have a jerky reaction to her, but the hesitance of his movements showed his shock. 

“There’s naught more pitiable than a rusty blade,” the knight said with a smile. “And if a babe as young as you made it through those fearsome halls unseen, then my comrades’ blades must be positively groaning with rust. Are you lost, little one?”

“Yeah…” Bea lied. “My name’s Bea… like a bzz. And I’m looking for my papa…”

“Bea, like a bzz?” he chuckled, giving her a little bow of acknowledgement. “A charming name. Short for Béatrice, I’d wager. It sounds like your parents were overjoyed to welcome you to this world—and young lady, know that I’m just as delighted to make your acquaintance. Alas, I must confess—our meeting, though momentous, finds me on the cusp of departure. I’ve a prior appointment most urgent, and I must entrust you to one of my fellow knights such that he can help you find your father. For you see, there is a silver wolf who howls by moonlight, joining the chorus of the Singing Mountains—his coat so rare and gleaming, a fair princess has begged me, for three days and two nights, to hunt him down and claim his pelt…”

“My papa’s name… is Sigherd,” Bea said. 

The knight froze, mid-explanation. “...And can you tell me your mother’s name, young miss?”

“My mama’s name is… Ciel. We’ve been here for a few weeks… ‘cause my mama knows the boss,” Bea said, mixing truth and lie. “And when I heard some of the knights say my papa’s name… I thought one of them might be able to help me find him.” 

She looked at the ground. Then she said something she really meant. “I… I really want to meet my papa one day…”

“My fair lady, could you tell me what you’ve heard about him? the knight asked. “It sounds to me as if I may have made your father’s acquaintance—nay, if it is the man I am thinking of he’s…”

The knight paused. “He’s my dear friend.”

“Papa, um… I think he’s the boss of a bunch of knights…” Bea hesitated, trying to remember something about Camille’s uniform. “They wear a badge… with a silver wolf. And they’ve got blue capes…”

“Ahhh, I know him indeed!” the knight exclaimed, his voice bright with recognition. He strode over to Béa and, without hesitation, swept her up into his arms. “Bea, your father was a comrade of mine, and I am the knight known to friend and foe alike as valiant Sir Voltus… the lionhearted.”

_____________________

The day was coming to a close as Ailn and his companions neared Amière, and the winds howling through the Singing Mountains grew unexpectedly harsher, layering into a dissonant chorus which came careening through the pass. 

A certain fae creature shivered, tossed about by its whims as she related her findings to her new human friend. 

‘I found him by the northwest pass, with all the zigzags—AHH! I hate windy days!’ Sorelle whined as she zigzagged herself, shockingly vulnerable to her natural element. She waved her arms frantically to stay in place, as if she were treading the air. ‘The angrier, armoreder you has the same stone, but he’s scared of it for some reason! Do humans kill humans as a pastime? ‘Cause he seems really good at it. Last I saw, he was already by the pla—wait, no! No! Stop, OWWW!’

As Sorelle drifted over Ailn’s head, she was suddenly blown downward by a gust. The sylph passed right through him. 

All Ailn felt was a light mist. But Sorelle cried out like she’d stubbed her toe terribly. 

‘My mother was right! Humans only cause pain!’ Sorelle bellowed, as she reformed. ‘Why do I never listen?!’

“...If you’d told me to move, I would’ve,” Ailn said, scratching his head. He didn’t realize sylphs had mothers. “Anyway, I appreciate your help—not sure how I can repay the favor.”

‘Teach me a song or tell me a secret—or throw flower petals through me, or give me chimes to fly through!’ Sorelle piped, already recovered. ‘Later though! I need sleep!’

And with a soft salute, she shot into the sky, leaving Ailn behind. 

“Well, it all seems pretty straightforward,” Ailn mused. His theory was more or less confirmed. 

Someone had sent Sigurd an echo stone. They were somehow threatening him. And it seemed pretty likely they were working with the voice changer to do so, tricking him into believing they’d kidnapped Ciel and Bea—hence, his urgent and inevitably fatal course toward Amière. 

Ailn liked to keep things simple. 

If someone was running into a death trap, then the simplest way to save their life was to run into them first and tell them to stop. All they had to do was follow Sigurd up the path he already so helpfully cleared, and let him know that Ciel and Bea were actually safe.

He related as much to Camille and Alera. 

“The northwest pass?” Alera mumbled thoughtfully. “It’s certainly possible…”

She’d clearly been surprised to hear Ailn—who shouldn’t know the mountain’s terrain at all—accurately describe the switchback paths. And for a moment, the skepticism in her eyes faltered toward uncertainty. 

“...Nay, I cannot believe he would abandon his horse,” Alera said, finally. “I’d sooner think the former duke would attempt a desperate ride through the titan’s porch.”

“His Grace Sigurd would never take such a gamble,” Camille said. Her lips pursed as she turned toward Alera. 

“A lone man, hurling himself at a mountain as if he were an army unto himself—gamble would be a generous assessment,” Alera said, arching a brow. “The terror of futility is best quashed by clinging to rage and a steed’s neck.”

“...His Grace Sigurd is not some witless berserker who needs to scream atop a madly dashing steed to find his courage,” Camille said icily. “To what end did you accompany us if you believed him a dead man riding?”

“With all luck the former duke has been captured and… merely maimed,” Alera said, looking away uncomfortably. “I could infiltrate my comrades’ ranks and attempt to free him, then guide his escape. The crags are impossible to climb, but just barely amenable to descent.”

She turned back toward Camille, meeting the younger knight’s increasingly icy glare with a gaze pensive, yet unflinching. “...If I deem the situation untenable, however, I won’t hesitate to stop you, or the new duke—whether by force or reason.”

Ailn frowned. Alera sure was confident in her ability to bring them both to heel. 

But he didn’t say anything. Judging by Camille’s placid smile, the pot really didn’t need any more stirring. 

“You underestimate us,” Camille said. “To say nothing of our knight commander, who cuts through the Argent Guards’ rust-bitten blades so ably that even the wind whispers about it.” She gave Alera an insouciant shrug. “Did she not attest that Sigurd had made his way to the mountain’s shoulder?”

It seemed Camille was so pissed, she was willing to wholeheartedly embrace the idea that Ailn could talk to sylphs.  

“This is the stuff of fairy tales, Dame Camille,” Alera said. Her tone was resigned rather than angry. “Sylphs cannot talk to humans. Your knight commander, no matter how exceptional, cannot single-handedly vanquish scores of men. This is not some chivalric romance where he simply storms the mountain—”

The lecture continued unabated until they found a horse neatly tethered at the bottom of the northwest pass—near it, a member of the Argent Guard who’d been thrown to his death from the switchback paths above. 

With that, Alera fell completely silent.

“Say,” Ailn started. “You said you were willing to sneak into the enemy camp, right?”

_____________________

In Calum’s dungeons, the Azure Knights were having quite the novel experience—noting with some despair that their cells weren’t that much less comfortable than their quarters back home. 

For one thing, they didn’t have to share them.

…Unlike in Varant, where most of the knights slept in a common room. 

“We receive meat, even as prisoners?” Dartune asked incredulously, as his meal was delivered to him. 

“...Do prisoners not in Varant?” Ashton asked, grimacing at the dungeon’s new residents. “I suppose Varant faces dire circumstances, that don’t allow such luxuries for those who’ve committed crime.” 

Dartune just stared at him. Then his shoulders slumped.“Yes,” he muttered. “Varant’s prisoners. Of course.”

Kylian frowned, thinking of all the knight’s cake they’d consumed through the winter. 

Ashton walked up to his cell, facing him with eyes unamused. “Sir Kylian, don’t you think it’s time to find a proper liege? I may not yet be duke, but I assure you—I don’t skip meetings. Better yet, I’ve managed to avoid committing treason up to now.”

“...You make a strong case,” Kylian said. “And yet I’ll have to decline.”

“Knowing full well you may end up rotting your life away in dungeons?” Ashton asked, incredulously. “Even the life of a knight is beneath your talents—to waste away as a prisoner would be a shame all the greater.”

He continued to make his case. “If it’s your homeland you yearn for, then that’s but another reason to join the White Knights. Knights take vacations. Criminals do not.” 

Kylian sighed, offering no reply. 

Ashton’s reasoning was sound—uncomfortably so. But loyalty wasn’t always born of reason. And at times, even those bound by it struggled to explain its hold.

Realizing, however, that his chances to speak to the heir of ark-Chelon would be rare, Kylian asked the future duke a question.

“Do you truly believe that was Ailn?” Kylian asked. 

“Does it matter?” Ashton asked, his gaze sharpening. “Treasonous whispers have sent men to the gallows on hearsay alone—and the entire Great Hall heard a voice that sounded like your duke. Even if Princess Isolde doubts it was truly him, she has her pretext. And thus, her permission to hunt.” 

“Perhaps Ailn will find his impersonator,” Kylian said with a shrug. 

He leaned back against the stone wall. At least now he could just sit down and rest. 

Ailn had disappeared from Calum before he was caught—along with his cousin Camille. Kylian wanted to believe that was because he had a plan.

From his cell, Dartune piped up.

“Nor will I yield,” Dartune said. “No matter how pleasant this city’s amenities.”

Ashton stared at the master-at-arms of the Azure Knights. He closed his eyes, taking a deep sigh before leaving. 

_____________________

Ciel was tossing and turning in bed.

Something felt wrong. Even asleep, she could feel it. She was still dreaming. All she knew was that she was suddenly very cold. 

But she was too deep in sleep. She didn’t even know that she was asleep. There was urgency without direction coursing through her body, disturbing her slumber. The anxious need to do something, the deep dread that it was too late—both these feelings escalated until they were finally loud enough to wake her. 

She woke up in a cold sweat. 

For a moment, she didn’t even know where she was. The room was unfamiliar, the trickle of memories slow. 

She looked all around. 

Where was Bea? Why were her stuffed animals in the bed? Ciel tore the blanket off and scrambled in the dark. 

She threw open the door, letting light from the corridor filter into the room. As she frantically looked around for any sort of hint, Ciel’s mind flooded with desperate pleading and denial. 

Bea couldn’t have gotten far. How would a little girl go anywhere? Surely the same trick wouldn’t work twice—how many supply carts were there for her to climb into? How many knights could she possibly fool?

Bea wouldn’t… Bea wouldn’t rebel like this. 

Then, Ciel saw something on the desk. There was a note. Someone had left a note. 

Ciel’s heart stopped. 

She walked over slowly. And from the childish handwriting, it was clear Bea had written it.

So, she had actually run away. Perhaps she was actually rebelling. Ciel would… have to ground her for longer. Maybe this all called for a stronger punishment which she’d been too fainthearted to give out. 

Ciel desperately wanted to believe that Bea was throwing a tantrum. That she was angry she was punished, and just wanted to hurt her mother’s feelings a bit. That a servant was pouring her a glass of milk and she’d be brought back to the room with a pout. 

That’s why children wrote their runaway letters, right? She’d taken to reading and writing so young—perhaps rebellion arrived ahead of schedule as well. Bea had just… finally reached that phase. 

But Ciel picked up Bea’s letter. And it felt like someone had stabbed her in the heart. 

‘Dear mama, 

I’m sorry. I don’t like when I make you cry. But if I don't go to Ameer, papa won’t be saved. 

When I come back, you can ground me forever. I’ll be okay. Because I want to live with you, mama. And we’ll be happy. 

I love you a lot, 

Bea

Posts updated! June 26, 2026

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 126: Starlight’s Thread

The sun was starting to set in Calum. Though there was still light in the day, Ciel and Bea often settled for bed early. Today, especially, Ciel needed the extra rest. She’d been pushing herself for days, and they still had a long journey home tomorrow. 

A soft knock came at the door. After a moment’s hesitation, Ciel cracked the door open. It was a maid—the one who had earlier shown Ciel and Bea to this room, at Ailn’s discretion.

That had already put her on edge. But now she seemed even more anxious. 

“I feel I should warn you, Miss Ciel—strange though it may sound, Duke eum-Creid is allegedly on the run,” the maid whispered. “For crimes of lèse-majesté.”

“What?” Ciel uttered, astonished. 

“The staff of the estate are… just as confused as you are, miss,” the maid said. Her eyes darted to Bea. “I do not know the nature of your relationship with him, but I would advise leaving Calum by the morrow.” She leaned in slightly, and her voice softened. “Tonight, not a word will pass our lips. Please rest easy.”

“I’m grateful…” Ciel said. 

But it occurred to her she had not even considered how Bea would handle the ride back to Venlind. Ciel had traveled by horseback, paying for the services of a handler. Adding Bea as a passenger complicated matters.

Perhaps the horse could carry all their weight, but Ciel still didn’t feel comfortable taking Bea on a full day’s ride when Bea had never even ridden a horse before.

The maid, noticing the troubled look on Ciel’s face, gave a knowing nod. “I can arrange carriage services to escort you wherever need be.” Then her voice dropped to a full whisper. “We… are accustomed to helping protect a noble’s reputation.”

“Of course,” Ciel said, simply accepting the maid’s assumptions. 

She glanced back at Bea, quietly lay in bed still looking drowsy. She’d been upset earlier—though never defiant—casting a sad gaze toward her stuffed animals who’d been placed on a shelf out of reach.

Wishing not to disturb Bea, who looked moments away from sleep, Ciel decided to step outside to finish her conversation with the maid. 

But she hesitated at the threshold. 

This door was the only exit, and yet Ciel couldn’t help but feel a ripple of anxiety—the fear that she'd turn around and find that Bea had vanished. 

“Miss Ciel?” the maid asked.

“...I’m sorry, I was momentarily lost in thought,” Ciel said. “Let’s make those carriage arrangements. Please.”

And she stepped outside. The door shut. 

Meanwhile Bea, lying in bed, was not quite as sleepy as she looked. Her mind was racing.  

Bea was grounded.

Life wasn’t very different, grounded. Her mother found a way to make a meal, after pleading with some of the servants in the kitchen. 

She had her first bath in a few days. 

Reunited with her mother for the first time—as it was the first time she’d ever been apart—Bea felt safe and warm. 

More than that, she realized these past few days she’d been scared. Even when she found her uncle, even when her aunt helped out, everything had felt all wrong. But when something wrong stays for too long, it starts to feel normal. 

That’s how Bea learned that you can be sad without realizing it. You can be a lot of feelings without realizing it.

She felt a little lost, admittedly. Because this was a difficult lesson to learn, and her friends were gone.

That is to say, on a high shelf in the room. 

Aristurtle, especially. He was her first friend. Her first teacher. And Bea wondered if she might have taken him for granted. 

At first, she couldn’t understand why her mother had taken away her friends. Now that they were gone, she had to remember how to keep her thinking critical, even without their input. 

That’s when Bea had a realization. 

She thought about how you can feel things, without knowing what you were feeling. And Bea thought about how, all this time, she desperately wanted to see her father. How she wanted it more than anything else in the world. 

How she said she was doing it all for her mother.

Bea started to think that, maybe, she’d thought she was doing something to make her mother happy… when she actually just wanted to make herself happy. 

That was probably why her mother had taken her toys away. 

Her friends always gave her advice. But if Bea only ever chose the advice she wanted, then their advice didn’t matter. She wasn’t treating them like friends, or like teachers. 

“I wasn’t… being a good friend,” Bea said sadly. “Or a good student. Or… a good…” 

She thought about her mother again, and how sad she looked. 

Rubbing some of the tears out of her eyes, Bea blinked until they went away. She wasn’t going to cry if she was the one who did something wrong. 

To her, her mother was home. Even in this big city, a whole carriage ride away from Calum, she was home. And when it came down to it, her mother was all she needed. 

She wanted to see her father, still. Badly. But you don’t always get what you want. Doing well even when you don’t—that’s what it meant to live good. 

But… 

She still needed to see if he would be okay. 

When she’d last checked the future, all of its threads were tangling together. Fate got fuzzy. It seemed like all she could do was hope that her Uncle Ailn and Aunt Camille would be strong enough and smart enough to save her father. 

Her eyes went out of focus. 

And as she watched the threads of fate unravel and converge, her little heart squeezed painfully. 

_______________

They were about halfway to Amière, the gallop of their horses swift as they made their way through the seams of the mountains, always taking the passes with the gentlest slopes—same as any merchant returning from Calum would. 

As they rode, Ailn had time to think through a question which had bugged him from the start. Why was Sigurd headed to Amière in the first place? 

Discovering the involvement of the Blancs—and the high likelihood that Sigurd was caught in the cogs of a revenge plot—only made the man’s unwavering march toward his own doom all the more baffling. 

He’d prioritize his duty to Varant over his guilt. And even if his intention was to confront the past, he wouldn’t do it like this. Not so recklessly. 

The only thing that made sense was that Sigurd’s hand was somehow forced. But how? 

The simplest answer was that someone had threatened the life of a person he loved.

The problem was the timing didn’t line up—Sigurd would have had to leave for Amière before Ailn had even met Ciel and Bea. Who else was worth dying for? How many secret lovers and children could the man possibly have?

Now that Ailn knew about the existence of a voice changer, though, things were starting to make sense. 

“He looks like me, but angrier,” Ailn said. “And he’s all decked out in armor.”

He’d called out to a sylph, after spotting her flying and singing a song about gales and galas. 

‘Got it, got it, got it!’ the sylph replied. ‘Silver hair, blue eyes, and mean like a hungry wolf! Rawr!’ 

The sylph did a somersault in the air. 

“Could you see if he’s carrying a stone that looks like this, maybe?” Ailn asked. 

That was the big sticking point in Ailn’s theory. It assumed Sigurd had somehow received an echo stone—Ailn wanted evidence of it.

‘He likes to play with rocks! Got it! It’s a very pretty rock!’ the sylph whistled. 

“Do you think you’d be able to read the resonance it’s on for me?” Ailn asked.

‘Reed?’ the sylph asked, her contours fluttering. ‘The kind that tickles to fly through?’

“...Nevermind. Whatever the case, I appreciate the help—er, could you tell me your name actually?” Ailn asked. 

‘Sorelle! You’re the first human who ever talked to me you know,’ Sorelle gusted. ‘All the others just treat me like a ghost! Though sometimes they make a face like this!’

She clasped her hands together, and turned her eyes earnestly toward the sky, while her lips parted in faux-awe. Given her airy, effervescent nature, she looked quite splendid doing it—and Ailn almost wanted to crane his neck up to see what was so sublime.  

“Well, Sorelle, they can’t understand you. Just so you know, ” Ailn said. Then he waved her off with a salute. “I’ll be on the lookout for you.”

Sorelle must have found the salute charming, because she gave one right back before flying off.

Both Camille and Alera gave him a look equal parts piteous and doubtful. 

“I would be remiss not to mention, Duke eum-Creid,” Alera said hesitantly, “that sylphs are known to pantomime conversations with humans, unlike other fae. What might appear to be understanding is simply an exchange of meaningless gestures…”

But Camille hushed her. 

“I have heard from Sir Kylian that he ‘spoke’ with naiads in Sussuro,” Camille said, in a voice that really wasn’t that quiet. “What harm is it?”

Not annoyed enough to defend himself—yet still definitely annoyed—Ailn simply endured their pity, and found himself missing Renea. 

_______________

The servants of the ark-Chelon estate took good care of Ciel and Bea—they even found Bea’s favorite book of fairy tales in the estate’s library. And that night, as they lay together in bed, Ciel read her daughter a bedtime story, just as she had nearly every night of Bea’s life. 

“That’s why every night, the seamstress searched for thread which could not be cut,” Ciel whispered, feeling Bea nestle closer for warmth. “For the huntsman doubted… doubted the seamstress’s loom, and thought her needle best for… poking eyes.”

“When she used the finest silk, it was all the more fragile. When she skillfully wove… a handkerchief…” 

Ciel trailed off, and her eyes began to droop. Then she forced them open, and she took a deep breath to wake herself up.

“When she skillfully wove a handkerchief with threads of silver and cold—gold—still… still it could not resist the tip of his sharp, steel knife.

“The seamstress very nearly gave up. She… thought perhaps her craft…” Ciel once again trailed off. This time, her eyes stayed shut even as she kept trying to tell the story. “...Her craft needed… to make certain to recompense the handler tomorrow,” she mumbled.

“Mama?” Bea asked softly, watching as her mother continued to nod off.

“The foolish… huntsman… ate snow… and sour berries for the rest of his life…” Ciel continued to mumble. “While the seamstress… tucked in her favorite honey bee…”

And finally, after three days of stress and worry, Ciel yielded. A storybook in hand, and her daughter tucked away in her arms, she fell asleep—trusting that her embrace alone was enough to keep Bea safe.

For a long time, Bea stayed there, wrapped up in it. 

“I like this… the best…” Bea whispered. And she didn’t want to leave. 

She realized that good things, just like bad things, sometimes became normal. But being normal didn’t make them any less precious. 

Normal was good. Just like the stories her mother read to her every single night, sometimes normal could be your favorite thing in the world.

But slowly, carefully, Bea sidled out of her mother’s embrace. 

There was still a little sunlight left in the day. So, she pattered over to the suite’s writing desk. Parchment and ink still rested on top—from when Ailn wrote a note for the courier. 

Using the writing skills her mother had taught her, Bea left her a message. 

“I’m sorry, mama…” Bea said. Her vision blurred. But she squeezed her eyes shut until the tears cleared. Then she bit her lip, holding back all the sad feelings. 

She didn’t want to do this to her mother again—not now that she understood how deeply it would hurt her. 

But Bea saw something cruel when she’d glimpsed the future. She saw something which broke her heart. And she realized she was the only one in the world who could do anything about it. 

Other people couldn’t see the future. Other people couldn’t affect it, couldn’t push the world toward the things they wanted. 

Bea could. And that meant she had a responsibility.

Convinced that trying to drag the future into her grasp had frayed fate’s fickle threads, Bea believed it was up to her to make things right by tying everything back together. She’d left before, because of what she wanted. But now… she was leaving because of what she had to do. 

“I’m still… grounded…” Bea frowned. She pulled up a chair to the shelf, grabbing Aristurtle, Cant, and Bent Ham. 

Then she tiptoed over to the bed, and placed them all around her mother.

“They’ll take care of you, mama…” Bea said, tucking her in. Then, just like her mother always did, she kissed her on the forehead to make sure she felt warm.

She wanted to crawl back into bed. But she didn’t. Because Bea still lived in a world that responded to goodness and effort, even if it didn’t always reward it. It was a world where you had to do the right thing, whether Cant and Aristurtle were there to scold you or not. 

It was a fundamentally good world. One where everyone tried their best to live good. 

Taking the storybook from Ciel’s hand, Bea finished the bedtime story for the both of them. 

“...And so… the seam…stress spun starlight from her loom…” Bea whispered quietly, so as to not wake her mother. “Weaving love and fable… through the const… constellashuns.”

She turned the page. “Their stories never ended. Because there… were no goodbyes as eternal as stars. And no hearts that… couldn’t be mended with starlight’s… thread.”

“The end,” Bea said softly, as she closed the book. 

She put it back on the shelf. And finally, taking one last longing look at her mother, Bea left the room to do the right thing, and save her father’s life. 

Posts updated! 6/24/2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 125: Up the Switchbacks

Resting in Ailn’s empty suite, Ciel watched over Bea as she slept. Though she was morosely tired from the stress and exertion of the last three days, she’d only been given new worries. 

Ciel had spent her entire adult life trying to forget Amière. Now Sigurd—the first and only man she ever loved, and the father of her child—was headed there for reasons she couldn’t fathom, possibly straight into a trap.

What waited for him there? Had he been tricked? Or was it merely foolish honor—guilt, which made him bare his neck to the sword of her kin? 

The Blanc name meant nothing to Ciel. Theirs was a shameful family, long before they were stricken from history. But more than that…

The city terrified her. It wasn’t merely her family’s contempt, or her mother’s cruelty. There was something fundamentally sickening in the air there, a chill which never went away even in the fairest spring and the heat of summer. 

There was something in the forests behind the palace. They were… haunted woods. A child’s tale, yes, yet one Ciel knew deep down to be true. Something between a dream and a memory tried to rise out of the murk. Something hidden in the thicket had once called to her… Had once comforted her. 

But whenever she tried to face it, there was only emptiness. 

No. None of that mattered now. 

Swords were crueler than ghosts. Death needed no embellishment for its finality. Shivering at old yarns, at childhood fears never overcome, was merely a perverse distraction from her true terror—the thought of Sigurd dying.

It made Ciel miserable. 

___________________

It was a good thing Calum didn’t have walls. 

Ailn, Camille, and Alera went galloping through its thoroughfare, much to the irritation of the city’s pedestrians.

“You should’ve convinced her faster!” Ailn shouted at Camille.

“She should have required less convincing!” Camille snapped, passing on the blame. 

Alera silently considered turning back. 

At first, she hardly entertained Camille’s pleas. Her younger rival—often a sore loser—had begged for her assistance in reaching and navigating Amière, else they faced certain death attempting to save the former duke, Sigurd.

Of course, Camille had been honorable enough to breathlessly and incoherently explain that Alera would possibly be seen as aiding and abetting, that Duke eum-Creid and the Azure Knights had somehow become fugitives over the course of the day, and yet they were all certainly innocent…

She should have just refused. Yet seeing Camille, usually so stuck-up with her knightly ideals, rambling as fell to the ground in supplication—something stirred in Alera’s heart. 

It was not mere pity, nor even a wholehearted belief in the justness of aiding Camille. 

It was the pull of her past. She felt still the quiet shame of fleeing that day, certain that the Azure Knights would raze Amière to the ground. 

The Argent Guard had been a despicable sham of an order, and her desire to leave it behind was sincere. But she had turned her back not in defiance, but cowardly flight. 

She knew, even as her rational mind protested: if she ceded this chance to reclaim her honor, then it would poison the rest of her days, no matter what superficial comforts gilded them.

Thus she found herself galloping along, aiding the hapless cousins out of the goodness of her heart—only to earn their ire for not finding that goodness a few minutes faster. 

___________________

The ascent to the mountain’s shoulder was going smoothly. It would only get harder from here. Sigurd knew that. But for now, he was grateful.

Using the same tactic as before, he took out two other knights—cutting through the switchback at an angle, dragging them to the ground, and suffocating them until they fell unconscious. 

The number of guards would increase the closer he got to the plateau. Nonetheless, he needed to increase his pace. The worst scenario would be to get caught lingering on the switchback trail, with men blocking his path and archers firing his way. 

About a third of the trail remained. 

When Sigurd reached the bend, he carefully peered above the slope to scan the next level. There were three men conferring. 

One of the knights he'd felled had likely not returned for a regular rotation—clueing the others to his presence. 

That was expected. He’d been prepared for that. No matter how silent his movements, he'd never fooled himself into believing he could reach Amière wholly undetected. 

As if to confirm Sigurd’s suspicions, once the other two men left, the remaining one took position—leaning against the crook of the next bend, a bow in hand, and an arrow resting lightly against its string. 

The archer’s gaze set in Sigurd’s direction—close enough to make him tense. But the archer didn’t seem to actually spot him. He likely intended to notch and shoot the moment he saw someone rounding the corner. 

His quiver sat next to his feet. Perhaps if his shot missed, he planned to retreat to the next crook, once again taking aim.

It was a clever ploy, but in truth it left him less effective than the knights who’d simply tried to engage Sigurd with their swords. 

Once again, Sigurd crept down to the halfway point of the lower switchback, taking a moment to silently steady himself before breaking out into a sprint.

The archer shouted, caught off guard. He’d been too focused on the bend. Sigurd, emerging from the cut through, came from a low angle which threw off his aim.

Though the archer loosed his shot, it flew wide of Sigurd’s head. 

Their fight was already over. With his arrow shot, and his armor light, the man could do nothing as Sigurd drew his sword and cleanly sliced his neck. 

Immediately, Sigurd seized his bow, plucking an arrow from the quiver, and aimed up the switchback—where another knight soon emerged around the bend, more lightly armored than those he’d felled so far. 

The knight had already drawn his sword. He noticed the bow trained on him precious moments too late. 

Sigurd fired. The knight didn’t even have time to leap out of its way. Struck squarely in the chest, he fell to the ground.

Suddenly, Sigurd’s body tensed before he knew why. A chill ran down his right arm—no, down his neck, and instinctively he flung himself forward into a prone position. 

An arrow cut through the air where his head had just been. There was a second archer employing a reversal of Sigurd’s tactic—nesting at the top of the cut-through to the next level, to loose arrows from above.

Another arrow flew his way. Rather than trusting his armor, Sigurd rolled aside. He sprinted halfway through the lower switchback, before veering toward the cut-through, straight for the archer. 

His senses sharpened. He trained his gaze on the archer, caught the tensing of the bowstring—and just a moment before the arrow was released, Sigurd leapt sideways and upwards, landing on the higher switchback. 

Now he was above the archer, who was scrambling to notch another arrow. The angle was even worse for them, and they loosed it wildly. 

With that, Sigurd was already upon them. One gauntleted blow to the temple knocked the archer out cold. 

Sigurd kept his breath nearly steady, even as his lungs burned. Sprinting steep cut-throughs, even at an angle, was winding. But he couldn’t afford to tire out this early. 

The echo stone chimed. 

His breath caught in his throat. Unfastening it from his belt, Sigurd closed his eyes in silent prayer and pressed the dial—steeling himself for the sound of Ciel in terror… or worse. 

‘Seems you’re within reach.’

It was a young man’s voice. One that Sigurd didn’t immediately recognize. 

‘You took your time, Sigurd. Maybe Ciel wasn’t worth rushing for? Seven years ago, you moved with such swiftness, eager to slaughter. Yet, this moment you drag your feet.’

If they truly were a Blanc, then… it had to be Gerhardt.

‘Even now it lingers in memory—that pitch-black sky beyond the broken window… Why not make it fair? You care so much about fairness, after all. I’m certain you know where to find me.’

…The palace. Likely in the same hall where Sigurd had once slain the Blanc family elders. Among them… Gerhardt’s father. 

The sound of Gerhardt’s slow exhale came through—his breath trembling with a fury that sounded almost weary. 

‘You have until the night’s darkest hour to find me. Consider what you have to lose.’

The last sounds Sigurd heard through the echo stone were Ciel’s sobs. 

___________________

She couldn’t leave Bea. She simply couldn’t. 

Ciel wished to go to Amière—despite her fears, or perhaps because of them. It pained her: the thought of waiting by idly while Sigurd rushed toward danger. 

But the thought of leaving Bea motherless hurt even more. No. If Amière truly was swarming with the Argent Guard, if one of her cousins truly sought revenge… then a rash decision could orphan her daughter.

Bea was beginning to stir. When she dozed off in Ciel’s arms earlier, she’d slipped into a deep sleep—just like her mother, the stress of her journey had likely caught up with her all at once. 

Now, as she roused, she seemed troubled.

“Mama…?” Bea murmured, nuzzling her head against Ciel’s leg. “Don’t cry…”

A few tears slid down Ciel’s cheeks, dripping onto her lap. 

“Bea, you…” Ciel started. Her lips parted softly, unsure of what she wished to say. 

As far as Ciel knew, Sigurd’s peril and Bea’s slipping away from Venlind had nothing to do with each other. Her fears twisted together in her heart, but she knew she had to pull them gently apart. 

“I was scared, Bea,” Ciel said, her voice trembling softly. “I thought I lost you forever.”

Bea’s face slowly scrunched up. Her lip quivered, and she began to sniffle. Tears welled up in her eyes as she realized how she’d hurt her mother.

Her voice came out raspy. “I wanted… to help…” Then, it began to crack. “I wanted to make you happy, mama…”

“I know you did, Bea,” Ciel whispered. 

That’s what Bea always wanted. Ciel understood that better than anyone else.

From the youngest age, Bea had always weighed the questions of right and wrong with a quiet seriousness. They were woven into her moments of play—whether Bea was a student of a turtle, or the leader of a symposium of stuffed animals, she was always pondering.

Doing the right thing meant everything to Bea. 

And that was why Ciel had to be firm. 

“I have to take your friends away for a little while, Bea,” Ciel said. Her voice cracked. “I want you to think about what you did. Without them.”

What hurt Ciel the most wasn’t just that Bea looked devastated. It was that she looked confused. Even as her cheeks wrinkled, and it seemed as if she might break into wails, she bit her lip, and blinked back her tears. 

“I’m sorry, mama…” Bea said. Then her eyes squeezed shut like she was ashamed, and she quietly whimpered. 

It made Ciel’s heart ache terribly.

It was such a simple thing. Just a small punishment for her child. But Ciel knew what they meant to Bea—how her stuffed animals helped her understand the world and gave her the courage to try her hardest. 

They made her braver than a little girl should be. 

They made her believe that she could make everyone happy, all on her own. That the world could be fixed—if she just thought a little harder and did the right thing.

Ciel never wanted to take that from her. 

But the world might take away Bea. 

The world wouldn’t care how hard a four-year-old tried. It was indifferent to the purity of her hope, and even the depth of her thoughts. Humans were fragile—children infinitely moreso.

“What if… papa gets hurt, mama…?” Bea asked. 

At that word—papa—Ciel’s stomach dropped. It was the first time she’d ever heard her daughter say the word. It was the first time either of them had openly acknowledged Sigurd’s existence. 

For it to be a moment like this…

Should she lie?

How much did Bea know? Ciel could never tell. She’d spent the whole day with Ailn and Camille, who were working tirelessly to prevent Sigurd’s death—unraveling the conspiracy, chasing the threads. 

“Papa made a lot of decisions in his life, Bea,” Ciel said. “He’s going to a dangerous place, right now. That was another decision he made.”

Though Ciel didn’t know why.

“Sometimes papa had to choose who got hurt and who didn’t,” Ciel said softly. “And whether he was being fair or not, some of the people who got hurt wanted to hurt him too.”

“But Bea,” Ciel began, but her voice was already splintering. She stumbled through the sentence, barely holding back a sob. “You’ve never wanted to hurt anyone in your life.”

Her hand covered her mouth, as her tears freely dripped down her cheeks. And she spoke through a cracking, hitching breath. “Mama has to protect you, Bea.”

Posts updated! June 22, 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 124: Natural Enemy

Despite the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Ailn pressed the dial. 

‘So. You reveal your true colors at last.’

It was the second princess, Isolde. Her cadence was breathless, her voice vibrated with glee. 

‘All of us were mistaken, it seems. You are neither a buffoon, nor a tactician—you are a simple lunatic. 

‘Waste no breath making excuses. This parley has endured an excess of your voice already. And I do hope it pleases you to know—we’ve already detained your knights. And they WILL suffer for your grandiose delusions. 

As for you… When a man threatens the imperial family with violence we do not respond in kind. We repay him—tenfold, a hundredfold.’

“She… must have the wrong number,” Ailn said lamely, as Camille grew paler by the moment. 

‘Wait for me, Ailn eum-Creid. I do enjoy a good hunt.’

“You!” Camille grabbed Ailn’s collar and began shaking him violently. “You sent something absurd!”

“When, Camille?!” Ailn snapped back, clutching his deerstalker to keep it from flying off. “When would I have done that?”

“When I went to fetch water!” Camille gritted out. She slapped Ailn’s hat off his head—likely to keep herself from smacking him across the face. “Just what have you done?!”

“Camille, I did not threaten to attack the imperial family,” Ailn said calmly—though he growled as he knelt to pick up his hat. “You think I was just standing there, holding Bea and singing lullabies about regicide? Someone’s framing me.”

“Who?!”

“I don’t know—maybe the princess herself is just looking for an excuse,” Ailn said, with a frustrated sigh. “I don’t even know anything about the message I supposedly sent. Who’s to say it even exists?”

Camille’s glare faltered, and anxiety crept into her furrowed brow. Whether she believed Ailn or not, their situation remained miserably damning. She took a deep breath. “Then… what shall we do?”

Ailn paused to think. 

What, indeed? Should they stay and try to fight the allegations? But according to Bea’s precognition, Sigurd’s death was a ticking clock. Time wasn’t on their side. 

Why was he even being accused? Was the princess simply asserting power arbitrarily? If so, then they were just screwed. Ailn thought back to the message. 

‘We know precisely what you sound like.’

It sounded like she’d really heard ‘him’ make a threat. Was someone imitating his voice? An actor, maybe—using the echo stone’s sound quality to their advantage?

Or… was there something deeper at play?  

A memory cropped into Ailn’s mind—a strange thing that had happened to Renea during their small adventure in Varant’s catacombs. 

Someone had imitated his voice. Though, at the time, they’d apparently imitated the original Ailn’s style of speaking. 

Ceric heard his grandfather in the catacombs, too. Was there someone with the power to imitate voices—or some sort of creature? Multiple maybe? 

“Ailn!” Camille’s voice, filled with urgency, snapped him out of his thoughts. She’d dropped all pretenses of vassalage. “Come to a decision!”

“...We’ll do what we already planned to,” Ailn groaned, running his hand through his hair as he put his hat back on. “We save Sigurd, and face the consequences later.”

The Azure Knights were already in custody. That threw a wrench into Ailn’s plan to respond with force. Which meant this just turned into a sneaking mission. 

“Rather, you’re free to do as you like—” Ailn started.

“I’m going,” Camille interrupted him firmly. She met his gaze with a look of determination—which after a moment, wilted into grief and shame. “I… don’t wish to turn my back on my kin ever again.”

“Alright,” Ailn said. “Let’s head to the stables—actually, no. I’ll meet you there. Sprint into the barracks and see if you can grab Dame Alera before anyone knows any better.”

Camille scowled. Her resolve was already being tested.

_________________

As Kylian was led with the other members of the Azure Knights to Calum’s dungeons, his mind moved at the same plodding pace. 

The negotiations had drained him, and he had little energy to spare. Thus, the strange message which had just echoed through the Great Hall of House ark-Chelon registered only as an idle and distant curiosity. The situation demanded urgency. But what could he even do about it? 

A thought had occurred to the knight shortly after hearing the message. 

‘I have a little surprise for all the princes and princesses in Calum.’

The speaker had mistaken the number of princesses in the room: which is to say, there weren’t multiple ‘princesses’ at all. There was only one. Would Ailn really have made that kind of mistake?

No—the first question was whether Ailn would’ve threatened the emperor. And the answer was clear. For all his eccentricities, he just… wouldn’t. The message was too absurd, too reckless, and too empty to be real. 

Someone was impersonating him. Through what means, Kylian had no idea. And the knight was left wondering whether the “important duty” which Ailn had to take care of somehow involved this enigmatic impersonator. 

Kylian had long suspected that Ailn had goals beyond leading the duchy. In truth, he’d shown little desire for it early on—his duel with Sigurd had been fought, more than anything, for Renea’s sake.

Everywhere Ailn went, he drew in unusual company. More than once, he went to quiet lengths to speak with them alone—sometimes with barely a pretense at all. And somehow, they’d always ended up becoming an ally. 

Perhaps, now he had a hidden enemy. One wielding strange powers. And an echo stone.

After a long descent, Kylian was yanked out of his thoughts by the clang of his cell door swinging open. 

“Plenty of time to think it over,” Kylian muttered.

_________________

They really did have to move quickly. Soon enough, word would spread through the estate that Ailn was “dangerous,” and even retrieving their horses would be out of the question. Funny how fast he went from esteemed duke to fugitive.

“Your horse waits in the second stall from the end, Duke eum-Creid,” a male clerk said. “A stable boy is retrieving the horse and bridle to tack up your horse. Before your ride, would you like its coat groomed and its hooves cleaned?”

“I’m sort of in a hurry,” Ailn said, glancing toward the stable’s entrance. “They’re already preparing Dame Camille’s horse, right? And a third—any mount will do.”

All Ailn could do was hope Camille could somehow get Alera to come. They might just manage with someone who knew Amière well. Without her… things would be pretty dire. 

Camille was taking longer than he felt comfortable with. He may have miscalculated. Had she been caught? Maybe he should’ve told her to lose the emblem-bearing cape and pauldron. Whatever the case, he needed to be ready to leave whether she came or not. 

Striding over to the second stall from the end, Ailn swung the door open and saw a familiar face by his horse. 

“Can’t hold a steady job, can you?” Ailn asked the teen god, who was currently working as a stable boy. 

“You know, after this, I’ve gotta muck out all the stalls…” the teen god said, grimacing. With defter hands than Ailn expected, he calmly put on the horse’s halter and secured it.

“They’re about to throw me in jail, you know,” Ailn said. “Or—judging from the princess’s tone—I might even get executed. That’s gonna affect my productivity.”

“Yeah, it’s a real problem,” the teen god sighed. 

“If there were ever a time to stage a divine intervention…” Ailn prodded. 

“I can’t throw lightning or hypnotize anyone,” the teen god said. “But I can give you a little more information than usual.” After he smoothed out the saddle blanket on the horse’s back, he added, “You’ll need to know this actually.”

He let out a long and weary sigh, as if he were sharing something which could shake the foundations of the world. “Someone’s imitating your voice.”

The teen god flinched, perhaps seeing violence in Ailn’s eyes. “Wait! Wait, I can tell you more! A big reveal, okay? The voice conjuror’s the same place you’re headed—Amière! You can clear your name!” 

Ailn lowered his hands. Camille had been a bad influence on him.

“Is there more than one voice changer?” Ailn asked.

“No,” the teen god said. For once he was being helpful. “There isn’t.” He met Ailn’s gaze with a troubled look. “Things are getting really messy, right now. The voice conjuror is…” He paused, thinking over his words. 

Finally, the teen god removed the horse’s halter, slipping the reins over its neck, and eased the bit of the bridle into its mouth. “You could say they’re your natural enemy.”

_________________

Loose rocks littered the lower reaches of the northwestern pass. A mounted ascent was clearly untenable. Sigurd had hoped to reach the mountain’s shoulder, where the incline would ease before the ridgeline. But up ahead stretched a series of switchback paths, filled with guards intent on his death. 

Sigurd had little choice but to continue on foot.  

He found a natural ledge behind which he could hide his horse, then tethered it to the rotting remains of a stunted tree. The tree’s trunk was thin, and its roots barely clung to the scree and shale it grew from. 

His horse easily had the strength to break free. For the time being, the horse would remain here obediently. Should he not return, however…

Sigurd shook off the thought. He’d done right by his companion, and needed to focus solely on his ascent. 

It was nearly sunset. Approaching from the northwest, the sun would be at his back—his ally, instead of his enemy. The shadows weren’t to his favor—currently they cast longest toward the east—but the terrain offered ample cover. 

At each crook in the trail, where the path bent back in on itself in its ascent, Sigurd paused to scan the level above for movement. 

Proceeding in this manner was slow going. But his caution proved warranted when, after nearly an hour of ascent, he reached a curve, looked round, and caught sight of a heavily armored knight standing at the next rise.

Engaging him in simple swordplay would lead to a prolonged fight. If Sigurd wished to crack the armor outright, he’d need to gather a considerable amount of holy aura—and doing so would leave him winded. 

Worse, it would be loud.

Any approach would make noise. But holy aura of that strength would sound like a catapult. And Sigurd doubted the man was alone. 

The total strength gathered at Amière was still unknown. No matter how thinly spread their forces, however, guards were likely stationed at least in pairs.

He’d have to climb up one way or another. Sigurd came to a decision. 

Slowly, he sidled back in the direction he came—descending about halfway down to the previous crook in the switchbacks. 

The elevation difference was nearly ten feet. In a straight-line he’d be forty feet away. Cutting across at this angle, the slope would be about twenty degrees—steep, but manageable even without hands.

Sigurd broke into a sprint. 

At about ten feet’s distance, the knight reacted to him—likely hearing Sigurd’s approaching steps before he ever saw him. 

“He’s h—agh!”

The knight, mind caught between drawing his sword and alerting the others, watched Sigurd’s hip for a blade that never came.

He slashed at Sigurd, off-stance and panicked, but the blow merely glanced off Sigurd’s adamantine mail. His weapon recoiling painfully, the knight never stood a chance in the resulting contest of leverage. 

One of Sigurd’s hands grabbed the back seam of the knight’s neckguard, and the other the back rim of his helmet. A single yank jolted the knight’s head, disorienting him, and making throwing him to the ground a facile task.

Sigurd wrapped his cloak around the knight’s helmet, smothering it. His knee slammed down into the knight’s torso, his full weight pinning the armor against the man’s ribs, preventing any expansion of the chest. 

Ten seconds, and the knight stilled. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Sigurd dragged the body near the switchback’s edge, then took position. Sliding down its edge while facing forward, bracing his hand against the slope to maintain control, he waited in ambush.

Another knight came, just as heavily armored. His gaze swept around frantically. But he couldn’t simply leave his fallen comrade. And the moment both of the knights’ hands were occupied, checking for a pulse, Sigurd leapt up, and heaved the second man off the ledge. 

The first knight was simply unconscious. The second knight was likely dead. 

A flicker of pity passed through Sigurd, but he ignored it. These men had conspired against him—endangered Ciel, and likely his daughter Béatrice. 

His breath caught. The worst possibilities flickered through his mind. When he’d heard Ciel’s terrified voice through the echo stone, it had nearly paralyzed him.

But just as painful was the absence of Béatrice’s voice. Whoever had lured him here knew exactly how much that silence would shake him. 

He clenched his fist, forcing down the fear and sorrow which would only slow him. 

Carefully, Sigurd resumed his ascent—his heart only held together with hope. 

That the two of them were safe. 

That he could hear Ciel, once more, free from pain and grief. 

And that he could save his daughter Béatrice… and hear her voice for the very first time.

Posts updated! June 19, 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 123: Just a Jest

The journey to Calum had taken longer than Ciel could bear. Every moment away from Bea sent her mind racing toward the worst. Eating was a struggle. Sleep had been impossible. 

Neither the walk to Smercraig, nor the ride to Calum had been physically easy. 

With Gorwin’s help, she’d been able to rent a horse and handler to travel as swiftly as possible. But by the time she and the handler departed Smercraig, the sun had already nearly set. Murmurs of renewed banditry along the mountain pass gave the handler—herself a young woman—reason to err on the side of caution. And despite Ciel’s desperate desire to press on without delay, she held her tongue.  

She knew all too well how dangerous that road had once been.

Consequently, Ciel did not reach Calum until the following afternoon. She immediately set to determining the movements of the Azure Knights—who had likely unwittingly taken her daughter—before learning of the negotiations between Varant and the imperial family. 

Upon arriving at the Great Hall, she was astonished to find that the young Duke eum-Creid had not even attended the negotiations. 

More astonishing still was the sound of Bea’s voice echoing through the auditorium. 

‘When Cant… makes me stressed… It’s good to nap.’

For the first time in three days, Ciel felt a swell of relief. 

Bea was safe. She wasn’t crying or hurt. She was with someone who took care of her, and for some reason she was wistfully offering the imperial family advice on how to handle big emotions. 

The Azure Knights seemed bizarrely oblivious to the duke’s current location. Odder still, the retainers of the third imperial prince seemed to know roughly where he was. Ciel didn’t question it. She just wished to see Bea. 

And when Ciel finally saw her by the fountain, three of her stuffed friends clutched in her arms as per usual, she called out, rushed over and pulled her into an embrace.

“Bea! ” Ciel tenderly held her daughter who’d begun to wail. “I was so frightened. I missed you so much…”

“Mama…” Bea rasped out, in-between her tiny sobs. She buried her face into her mother’s shoulder, too emotional to speak.

There was so much Ciel wished to ask—so much she longed to say. But for now, Ciel just quietly took in the sight of her daughter safe in her arms once more, the rest of the world slipping into the background. 

Only dimly did she notice the presence of the duke and his knight.

“Ciel,” Ailn greeted her. Then he gestured with his hand. “This is Dame Camille. She’s family—cousin to me and Sigurd.”

“Miss… Ciel,” Camille gave a respectful, nodding bow. She seemed troubled, for reasons Ciel couldn’t fathom. 

“...Thank you. Both of you,” Ciel said softly. It was such an extraordinary situation she didn’t even know what else to say. Bea was starting to get drowsy in her arms. “For taking care of her.”

Ciel turned toward Ailn. “There’s no wo—” 

She trailed off. A debt of exhaustion which she’d been refusing to pay suddenly caught up with her. 

The truth was all Ciel wanted to do at the moment was take a nap with her daughter. 

“Looks like you’re running on fumes,” Ailn said, sympathy evident in his voice. “I’ll make sure you get a room at the ark-Chelon estate. Or you two can just use mine for now. I have a feeling… I’m not going to return tonight.”

There was a graveness in his tone which gave Ciel pause. He looked as if there were something he wished to tell her. 

“We… need to talk about Sigurd for a moment,” Ailn said. 

_____________________

There was a second reason Amière was said to hide behind the gates of the west. The city was nestled into a crook of a mountain chain, the surrounding peaks guarding it like an enormous fence. 

The natural way to approach the city was through a valley, flanked on both sides by two particularly towering peaks. 

Militarily, it was folly. The so-called “titan’s porch” had once been guarded by a fortress manned with archers. The Azure Knights never even considered approaching from that direction. Instead they traversed the natural trails of the surrounding mountains—steep and winding.

To do so, they first routed the Argent Guard. The Blancs’ knights were overconfident—certain that merely knowing the lay of the land and boasting superior numbers would suffice to stymie the Azure Knights. 

If their resolve had been stronger, perhaps they could have. They had not expected the strength of the divine blessing, nor the fearlessness or relentlessness of the Azure Knights. 

Though most of their knights were still capable of fighting, the Argent Guard retreated. Few returned to Amière where they only saw certain slaughter. Instead, the order abandoned its city entirely. 

By the time the Azure Knights arrived, all that remained were rabble. 

Such were the battles which had transpired seven years ago. In the present, Sigurd weighed his options for approaching Amière alone. 

The fastest approach would be to ride his steed through the valley—the titan’s porch. It was certainly tempting. Sigurd was unsure if the Argent Guard were even conspiring against him—and even if they were, it was difficult to believe they’d gathered in such force that they could afford to man an abandoned fortress. 

Not only that, but his armor was adamantine. Steel arrowheads would have difficulty piercing it. He wondered if he might fare best simply using his strength, and taking the initiative. 

And yet… 

Sigurd’s instincts told him to traverse the mountain pass. 

If this truly was a plot of revenge, then adamantine arrowheads were not beyond the pale. They were too costly to tip every arrow—but with even a quiverfull, the valley truly would be an impregnable deathtrap.He sensed it—the invitation to take a reckless charge through the titan’s porch, driven by emotion and blinded by the hope of an easy miracle. But Sigurd never underestimated his opponents. 

Suddenly, the obnoxious image of his younger brother Ailn flitted through his mind. 

…Sigurd rarely underestimated his opponents. 

_____________________

Having explained what he could about the situation to Ciel—who took him up on his offer to rest in his suite with Bea—Ailn considered his options. Camille stood next to him impatiently. 

They were right at the outskirts of the ark-Chelon estate. A broad, paved avenue of marble passed straight through, leading to its front parlor, from which the Great Hall was immediately accessible. 

“Time is of the essence, milord,” Camille said. Lately, she tended to smile a lot less around Ailn, and she currently regarded him with a subtly judgmental grimace.  

No credit to him for uncovering the conspiracy against Sigurd, of course. 

“Just… give me a second to think. This could make a world of difference,” Ailn said. “You have to be tactful when you ask for favors. Don’t you know the devil’s in the details?”

Camille was a knight who, if nothing else, operated with an abundance of tack. She did not take kindly to his words. 

“The real devil… perpetually hides details,” Camille gritted out. “Leaving the rest of us to flounder in Hell.”

Actually, Ailn sort of agreed with that. Perhaps that very moment, said little demon was moseying about the estate, delivering salads.

Ailn needed to retrieve his knights.

The smartest thing to do was to gather the largest force possible. He’d only brought a couple dozen knights in his retinue—just enough knights to fend off ambushes, like the one just before Sussuro. 

But the Azure Knights weren’t the only knights in town. Calum’s White Knights were on good terms with Varant, and apparently raring for action. Just how many knights would Ashton be willing to spare? 

…The problem was, could he really trust Ashton in the first place? So Dame Alera had alleged, but Ailn wasn’t too eager to put himself into a situation where Calum’s forces were surrounding his in the middle of nowhere. 

If Ashton really were involved in the revenge plot, then that would mean game over right then and there. 

An interesting alternative presented itself. Every imperial prince and princess retained their own retinue. If Ailn convinced just one of them to accompany him with their small army, then there’d be little opportunity for Ashton to rugpull the Azure Knights. 

Of course, the problem there was he’d clearly earned their ire by skipping the negotiations. Princess Isolde in particular sounded like she was having a stroke. Every so often one of her words would have this strange growling and rasping quality. 

It sort of reminded Ailn of smoker’s voice. Did she indulge? Could he possibly earn good will by inviting her for a relaxing smoke?

Ailn sighed. 

They were likely all still in the midst of negotiations. And even he felt a little awkward about waltzing in and declaring he needed to take his knights, after just ghosting them all day. 

“It should be fine if I just go in-person and apologize a bit,” Ailn muttered.

Suddenly, his echo stone chimed. It certainly hadn’t brought him any joy today, but holding it in his hand, afraid of what he’d hear when he pressed the button, Ailn somehow got the sense he was about to hear something disastrous. 

_____________________

About half an hour before Ailn would hear the ominous chime, Kylian was attempting to close out the day’s negotiations. 

He’d been given a near impossible task: maintain Varant’s dignity, safeguard The Dragon’s Promise away from those who might undo the empire, and keep his head above his shoulders.

Despite Severus’s claim that the emperor was nothing more than a phantom, perpetually adrift in a fugue state, the imperial siblings seemingly still felt compelled to respect his title. It seemed they’d all decided to fight again, another day. 

“What’s mine will come to me,” Isolde promised, projecting a similar confidence to what Severus had in the perimeter chamber. “That includes the successorship, The Dragon’s Promise. And my chance to show Duke eum-Creid his proper place.”

She said it lazily, as if all she had to do was wait. 

“I do hope you’ll warn him,” Isolde said, smiling at Kylian. “I would not enjoy it if he didn’t see it coming. If he did not have the opportunity to… consider his own failures.”

“The message will be duly delivered,” Kylian said flatly. 

“Then the discussions will begin anew, when simple confirmation from the emperor arrives,” Evgeni said. “At that time… I expect that Duke eum-Creid will appear.”

If he didn’t, Kylian really would quit. 

Severus and Millie seemed to hold no interest in these closing remarks—perhaps wishing to swiftly return to their private room. 

Ashton ark-Chelon, meanwhile, seemed curiously detached. There were times during the negotiations when his presence had faded into the background. But he had always looked alert—appraising, even when passive. 

Now he was just waiting for the meeting to end. It seemed the day had finally exhausted its  surprises. 

The moment Kylian let himself relax, however, a familiar sound jarred him into vigilance—one that had dogged him all day.

The echo stone chimed once more. And a terrible feeling crept over the knight. 

“It would appear Duke eum-Creid has graced us one with final message,” Ashton said dryly. “Perhaps he and his toddling assistant bring urgent counsel on the perils of neglecting one’s vegetables.” 

By now, the imperial siblings were bored of it. Just as Isolde’s continual use of The Dragon’s Roar seemed to inculcate a certain mental resistance—or at least undercut its spirit-breaking nature—Ailn’s irreverent messages had lost their ability to get under everyone’s skin. 

When Ashton played the message, however…

‘This is Ailn eum-Creid speaking.’

It was… certainly an odd way to begin the message. 

‘I just want everyone to know. I have a little surprise for all the princes and princesses in Calum. All you knights for Varant: don’t come to the Great Hall tomorrow if you don’t wanna get caught up!’

Said princes and princess turned to Kylian with painfully accusing looks. But there was yet more to the message.

‘First, it’ll be those imperial brats! Then, it’ll be the emperor! I might try to be the emperor himself!”

The Great Hall was silent—at least for a full minute. But that minute drew out to an eternity for Kylian, whose sharp mind and unflappable demeanor had finally met their match.

“Uh… I… This is…” Kylian fumbled, his words crashing and falling like a horse that had galloped straight into a spear. “It’s, uh…” 

And finally, having absolutely nothing else, Kylian offered a remark even he knew bordered on idiocy.

“He’s… likely jesting,” Kylian sputtered out. 

Chaps updated! June 17, 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 122: Tomorrow, With Hope

Ten years ago, the village of Kor was a mere supplier. It produced charcoal, and had only one buyer. Seven years ago, an event that should have brought ruin proved an unexpected blessing—at least, for the people of the village. 

Kor was surrounded by ash trees, woods whittled down from what had once been a vast forest. The tree line retreated slower nowadays, as the charcoal mounds which used to chase them fell into disuse. Kilns which produced finer, steadier-burning stuff had taken their place, supporting the village’s fledgling yet promising new industry: jewelry. Of orichalcum.

Wary eyes lingered on Sigurd as he rode through. He had no doubt they recognized him, if only by his silver hair. None dared approach, but he had no business with them anyway. 

There was only one person he needed to see. Someone he had to cross off, just to be certain of her noninvolvement—and who, perhaps, could offer insight into the threat which waited for him.

As of right now, he knew almost nothing. The echo stone in his hand had not rung since he’d triggered that first message. 

Despite the stress that had been bearing down on him for these past three days, he felt mentally sharp. Or perhaps it was because of the stress—the fear which threatened to suffocate him, render him useless if he let himself dwell on it.

He’d had time to steady his mind. Caution would only improve his chances of saving Ciel and Béatrice.

The town square was dominated by a fairly large inn, its new set of stables crowded with horses. A modest market of wooden stalls gave way buildings of stone, some still in the midst of construction. Still early in the afternoon, merchants bartered with local artisans inspecting their wares. They’d have the rest of the day to haggle down prices if they decided to spend the night at the inn.

Their stares stuck to him as he passed through. 

Sigurd’s destination lay at the far end of the village: a wooden mansion. Though a rusty wrought iron fence separated it from the rest of the village, its gates hung open, frozen in place from years of neglect. 

Next to it was a stone building, nearly equal in size. Though he’d never seen it himself, Sigurd knew it to be an old barracks. The so-called “knights” of the Blanc family who’d once “protected” the mountain passes used to take temporary residence there.  

Now, of course, the Argent Guard had long disbanded. Sigurd had killed their leader, Edmund Blanc. The barracks stood empty, and the old manor housed just one girl—one who, a few years prior, had withdrawn there, imagining she’d vanished from Varant’s sight. 

As Sigurd approached, he noticed that many of the merchants and artisans had begun to follow him. Some had carried the tools of their trade as weapons. A few even made their way ahead to stand in front of the gates.

Given the anxious look in their eyes, he could guess why. 

“Can we help ye, noble sir?” an older man asked. He held his hammer down by his belt—not high enough to seem provocative, but enough to clearly signal his intent. 

“...I am not here to harm Astrid,” Sigurd explained tiredly.

The merchants and artisans cast uneasy glances among each other. Then the older man spoke again. “I mean ye no disrespect, yer excellency. It wouldn't be wise for us to harm ye. But I cannot say we can trust ye, either. And so, we beg ye respectfully to please turn around—as we cannot let ye through.”

Stifling an irritated sigh, Sigurd calmed himself by taking a deep breath. He would waste more time if he spoke rashly. “Let me put your worries to rest. By way of my deceased father, the eum-Creids already control several orichalcum mines. Jeopardizing your livelihood gains me nothing.”

That seemed to be enough. Most of the merchants and artisans quietly dispersed, though not before casting wary, lingering gazes toward the mansion which they’d reluctantly gathered to protect. 

Only one young man stayed—one who looked to be in his early twenties. He was shaking, the only thing in his grasp a small file for jewelry making—likely carried just to give the appearance of one more armament in the crowd. Clearly consternated with his “weapon,” the man couldn’t help but glance at the sword which hung at Sigurd’s waist.

“Do you still not trust me?” Sigurd sighed. 

The young man swallowed hard. “I… cannot think of a reason which ye’d wish to see her again—unless it’s to finish a job ye started.”

“Is it that you fancy her?” Sigurd asked. He brushed past the accusation, perplexed. “What reason could you have to stand between Astrid and a noble armed with a sword?”

“Fancy her?” the young man blinked, caught off guard. After a moment’s pause, he cast a glance over his shoulder, his gaze settling uncomfortably on the mansion. "Hardly a soul in the village catches more than a glimpse of her…”

“Then?” Sigurd prodded him. 

“Her roots are a bit rotten…” the young man said hesitantly, his voice quieting as if he were afraid she’d hear him. His eyes fell fearfully once more on Sigurd’s blade. “But that’s no cause to kill her.” 

So it was pity.

Unfastening his sheathed sword from his belt, Sigurd nudged his horse into a slow trot. The young man flinched, before realizing the sword was being offered to him. 

“This is the most assurance I can give you,” Sigurd said, his tone flat. He arched a brow at the young man, who awkwardly took the sword. “I’m still confounded by your willingness to die for a woman you seem to care little for.”

The young man’s brow knit. Holding the very blade he would’ve faced, perhaps only now did he grasp how futile his final stand would have been. The file in his other hand trembled all the more as he spoke.

“Ye know, I… didn’t really think it through. I full well had intended to move out of yer way, but the thought of that girl all alone in that empty house, killed without even one person tryin’ to protect her… it was just too sad for me.”

___________________

When he was alive, Edmund Blanc had established a base of operations in Kor, conveniently situated between the two primary mountain passes leading to Calum. He led the Argent Guard in exacting severe tolls from every merchant who sought safe passage, and those who refused to comply often found themselves ambushed by so-called “bandits” under cover of night—half the reason the Blanc family found themselves attached to the moniker the “gates of the west.”

This rent seeking scheme propped up the Blanc family’s wealth, when it was clear the orichaclum mines upon which Amière stood were beginning to dwindle. 

Now, with the Blancs deposed, those same mountain passes were freely traveled. And all that remained of the Argent Guard’s legacy was the decaying mansion Sigurd now entered. 

The air was thick with a foul, damp scent. Sigurd had wondered how Astrid maintained the building, living by herself. Given the pervasive water damage—dark stains on a sagging ceiling, crumbling plaster, buckling floorboards on the verge of fracturing—it was apparent now that she simply didn’t. 

“How can anyone bear to live like this?” Sigurd muttered. He winced. 

The most mystifying aspect of Astrid’s behavior was that the old stone barracks should still be perfectly usable. He hadn’t seen the inside, but he found it difficult to believe it was in worse shape than this. 

According to the young man who currently held his sword, Astrid had recently moved into a study on the first floor. Sigurd could guess why—the upper floors of the mansion had likely become completely uninhabitable. 

He made his way inside, contemplating what could drive someone to cling to sentiment this desperately. The musty smell grew worse the deeper he went inside, and the floorboards creaked with every step. 

And then the creaking stopped. That was infinitely worse. He could already tell—it was too soft. The wood was rotting through.

Stone statues adorned nearly every room. Angels, who had largely withstood the ravages of weather, kept their limbs—yet their faces had blurred to the point of near erasure. Expressions which had once been stoic now somehow seemed forlorn and devastated. In a few, the uneven erosion of their beatific smiles warped them into antipathic sneers.

As Sigurd neared the study, he heard the murmurs of a female voice. 

“T-t-there you are, m-my dear quill…” the mewling voice seeped out. “H-how could I l-lose you in suh…such a small s-space?”

She laughed softly to herself for a long time, and the sound carried through the empty space of the mansion erratically, fading in and out—sometimes swallowed into the damp of the wood, other times ringing out sharply against the fractured plaster as if the walls were attempting to spit it out.

Once he was near enough that even his soft footfalls could be heard, however, he heard a gasp, then the sudden silence of breath stilled. 

“I-I-I d-don’t recogn-n-nize those boots,” the young woman finally said. “A-a-are you h-h-here to br-bring my food?”

The study was curtained off, and he could only see Astrid’s faint silhouette through the stained, white veils. Right outside them stood a short wooden table, atop which sat a silver plate and a large gourd.

“...No, I am not, Astrid,” Sigurd said after a pause, unsure of how else to begin the conversation.

Once again the woman gasped, apparently recognizing Sigurd’s voice.

“H-h-how did you find muh…m-me h-h-here?” Astrid asked, sounding genuinely shocked by his presence. “What d-do you w-want?”

Astrid, who had been eleven at the time of her father’s death, stayed under the auspices of Varant until she turned about fourteen. Then she stole away to Kor, where she took residence in her father’s auxiliary manor. 

The residents of Kor took care of her, because its renewed prosperity owed much to her large cache of orichalcum—bestowed upon her by her cousin Ashton, once Mirek, with Varant’s secret blessing. 

There was no way she could have escaped Sigurd’s notice when all she’d done was run to her father’s decaying manor. Perhaps Ashton had seen it as a mercy to let her live under the illusion she was free from Varant’s eyes. Sigurd took little pleasure in shattering it.

“I am not here to hurt you,” Sigurd said. “I merely came to ask a few questions.”

“W-w-what kn-knuh… knowledge w-would I possibly puh…puhz… b-be privy to?” Astrid asked. Even through her stuttering fear she sounded indignant. Her silhouette within the curtain shrank as she took a step back. “S-s-stay out there! I-I-I’ve no wish to sh-share my air w-w-with a murderer…!”

So she said. Though Sigurd had heard from the young man outside that she was sensitive to being seen at all.

“I merely wish to know if you’ve retained communications with your cousins,” Sigurd said. 

“N-n-none save Mirek,” Astrid stammered out. 

“You’ve not heard from Ciel?” Sigurd asked. “Or of her recent movements?”

“I h-h-haven’t sp-spoken to Ciel since I…” Astrid faltered, unwilling to openly acknowledge her deliberate efforts to slip beyond Varant’s reach.

“Then what of Therèze?” Sigurd prodded. 

“Therèze m-may as w-well have been spirited away,” Astrid said irritably. Her contempt for this particular cousin seemed to steady her stutter. “W-would I knuh… know what Mirek doesn’t?”

Sigurd certainly believed it was possible. Resourceful as Ashton was, Therèze hated him more than anyone in the world—even Sigurd himself. 

More than anything else, Sigurd needed to know whether Therèze was involved. Things became significantly more difficult if she was. 

“And Gerhardt?” Sigurd asked. “You were close with him when you were young, were you not? Have you not kept any contact?”

“...I h-h-have,” Astrid admitted. “I sh-share my p-p-poetry with him s–s-sometimes. And he wruh…writes back.”

“Poetry, is it?” Sigurd muttered. 

He’d thought as much. Astrid was harmless. Almost painfully so. If, perhaps, there existed a conspiracy among all the surviving cousins of the Blancs, sans Ciel, then Sigurd assumed she would be the weakest link—and the one who would crack first, giving him much needed information. 

Instead, all he found was a woman talking to her quill in a rotting, old mansion. 

“What of your father’s knights, Astrid?” Sigurd asked. “Have they sought you out?”

“N-n-no…” Astrid murmured, the hurt in her voice more pronounced. “N-n-not wuh…once.”

Despite himself, Sigurd's gaze fell upon the echo stone, and the glyphs which marked its surface. The web of meanings—woven between the glyphs and their constituent parts—drifted into his thoughts. 

Orphan. Isolation. Future. 

It speaks, unheard. 

Tomorrow with hope. 

The pieces came apart, only to reshape themselves into a picture which weighed heavy on his heart. 

A child, speaking to an empty manor, gazing at the stars, waiting for night to pass. Simply hoping that tomorrow would be better.

There was no reason to torment her further. 

“Then… I shall take my leave,” Sigurd said. “If all goes well, I have no intention of bothering you ever again.”

“G-g-good,” Astrid said, with all the firmness she could muster. Her voice tightened. “Th-the a-air has become m-musty w-w-with your presence.”

And as he began to make his way out, he heard a hollow resonance—sharp and brittle—like the chime of a cracking bell. It was not an echo stone. Casting a glance behind, he noticed a white glow behind the yellowing veil. 

She was using her divine blessing. Astrid was attempting to heal herself. 

All that would do is exhaust her. Did she sincerely not know she couldn’t heal herself with her own divine blessing?

Rather, was she even ailing? What she needed to do was step out of this rotting manor. But she’d listen to Sigurd last in the world. And what right had he to lecture her?

Perhaps she’d noticed his moment’s hesitation, his glance behind. Because the brittle chime stopped, and the white glow disappeared. And the voice which came out from behind the curtain was quiet. 

“Y-y-you knuh… know,” Astrid said. “I m-made do… w-without my parents. W-w-without t-their knights. Without t-t-the eum-Creid’s p-pity.”

Perhaps she’d been waiting a long time to say this. As she grew increasingly upset, her voice took on a tinny quality like metal stretched too thin. “T-t-the p-people here like m-me… I h-h-have my p-pick of suitors who fuh… fight over my b-beauty…” Her volume increased. “I knuh… know you t-think I’m some br-broken girl living in filth and squalor. Y-y-yet I k-keep a trade of m-mine own…!

Though her voice cracked, her next words came out perfectly, without a stutter. “I grew up… just fine.”

“...So it would seem,” Sigurd said. And before he left, he offered the only affirmation he could think of. “I know at least one young man fought for you.”

There was a long pause. And then the sound of rustling—subtle and hesitant. Behind the veil, it seemed that Astrid was grasping its fabric, twisting it in nervous, hopeful disbelief. 

“…I-i-is that s-s-so?” Astrid asked softly. 

“Well…” Sigurd hesitated, then after a breath committed to his words. “He even managed to wrest away my sword.”

Posts updated! June 15, 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 121: Orphan

Though Sigurd had yet to reach the city of Amière, he was well already deep within the hinterlands of the old Blanc domain.

It was not a place he would choose to be of his own accord. Yet he was drawn here by necessity—coerced by a threat uttered through the echo stone he now held in his hand. 

A few days after Ailn had left for Calum, a strange box, carved from ash, was delivered to the Citadel. The messenger who delivered it was merely a knight ferrying an assortment of mail from Varant to those stationed at the northern wall. The junior knight on watch failed to grasp its significance and gave it little thought.

All the knight noticed was that it bore a noble crest, one which was rather disturbing—a chimera, with the head of a lion borne on the coiling body of a serpent. Unsure of what to do with it, he sent it back to the castle, to Sir Fontaine, who was most likely to recognize it. 

It was the crest of the Blanc family.

The startled sergeant-prior immediately brought it to Sigurd, who wasted no time opening it. Inside, waiting for him, was an echo stone.

When he was still frequenting the capital, Sigurd had heard of this artifact. It had interested him, but as Varant itself lacked powerful mages, at best he would’ve been able to use it within the confines of the capital. That put it just beneath the threshold of utility for him to actively seek it out.  

Less than a week prior, however, a powerful mage had arrived at the castle. This meant the echo stone would be usable—a stunning coincidence. Yet Sigurd felt neither anticipation nor gratitude. 

“It would seem,” Sigurd said grimly, “our family is being watched.”

A piece of parchment bore a simple message: “Listen alone.”

Uncertain of how the device worked, and knowing he would need her talent, he found Safi—the mage—playing with Renea and her pup in the garden.

“Lady Fleuve,” Sigurd called out to her, causing her to flinch. 

“Huh? Ow!” Safi winced, the pup biting her finger hard right that moment. She wheeled around to face Sigurd. “Am I getting kicked out? Is it because I tried talking to Sophie until she just told me to leave? I thought she liked hearing about all the stories where there’s a fake Saintess, but usually the fake Saintess is the real Saintess and the real Saintess is the bad guy, I mean the fake real one…”

“Sophie did that?” Renea asked, looking troubled. Then she cleared her throat, and looked away. “W-well, I can see how that story hits um… a lot of sore spots, actually…”

“I’m sorry, I just, you know, can’t tell the difference between her mad face and happy face!” Safi whined, her fingers fluttering together nervously. “Um, I’ll just assume she’s mad all the time from now on!”

“This has nothing to do with any of that,” Sigurd said, hiding his impatience. He held up the echo stone. “I merely need your assistance utilizing this artifact.”

“Oh?” Safi cautiously drew near, hesitating a beat before gingerly taking the echo stone from Sigurd’s hand. “Ohhhhhh? My dad wanted one of these?”

She pressed the button and the chime of a bell rang forth.

“This is…? Hmm…” Safi’s other hand held her chin in a thinking gesture. “Even with leylines I always wondered how they’d send a message so far…” Her gaze fell to the ground. “The artifact kinda helps me feel the flow through the mana veins…”

Then she paused, realizing something as she almost seemed to look into the artifact. “You already have a message, but…” 

Safi pressed the dial, and a high-pitched scratching and screeching noise emitted from the stone. “It’s all garbled, right now.” Turning the stone over and around in her hands, she noticed a set of glyphs on the back. “Oh. It’s like a cipher. I can feel the texture of the glyphs… It identifies your stone uniquely kinda like a browser cache… Gimme a bit…”

“These are just, um, mage terms,” Renea said anxiously to Sigurd. Then she glanced at the glyphs Safi was examining. “Oh! I know those characters! That’s the ancestor script to the ancient language!”

“...I was not aware the ancient language derived from an even older script,” Sigurd said, flatly. 

He couldn’t help but think Renea had an overabundance of free time since she’d relinquished her Saintess duties. 

Perhaps she noticed, because she stammered as if she had to explain herself, a flicker of indignation in her eyes. “T-this is our world and history and it’s worth learning!”

While Safi continued to quietly examine the artifact, Renea pointed with her finger to the two glyphs, pressing on with her explanation—as if more elaboration might compel Sigurd to see her idle reading as a worthy use of time. “The first glyph is made of two primals: for ‘speaking’ and for ‘ignorance.’ But even base primals in the ancient language are dense with meaning, so the meaning’s closer to ‘willful ignorance.’ Together, the two primals of the first glyph can be read as: ‘It speaks, unheard.’”

Her expression faltered, and she seemed to be losing energy. “Though the more succinct translation of the first glyph is ‘isolation…’”

A prickle of unease crept down Sigurd’s spine. Considering the extraordinary—and unmistakably insidious—nature of the echo stone’s delivery, even a detail as banal as this could be a hidden message. 

“...Go on,” Sigurd said.

“The second glyph together means ‘future.’ The fullest translation is, ‘tomorrow with hope,’ because the primals are ‘the child’ and ‘the heavens.’ It’s a child next to all the celestial objects, implying the full passage of a day.”

“Then the two full glyphs together mean ‘a lonesome future,’” Sigurd said. 

Disquieting, to be sure, but perhaps not as malevolent as he feared. 

“Well, together…” Renea wilted. She sounded upset. “They mean… ‘orphan.’”

_______________

After speaking with Ailn at the fountain, Dame Alera summoned one of her fellow White Knights to a tavern just a short walk from the ark-Chelon estate.

“Flattered as I am to be courted, Alera,” Sir Voltus began, “I should be frank from the start: I have a lady who waits for me in the town of my raising. Yes, we swore to each other eternally at the tender age of five, so while I amply respect your sword I must decline—”

“Voltus, cease your boasting for two seconds, I’ve called you for something serious,” Alera said firmly. 

A barmaid arrived with their pints, and Alera very nearly drained hers in one gulp. “This… concerns the Argent Guard.”

The expression on Voltus’s face, for once, turned serious. “We both agreed to never speak of our past ties…” He glanced over his shoulder nervously. “Certainly not right here within Calum. What could possibly warrant it?”

“I am sure you’re aware many of our old comrades-in-arms became sellswords after the fall of Amière,” Alera said grimly. “Few were so lucky as us to remain knights.”

“Well, the Argent Guard was hardly a knight order,” Voltus said with a chagrined smile, taking a sip of his lager. “Our reputations were terrible. To say nothing of whether we had the skills befitting.”

“Have you… been contacted, Voltus?” Alera asked carefully. “Have you had dealings with any of the others?”

“Hardly anything noteworthy,” Voltus said with a frown. “I’ve not entirely loosed my associations. Why?”

“I have a terrible premonition,” Alera muttered. “That many of our former comrades are about to do something very foolish.” Then her voice quieted down, and she firmly met his gaze. “I’ve heard from a credible source that one of the surviving scions may be attempting to revenge themselves upon Varant.”

Voltus’s frown fell further into a grimace. He once again checked his surroundings—this time furtively, moving only his eyes. 

“How ‘credible’ can this source possibly be?” Voltus asked, in a hushed tone. “Just what manner of drunken ramble have you been privy to?”

“The words were sober, and they came from a duke,” Alera whispered. Then she drew her face nearer the other knight’s.  “I know you resent the Azure Knights for the humiliation of our defeat seven years ago, Voltus. I am not telling you to let go of your anger.”

Pulling away, Alera sighed, swirling her pint around, letting the mead slosh around at its bottom. “I am merely advising you: to escape our past, we need but stay perfectly still.” Alera gestured to the crest of the White Knights, embroidered onto the sleeve of her gambeson. “We’ve made it, already, Voltus.”

“You seem convinced I wish to throw myself under a galloping horse,” Voltus said with a laugh. 

“...I am convinced that recreational duels fail to provide the fulfillment you seek,” Alera said bluntly. “But we are true knights, part of a legitimate order. We will see our day.”

Then, finishing her drink, and giving him an imploring look she spoke with all the sincerity she could muster. “There will be battles worth fighting.”

And yet, her fellow knight’s expression only grew more opaque. Dame Alera failed to realize she had just given away information which was critical.

_______________

‘Sigurd, please… I—I am in Amière. They’re… They demand you come alone. I beg of you—heed their words.’

Once Safi had managed to render the echo stone’s message intelligible, Sigurd withdrew to an empty guardroom to listen. And what he’d heard was the last thing he expected. 

That was Ciel’s voice. 

His breath caught in his throat, and a coldness settled in his chest as if he’d swallowed ice. The meaning of the echo stone’s glyphs flashed through his mind.

Orphan. 

The box which the echo stone arrived in had borne the crest of the Blancs. The word orphan, then, was loaded with meaning. With Celine’s death, Sigurd and his siblings had been orphaned—and Sophie, with Aldous’s execution.

On the other hand, all the young scions of the Blancs who Sigurd spared—he’d rendered every single one of them an orphan as well. Even Ciel. 

Was it a statement of mockery? Or anger—or both?

Or was it a warning… that his and Ciel’s child, Béatrice, would soon be orphaned? 

Amière. They waited for him at the Blancs’ old seat of power. Was it truly one of the young Blancs he spared that day? Would they threaten their own cousin, Ciel? 

Had they already hurt her? 

…Was it because Ciel had borne Sigurd’s child? Did they consider that unforgivable? 

Her voice… sounded airier. Similar to when they’d first met, when she was still being abused by Marcella. 

Even worse, he hadn’t heard Béatrice’s voice at all. 

If he rode alone, he could easily reach ark-Chelon in two days. 

No. He needed to be circumspect. He didn’t even know the abductor’s identity, or what forces he was reckoning with. And depending on which of the Blancs was conspiring against him, what waited for him in Amière would change dramatically. 

His hand trembled, as he held the stone. 

Could he trust Mirek? Perhaps with the mage’s help, he could send a dispatch through the echo stone. 

And yet—if Mirek truly were the mastermind, then this could be a deliberate gambit. He could act as if he were aiding Sigurd, only to lead him to his death. 

Whoever had sent the echo stone was clearly aware that Safi had arrived in Varant, or else Sigurd could never have listened to the message. How closely was he being watched? Could it be one of the knights within the castle?

The more knights he brought, the greater the chance that a turncloak could find their way into Sigurd’s retinue. Then his every movement would surely be tracked. 

Sigurd’s mind swirled with possibilities, the sheer complications of which threatened to paralyze him into inaction. 

He made a decision. 

That night, Varant’s knight commander set off for Amière alone. 

_______________

In the present, Ailn, who was about to head out to Amière himself, was debating what to do with Bea. 

They were still loitering around in the market, but it was just Ailn and Bea for the moment. He’d made something up about how Bea was severely dehydrated and in danger of heat stroke to get Camille away for a moment, and give him a chance to talk to Bea alone. 

“We’re not taking you,” Ailn said firmly. “It’s too dangerous.”

“But… but my eyes can help,” Bea said, sounding hurt. “Papa—papa needs me…”

“Bea. Try and look into the future. Tell me if you still see your dad’s funeral,” Ailn said. 

As they always did when Bea looked into the future, her eyes went out of focus. Her pupils drifted aimlessly, searching for something beyond Ailn’s sight. 

A slight glimmer entered her eyes, which seemed to widen. “I can’t… find it, I don’t think…” Bea said. “Everything’s too fuzzy to tell… There are too many… pictures?”

Ailn frowned. Did that mean everything was still up in the air? 

To be honest, he was feeling less confident than he let show. They could very well be facing a small army. Given the decently sized knight retinue he’d brought, and the fact that these were the same foes they’d embarrassed seven years ago, he should feel better about the whole thing, but…

He still had a bad feeling. And if the future Bea saw was in flux, that just about confirmed it. This could come down to the wire. 

“But the good future…” Bea tugged at Ailn’s sleeve. “Might still need me…”

Sighing, Ailn decided to at least engage with her. “Bea, what do you see if you come with us?”

After a few moments, she gave just about the worst answer she could. “Dark… Darkness. I can’t see… anything.”

A heavy, sickening feeling curled in Ailn’s stomach, realizing just what that darkness might mean. But he didn’t let the dread slip into his voice.

“You’re staying, Bea,” Ailn said emotionlessly. “End of discussion.”

“I have—I have a cup of water,” Camille gasped, out of breath, having run who knows where to retrieve it. “Are you feeling faint?”

“Um…” Bea mumbled, shifting guiltily as she took the cup from Camille. “Bent Ham… says you made him happy. His throat was dry.”

Bea gave Ailn a miffed look for pulling her into his white lie. But he just picked her up.

“We’re gonna save your dad, okay? We just gotta figure out who’s gonna watch you,” Ailn said softly.

Then, a voice came from behind them. Ailn and Bea both recognized it, but neither had expected it.

“Bea…? Bea!” A woman’s choked up voice called out. 

Immediately turning to the voice, Bea’s eyes started to water, and her voice immediately began to rasp and crack. “Ma… Mama!”

Ciel rushed toward her daughter, pulling her into her arms. 

Posts updated! June 12, 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 120: Gathering Clouds

As the imperial siblings met with Kylian privately, Ashton took the opportunity to attend to his own affairs—or rather, those of ark-Chelon.

He was checking on his adoptive father, Cassian. The duke had been bedridden for years now, and sometimes even the family’s retainers seemed to forget he was still the head of the family.

“I’ve brought you something to drink, father,” Ashton said, entering the bedroom. “I’ve mixed sugar, salt, and the juice of citrons with water.”

“...Leave that sort of work for the maids,” Cassian spat, barely turning his head on the pillow. “What a witless waste of time, when you should be seeing to those imperial wretches. The crown prince himself is beneath our roof—to say nothing of the saber-rattling princess, and that overeducated boor of a third prince. They are our guests—”

“So I’m to serve them instead of you,” Ashton said, clicking his tongue. He set the drink and tray on his father’s nightstand. “Make certain you drink it, father. If you try to foist it onto a maid, I’ll hear of it.”

Then, not bothering to hide his vexation, he trudged out of his father’s room.

_______________________

The day continued to wind down, and Evgeni was the next to meet Kylian for a private audience.

As Severus had done, Evgeni went himself to the chamber bearing the eum-Creid name, rather than summoning Kylian to him. It was a quiet testament to the weight of Kylian’s temporary authority. 

While Severus had likely come on a whim, Evgeni was the type to make a calculated decision. If he felt it was to his advantage to force the issue, he would’ve made a point of staying put.

Instead, Evgeni sat across a plain table from Kylian, subtly acknowledging him as an equal in negotiation. And despite Evgeni’s past frictions with Varant, the third prince came off as eminently sensible. 

“It isn’t difficult to understand why you might be reluctant to cede the ring to me,” Evgeni said, drumming his fingers on the small table between them. “I’ve been… assertive with Varant in the past. Perhaps that left the eum-Creids feeling slighted.”

He paused and let the admission hang in the air. Then he defended his actions. “Yet it was the youngest scion of the eum-Creids, Lady Renea, who falsely claimed a divine blessing she did not possess.”

“This has no bearing on Varant’s decision, Prince Evgeni,” Kylian said flatly. “Speak as you will, but it is wasted breath.”

That was a lie, of course. If Evgeni hadn’t attempted to tip the scales of Varant’s affairs, Kylian may well have bestowed upon him The Dragon’s Promise out of sheer exhaustion. 

“The northern wall doesn’t stand for Varant alone,” Evgeni said, brushing off Kylian’s dismissal. “Whatever threatens it, threatens the empire—even a simple lie. Was it wrong to subject Renea eum-Creid to the same standards as the rest of the empire’s subjects? Especially when I fully honored the autonomy of her house? The law is only one tool in a ruler’s hand.” 

He turned over a palm, as though inviting Kylian to come to the only sensible conclusion, but received only silence. 

There was no benefit to getting dragged into a debate over the sovereignty of House eum-Creid versus the reach of the empire. Evgeni’s arguments had nuance; yet they obscured the fact that the third prince had played a dangerous game. 

If the protection of the northern wall were truly his foremost concern, then he would never have undermined the subsidies which repaired its crumbling mortar. Whether the third prince had ulterior motives, or simply a compulsion to control, he had clearly acted with the intention of bringing House eum-Creid to heel. 

Now that the eum-Creids possessed The Dragon’s Promise, Evgeni had become suddenly even-keeled. That alone was enough to mark him as two-faced.

“...The point I am making, Sir Kylian, is that my actions—whether you agree with them or not—are reasonable,” Evgeni sighed. “That can’t be said for Severus, who every day turns into more of an infatuated oaf. Or Isolde, who never left a fight unpicked.”

“I have no intention of yielding the ring to either,” Kylian said. “As I said, the emperor—”

“The emperor… will not intervene, Sir Kylian,” Evgeni said, hesitating for just a moment. “The ring will simply fall onto the finger of Severus. And from there, terrible as his idiotic reign might be…”

Evgeni grimaced. “I suspect my eldest brother would not be long for this world. Would you wish to see Isolde as empress?”

The thought made Kylian’s stomach twist into knots, but he kept his expression impassive. 

“...The Dragon’s Promise is more than an heirloom, Sir Kylian,” Evgeni said, his voice lowering. “Imperial records speak of the power it exerts—how it bends others to the will of its bearer.” He paused, then added, quieter still: “It doesn’t just prove our lineage. It empowers it—that gift granted us by dragon, god or demon.”

_______________________

The final imperial sibling to seek a private audience with Kylian was Isolde. Naturally, she insisted he come to her—contemptuous of even the slightest suggestion of deference, she waited for him in the chamber bearing the ark-Chelon name. 

Kylian had no reason to decline. There was nothing to be gained by appearing intransigent. If anything, it was wiser to humor her deep-seated need to dominate. Should Isolde be forced to keep treating a lowly knight as her equal, Kylian feared the second princess might simply explode from all the rage she bottled up.

When he entered the ark-Chelon chamber, Kylian noticed she was in a much better mood than before. “A brief sojourn in the perimeter chambers has given me clarity of mind,” she declared. 

It was a very dignified way to express that she had, in fact, taken a nap. 

Like Evgeni, she waited at a flat table. Unlike her brother, however, Isolde had a meal set out solely for herself. 

From a small orichalcum dish nested in ice, she delicately touched what looked like small black pearls to her lips, savoring the flavor. Kylian had no idea what the dish was, yet he was sure it was a delicacy he could never dream of tasting.

“Sir Kylian, I wonder if even you have begun to tire,” Isolde said, lazily. “Of this game we play, with carrot and stick.”

Kylian was in fact excruciatingly tired. Though he found himself wondering at what point Isolde had ever offered the carrot.

“Let’s not waste each other’s time,” Isolde said. She sipped at her glass of wine.“If I laid the empire itself at your feet, would you give me the ring?”

“...I would find the offer suspicious. Why would you surrender the prize to gain the tool?” Kylian replied. 

“Ah, there it is,” Isolde murmured, her eyes slipping shut as she held her glass closer. She tilted it gently toward her face, as if to appreciate its bouquet. “Always with your artful evasion.” 

She shrugged, languidly. “You’ve no intention of giving it to me. And it has naught to do with the emperor.  I’d wager you’d sooner hand it over to that troglodyte Severus. Wouldn’t you?”

The moment she spoke Severus’s name, a twitch caught her mouth. Her eyes briefly parted to narrow slits, sharp again for just a flicker. 

Then, as if the thought of him were too much to take without some expression of contempt, she poured the wine she’d been drinking onto the floor. 

Severus… truly got under her skin. 

She was correct, of course. Isolde was the last person he’d give the ring to—anyone would take a fool over a tyrant. But Kylian saw no reason to show his hand. So he remained silent.

“Do you know how many legends surround The Dragon’s Promise, Sir Kylian?” Isolde asked, her tone silk over steel. “You assume I want it merely to rule. That’s because you lack imagination, for all your intellect.”

“The will of an empress would eclipse even the mightiest artifact,” Kylian said. 

“And what if that artifact widens the empress’s dominion?” Isolde replied, gaze sharpening. “To command not just men, but beasts. To rouse sleeping dragons to war. To rule the heavens above—and the pits beneath the earth.”

“If The Dragon’s Promise were truly that powerful, one would think the Radoscht Empire would stretch farther than a single continent,” Kylian said. “Its emperors once claimed the heavens—yet their borders stopped at the sea?”

“Because it never reached the finger it was meant to grace,” Isolde said, holding up her hand with a faint smile. “Even imperial children are sung to sleep by our mothers—but our lullabies are of dragons that turned this land to a sea of flames, and of children sired by demons, born of goddesses, who gazed upon their realm with vermilion eyes.”

Kylian frowned. He couldn’t help but wonder if Isolde’s twisted personality had sprung from her mother’s choice in bedtime stories.

When Evgeni—easily the most skeptical of the three siblings—had warned Kylian about the hidden powers of The Dragon’s Promise, he hadn’t known what to make of it. It seemed entirely possible Evgeni was simply trying to make the prospect of Isolde as empress sound even more perilous. 

Whatever Evgeni’s aim had been, though, there was no mistaking the zeal in Isolde’s belief.

And after all the astonishing events that had played out in his life, Kylian had no cause to question the legends either. But playing the skeptic loosened Isolde’s lips as much as the wine. 

“May I ask, Your Highness, why you’re telling me these tales?” Kylian asked.

“You’ve ignored my prior threats,” Isolde said with a shrug. “I thought it benevolent to warn you, who speaks for Varant. You could lend your aid now and be remembered as one who helped herald my rise. Or Varant may one day find itself prostrate before a woman who has become a god.”

_______________________

The moment Alera had arrived, Camille’s placid smile returned as if she threw on a mask. Given the child struggling in her arms, however, it was not very convincing. 

“Bent Ham… is getting more bent, Aunt Camille!” Bea whined, as Bent Ham began to squeeze in the crook of Camille’s elbow. “You're gonna… break his trotters!”

She sidled out of Camille’s arms with her toys, opting to sit on her own. Ailn sighed. They’d just have to keep an eye on her. 

“Dame Alera, I’m sure you were caught off-guard by the urgent message,” Ailn said.

“...That is an understatement,” Alera said, her eyes narrowing suspiciously as she took a seat next to Bea at the fountain. “It’s rather rude to bring up someone’s past like that, you know.”

“I’m not here to hunt ghosts, Alera,” Ailn said. “The Argent Guard is disbanded, and the Azure Knights have no quarrel.” Reaching into his trench coat, he retrieved a torn page, pointing to a line of names. “I’m worried about someone who might be stuck in the past.”

Alera’s jaw hardened. “Are you insinuating His Grace Ashton—”

“I don’t know, Alera. You tell me,” Ailn sighed. “Camille says you’re trustworthy. I’m pressed for time. If you say ‘Ashton’ would never hurt Varant, then I can tentatively move forward as if that’s the case. There are more names there, after all.”

“Mirek… has no loyalty toward the name Blanc,” Alera said. 

“Does Mirek hold loyalties at all?” Ailn asked, pointedly. 

“Mirek cares for an ailing Duke ark-Chelon as if he were truly his father,” Alera said, impatiently. “If he were a snake, would he not simply let the duke waste away and inherit his title?”

“I haven’t even seen the duke,” Ailn said. “Maybe he is letting him waste away.”

“How would you expect a bedbound man to—” Alera began to snap.

“Look. Sorry. I’ll take your word,” Ailn held up a hand. “We’ve got three other names, then. Astrid. Gerhardt. And Therèze.”

“What proof have you that any of them are conspiring?” Alera asked exasperatedly. 

“I’ve got nothing to show you,” Ailn said simply. “I’m not putting them on trial, here. I just need you to tell me if any of these three have gotten in contact with you. Or if any former members of the Argent Guard have.”

“They should hardly seek me, when I’ve worked so tirelessly to burn those bridges,” Alera said, frustratedly. “I cannot even recall…”

She paused. 

“They have not contacted me, but…” Alera spoke, a hint of guilt edging into her tone. “I do surreptitiously check for the well-being of my former comrades. You see, few have been able to integrate into a new order. Many become mercenaries. And if all else fails…”

“Bandits, huh?” Ailn asked.

“It is not terribly different from what we used to do…” Alera muttered. “Recently, I have noticed a number of those I knew, who became mercenaries, have taken their postings down from the local tavern. I had hoped this meant they found gainful employment.”

“So, I guess I’m headed to the taverns,” Ailn mused. “You’ve been a big help, Alera—”

“All of them took down their postings,” Alera muttered, interrupting Ailn. Realization dawned in her voice. “Nearly a dozen men. This, from a single tavern…”

“A dozen?” Ailn echoed. 

This might be a lot worse than he thought.

“If they really are gathering in such force,” Alera said bitterly, “then I can only think of one place where they could convene without attracting attention.” 

She spit the city’s name out like a curse. “Amière.” 

Chaps Updated June 10 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 119: Polite Animals

Ailn’s mind blanked. Mirek was adopted into House ark-Chelon? Then that meant… He pinched the bridge of his nose with a groan. “Mirek Blanc is Ashton?”

That was the last name he wanted to hear right now. 

Ashton was a puzzle to Ailn—the annoying kind, and one he had zero interest in solving unless it became absolutely necessary. 

Honestly, it would’ve been easier if the man were openly malicious. At least then Ailn would’ve had a clearer sense of the threat—and whether he was involved in the conspiracy against Sigurd. 

“Bea, why don’t we have the maids show you flowers for a little while?” Ailn asked. 

“Okay…” Bea said, glancing around the room. She seemed to sense that this was a conversation for adults. 

Ailn momentarily accompanied Bea out of the conservatory. He should have done this earlier. 

Camille, meanwhile, had also been dazed by the revelation. 

“The future lord of ark-Chelon is a Blanc?” Camille finally uttered. “How could this slip past His Highness, Duke ark-Chelon? How could Varant possibly have allowed—”

“Mirek became Ashton ark-Chelon with Varant’s blessing,” Horace explained to his daughter. “Cassian adopted him, fully aware of his origins.”

He rested a hand on the open page of the book of lineages. “It was done quietly, but not ignorantly. Cassian needed an heir. He saw Mirek for what he was—a clever young man with political acumen, ambition, and no house of his own.”

“It is not this duchy I worry about, father,” Camille said, sounding frustrated. “If he was so talented, then all the more reason it was profoundly reckless of Varant to place him in power.”

“...You’re probably right,” Horace agreed. “But ultimately it was Sigurd’s decision. He believed in Mirek’s worth as a future duke and friend of Varant.”

“Why would Sigurd trust him?” Ailn asked, as he returned. “That’s what we’re confused about.”

“Well…” Horace paused thoughtfully. “At the end of the day, that’s the foundation of politics, isn’t it? Trust. Mirek is your age. Perhaps that influenced Sigurd.”

“Was it not sufficient that…” Camille trailed off. She looked uncomfortable as she broke into a mutter. “Nevermind. It is a foolish question. ”

“Speak your mind, Camile,” Horace said. “There’s no such thing as a stupid question.”

Ailn tilted his head. He stayed silent, watching father and daughter interact, but couldn’t help fiddling with his wrist. 

The sentiment was common enough, but… ‘No such thing as a stupid question’ was a pretty specific phrasing. It was a borderline idiom. 

His wrist fiddling stopped. There was a more immediate issue right now. And putting in a half-baked effort had gotten him burned just a couple of days ago.

Horace looked troubled. “Camille, is there a reason you feel like you can’t talk to me—”

“It’s nothing, father,” Camille said flatly. 

At that, Horace seemed to wilt slightly. Rather than dwell on it, however, he went on. “If someone among the Blancs really is trying to hurt Sigurd, then I can understand why you’d be suspicious of Mirek. But if you trust my words at all, let me be adamant: Mirek would not harm Sigurd. He’s not someone who goes back on debts.”

“...Well, I’ll take it into account, Horace,” Ailn said. “It makes all of our lives a lot easier if that’s the case. We appreciate your help. But we need to head out. Time’s running out.”

“You seem so certain of it,” Horace muttered. He pondered something for a moment. Then he spoke. “There’s someone you can talk to. They may know more than I do.” 

__________________

Requesting the will of the emperor was the safest, most politically expedient way to stall the negotiations over The Dragon’s Promise. 

“Varant is of the view,” Kylian said, “that this negotiation is forfeit without the explicit sanction of Emperor Caecilius.”

“...You dare waste our time?” Isolde spat, her eyes flickering menacingly. “You let us squabble like fools—knowing all along this parley was doomed from the start?”

That was exactly what Kylian did. 

Entrusted with authority, and saddled with responsibility, the good knight was told to exercise his own judgment. And his conclusion was this: the best possible result for this negotiation was that nothing should happen at all. Varant had no ambition beyond averting catastrophe. And it was clear from the start of the negotiations that the three imperial siblings were simply three different heralds of ruin. 

Thus, he’d been perfectly content to let them dictate the flow with their pre-existing feuds. Isolde, particularly, seemed used to achieving her ends with sheer force of will. 

Rather than attending in good faith, with a material offer of her own, the princess must have believed that these negotiations would be nothing more than a contest of dominance between her and her siblings—a game to see whose roar would most swiftly corner their shared prey. 

Instead, all she had done was—to Varant’s benefit—stage a lively sideshow. The intense emotions that had earlier filled the Great Hall exhausted themselves like kindling in a hearth. 

“...My only discourtesy was that I dared not interrupt,” Kylian said, voice flat. “Varant was never granted the floor.”

“Varant will beg on the floor like the mongrel it is,” Isolde murmured, her voice laced with contempt. 

“The imperial kin will embarrass ourselves no further,” Evgeni interjected. 

His voice was calm, yet the threat underlying his manifestation of the roar was like the ringing keen of an eagle. He’d evidently had enough of Isolde. She clicked her tongue and angrily looked away.  

“Sir Kylian,” Evgeni started, “I hope you’ll understand the emperor’s silence is a tacit mandate to his kin. We are here, not he. And your demand for his participation is an insult disguised as deference.”

Evgeni steepled his fingers. “It is the height of arrogance… to suggest the imperial father’s voice must carry to this very hall which your duke has deemed unworthy to tread.”

“A ring lost for three hundred years will naturally take more than three days to find its proper master,” Kylian said coolly. “I would sooner risk the emperor’s ire than rashly surrender what is his by right.” 

The third prince did not respond. Perhaps he recognized the inherent pragmatism in Kylian’s stance. Still, his fingers began to fold in on themselves in frustration. 

The line between obstructionism and prudence was thin. 

While Kylian doubted the three imperial siblings were acting in defiance of their father, he still lacked the information needed to make a sound judgment. Dangerous as it was to continue holding The Dragon’s Promise, the welfare of the empire at large was still the foundation of Varant’s. 

Why did the emperor show so little interest? He hadn’t so much as sent an envoy expressing his will. It was as if he had washed his hands of the whole ordeal—tantamount to declaring he cared not who claimed his succession. 

The turtle-shaped echo stone in the middle of the table chimed. 

Rather than waiting with bated breath, those at the table merely exchanged glances, as if curious what irritating sounds might come out of the turtle next. Ashton pressed the dial, which chimed before playing its next message. 

‘Uh… wow, how do you even respond to that? Wait, Bea, don’t touch that! You’re gonna send a message!’

‘When Cant… makes me stressed… It’s good to nap.’

Putting on a rather forced smile, Ashton addressed the table. “Well. I daresay now would be an opportune moment for the relevant parties to retreat to the perimeter chambers, and convene for individual audiences.” Then he added, “Perhaps ‘Bea’ and Duke eum-Creid are still discussing strategy.”

He turned to Isolde. “There are sofas as well, if you feel you may need that nap.”

__________________

The perimeter chambers provided negotiating parties with the privacy needed to settle details unfit for public ears. If the Great Hall’s auditorium existed to keep them honest, then the perimeter chambers were the tacit admission that diplomacy, at times, required a touch of guile.

They consisted of a series of rooms beneath the Great Hall’s tiered seating—four, named after the empire’s great ducal houses: eum-Creid, ark-Chelon, sil-Kytsune, and mer-Sereia. 

Appropriately, Kylian waited in the one designated eum-Creid. From the looks Isolde and Evgeni were giving each other as they withdrew to the chambers, he guessed they were having a discussion of their own. 

Severus took the initiative speaking to Kylian first. Millie at his side, he gave his frank thoughts on the emperor.

“My father is no longer of this world, Sir Kylian,” Severus said bluntly.

“...I’m sorry?” Kylian blinked. “Are you saying the emperor is deceased?”

“Ah, no,” Severus fell back languidly into a silken divan, drawing Millie into his arms as she lightly fell into his lap. “I mean to say, my father drifts through a waking dream. His grip on reality has… loosened considerably.” 

“His mind has become quite enfeebled, hasn’t it?” Millie murmured into Severus’s ears. 

“The Radoschtian Empire is the hoard of dragons, their treasure which stretches across an entire continent,” Severus said. “But Radoscht is their roost, and their cradle—a city of indulgence which lulls the greatest among them into a stupor.”

It was a surprisingly poetic thought from the crown prince. 

“Yes, the emperor has lost that thing which grounds us all—true love,” Severus said, his voice almost sickeningly tender as he nuzzled his face into Millie’s neck. 

“I only wish—that kindness could save his soul,” Millie said, her voice suddenly pleading. Still sitting on the crown prince’s lap, her hands clasped together and her eyes clamped shut as if she were in the midst of prayer. A single tear rolled down her cheek. “Love is… the greatest gift we can receive.”

“State your case to Varant, Severus,” Kylian sighed.

“My case?” Severus asked, surprise seeming to flicker across his face. “The Dragon’s Promise is mine by right…” 

Then after a beat he added, “After the eventual passing of the imperial father, Emperor Caecilius.”

“Then…” Kylian’s brow furrowed. 

“Had you chosen to grant me the ring, I would have merely returned with it to Radoscht, to present it to the emperor,” Severus said with a shrug.

“Severus?!” Millie’s eyes shot wide open. “This is not what we spoke of…!”

“What is mine will come to me, as is the natural order,” Severus said, not a hint of doubt in his voice. He regarded Millie with a calm smile. “I told you I will have the ring. I merely wish to see how it fares in hands less destined—and less capable.” 

“It could be… decades before your father passes,” Millie said, smiling back as pleasantly as she could, while speaking through gritted teeth.

“And our love will burn no less bright, when I offer it to you,” Severus said, kissing the back of her hand.

“You plan to—” Kylian paused, unsure if he was hearing correctly, “Offer the imperial heirloom as an engagement ring?” He glanced at Millie, who was visibly seething. “To Lady Moonlace?”

“Yes, just as Emperor Claude did to Noué Areygni,” Severus said, blissfully mistaking Millie’s dilating pupils for the throes of love. “My lovely Millie deserves no less. But unlike Claude, whose conquest of Noué’s heart ended in failure…” He planted a kiss on Millie’s forehead, right upon a throbbing vein. “I have already succeeded.”

__________________

The list of Blanc survivors now revealed, Ailn finally felt as if they were getting somewhere. The most important questions still remained: where was Sigurd going to die? And when?

They had the foot in the door they needed to investigate those questions. Horace had even directed them to a member of the White Knights who might be able to tell them more about the Blancs. 

Worried about the problems that might arise if they were seen loafing around the barracks, Ailn waited with Bea and Camille at a fountain near the marketplace for that knight to arrive. There was ample space to sit, the fountain was loud, and the people were louder. It was a good place for a reasonably discreet meeting. 

“I just want to ask again, Camille,” Ailn said slowly. “Are you sure you can trust her? If you didn’t even know she used to be a part of—”

“Yes, we can trust her! For God’s sake, how many times will you ask?” Camille snapped. “For all her insufferability, she is an honorable knight! If she were not, then she would never be able to best my sword—”

“I’ve bested your sword and you treat me like I sell snake oil,” Ailn said, raising a brow. “And… that’s hardly the worst counterexample I can conjure.”

“Uncle Ailn…” Bea tugged at the sleeve of his trench coat, tilting her head. “Why do you… like making people mad?” She held Aristurtle up to his face. “Aristurtle says… people in nature are… polite animals.” 

Then she flipped the stuffed turtle around so it faced her, looking skeptically into its eyes. “But… Russew said society puts people in jail with social contacts. Did Uncle Ailn… go to jail because he was impolite?”

Ailn frowned. Since when did he go to jail?

“Or did jail make him impolite…?” Bea continued, as her face wrinkled in thought. “But animals don’t go to jail… they get put in zoos…”

Bea was thoroughly perplexed by this chicken or egg problem.

“Her imagination is rather… vibrant,” Camille said, seeming quite struck by Bea’s elaborate form of play. “I have never heard a babe’s babble that was so—structured?”

“Well, it’s not exactly just babble…” Ailn said. Then he gestured toward Bea with a nod. “Hold her while I talk to Dame Alera.”

“Can she not sit on her own?” Camille asked.

Ailn glanced around the crowded market. “Bea is a child that escapes easily if you don’t watch her.” He shrugged. “Anyway, people are gonna ask questions if I keep holding her.” 

Actually, his arms were just getting tired. He handed Bea—who was still engaging in discourse with her stuffed animals—to Camille. 

“Wha—and I’m simply to suffer those questions, instead?!” Camille balked, her hands beginning to shake. She had clearly never held a child before. 

…It would be alright. Bea had already reached an age where she wasn’t that fragile. Though it definitely looked uncomfortable, the way her legs awkwardly dangled off of Camille’s arms. 

Sure enough, the moment a certain female knight arrived, she scoffed at Camille’s childhandling. 

“Do you truly only know how to carry a sword, Dame Camille?” Alera rolled her eyes at the sight. “You must never have had a younger sibling—making you the babe of your family. So much is suddenly clear.”

So began their meeting with Dame Alera—once a knight of the Blancs, and a member of the very order the Azure Knights had bested in combat seven years ago: the Argent Guard.

Chaps Updated June 8, 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 118: The Gren Estate

“This still strikes me as dubious,” Camille said, as she led Ailn—carrying Bea—through the Gren estate’s terraced pathways and flowering archways. “However, for all your faults as a duke, I have yet to know you to be a liar.”

Then, under her breath, she added, "…Discounting your unexplained absence this morning, of course.”

“Can I take that as you joining our mission to save Sigurd’s life?” Ailn asked.

“You can take it as a knight following her liege’s orders,” Camille said flatly. “I am escorting you to my father, as you asked.”

Ailn had come to the Gren estate to learn more about what happened to the Blancs. 

Camille herself wouldn’t know any more than Ailn. She was a little too young to have been part of that incident—twelve, not even a squire in the Azure Knights. The other knights, meanwhile… well, Ailn couldn’t exactly waltz into the Great Hall right now and ask them. 

That’s why Ailn decided to pay a visit to Camille’s father: Viscount Horace Gren. On account of owning numerous adamantine mines, he was a key figure in The Miners’ Guild—and, through his marriage to Ennieux, a strong ally of Varant. He was even House ark-Chelon’s close confidante, despite backing Calum Trading House’s rival guild.

If there really were secret Blanc survivors from seven years ago, it would be stranger if Horace didn’t know. 

The Gren estate was rather green compared to most of Calum. Perched atop a hill, its manor overlooked a series of terraced gardens which climbed the slope; the absence of gates spoke to the faith Calum’s nobles had in the security of their city.

Perhaps sick of all the city’s stone and metal, Viscount Horace Gren seemed to have filled every inch of his home with flowers—of more than one kind. Even at a glance, Ailn noticed that there were quite a few beautiful maids, all engaged in some form of gardening, and all of whom seemed to perk up at the sight of Camille. 

“Lady Gren!” A maid approached from around the corner of a perfectly manicured hedge, gliding across the marble terrace with a winsome smile that bloomed a touch too wide. “We had heard you would be visiting again this day. Oh, milord will be so pleased!” 

Her eyes crinkled with unsettling familiarity. “I have taken the liberty of refreshing your chambers, Lady Gren. I do hope you’ll find comfort, however brief your stay, and so I have adorned the manor with goldenvows—” 

“...My favorite flower,” Camille said uncomfortably. “If I recall correctly, you only began to work here a few years ago, Miss Garland?”

“Oh, none of the maids could have missed your father’s doting words. I daresay we know your tastes as well as kin!” the maid explained breathlessly, seemingly unaware of how creepy she sounded. 

As if on cue, all the maids trimming hedges, watering flower beds, arranging bouquets—or even mixing compost—seemed to slow their activities, and tilt their ears. 

“We will not be staying the night,” Camille said, managing a polite smile. “And for many years now I have found the scent of goldenvows unbearably strong.”

The maid visibly deflated. Then, glancing at Ailn as an afterthought, she barely mustered a dejected “Ah, forgive my rudeness Duke eum-Creid,” before shambling away.

“Looks like the young mistress is quite popular back home,” Ailn said, casting Camille a sidelong glance. 

“It is not me they hope to impress,” Camille muttered, irritation creeping into her voice despite her perfectly kept smile. 

A number of maids tried to flatter Camille, eager to attend to her needs—tea, dinner, rooms to rest, or even just a cookie for Bea. 

But Camille always dismissed them somewhat stiffly, no matter their petal-sweet chatter and daisy-bright grins. The more the maids approached, the steelier Camille’s smile become. By the time they all reached the manor proper, the slim curve of Camille’s lips had sharpened into the edge of a shear, all too ready to snap a stem. 

“The next time the pretty ladies give food…” Bea tapped Camille’s pauldron. “Can we… say yes…? A-Aristurtle needs to eat…”

“Oh, I… Of course, I hadn’t even been thinking,” Camille’s smile faltered. “Next time—”

"She's a small child, Camille," a deep voice said, as Horace descended a curved stone staircase that wound down from an upper terrace. He was holding a plate of breads with cheese on top, drizzled with honey, and as he drew near he popped a piece into Bea's mouth. "You need to be more attentive. Who is she?"

“It—is a tale too elaborate for the time we have,” Camille said, hesitating a moment. She seemed a little confused by her father’s gentle display toward Bea. 

Horace exhaled sharply, then turned to Ailn and gave a short bow. “Duke eum-Creid. An honor.”

“Call me Ailn,” Ailn said as Horace led them into the manor. “Horace, you’ve been a close ally of Varant for a long time—since my mother Celine was the head. We’re short on time, so I’ll cut to the chase.”

He handed the chronicle of ark-Chelon’s noble families to Horace, its pages open to the Blanc family tree. “Horace, as one of ark-Chelon’s most prominent nobles, can you tell me if any members of this family survived? We think one of them may be trying to kill Sigurd.”

___________________________

Theoretically, the echo of an animal’s roar across the way—rustling through the treeline, creeping out from the depths of a dark cave, crashing down from the sky—should inspire fear. 

Yet as Kylian listened to Isolde’s repeated wrathful utterances into the echo stone, he wondered if this echo might simply reduce to a whimper. 

“Listen carefully, Duke eum-Creid. You will answer me,” Isolde murmured into the turtle-shaped communication artifact. Perhaps unsure of how well her voice would carry, she leaned forward, her face hovering right next to the turtle’s mythril head—almost as if she expected the turtle itself to whisper back. “Meet me and I will cordially remind you of your place. But slight me further, and I will teach you what you are.”

Isolde let the silence linger. Typically this silence would have been heavy—would have left her prey suffocating under its weight, the very timbre of their breaths begging for release. 

But of course, Ailn was not actually listening at the moment. He would get this message, presumably, within a quarter of an hour. Isolde’s jaw tightened. 

Her successive use of the dragon’s roar certainly tampered with the minds of those in the Great Hall—sans her siblings—and yet the emotional and physiological effect had lost a little of its edge. 

Still, it was like taking blows to the head. There was not a single soul in the Great Hall that didn’t resent Ailn at that moment. 

“You’ve mistaken patience for weakness,” Isolde said quietly. The volume of her voice had almost dropped to an intimate whisper, the harmony underneath distorting into something inhuman. “You fancy yourself a titan. You are wild game, Ailn. You will learn. And you will submit. Or you will break.”

If the turtle were a real creature, then it surely would have submitted by now—withdrawn its head into its shell perhaps, and began to quiver. But alas, it was a thing of metal. It merely lay there, stoic and fearless. 

After a few moments, Isolde released the dial, clearly dissatisfied. 

“...Not quite the same, is it?” Ashton asked, dryly. 

Severus just started laughing. And when Millie delicately fluttered her hand against his chest in mock reprimand, Isolde’s fury boiled all the worse. 

Though Kylian couldn’t help but note, that anger seemed to fixate on the echo stone resting on the table—which meant, it was directed at Ailn. 

If he were to be precise, it seemed as if Severus provoked a peculiar reaction in Isolde—as if his very presence were an insult to her innate sense of superiority. He was likely the only individual in the empire who could imagine himself her greater. Given his complete lack of success as a leader or statesman, his confidence was clearly completely unfounded. But perhaps that was what made it so acerbic to Isolde. 

If the second princess’s calling were to assert herself as master, and educate her lessers, then that would make Severus the one dunce who simply couldn’t learn. Naturally immune to the dragon’s roar, and higher in line for the throne, what could Isolde do except murder him outright?

Rather, Kylian was amazed that she hadn’t already. 

“Severus. Shut your mouth,” Isolde spat. 

Amused, Severus simply acted as if he were the warden of his own words, ‘locking’ his mouth up with an invisible key. Millie, beside him, began to giggle. 

That was curious in its own right. Peering closer, Kylian realized there was sweat upon her brow. There were layers to her act. Obviously none at the table believed her a true fool—but the nonchalance beneath was just as performative. 

Whatever protection Severus afforded her wouldn’t prevent the toll of the dragon’s roar on her psyche. Yet Millie acted as unfazed as if she were among the imperial siblings—rather, she put tremendous effort into appearing so. 

“Yes, well,” Ashton sighed, rising from the roundtable, his chair gliding back soundlessly and his demeanor once again unruffled. “If Sir Kylian shall truly act in Duke eum-Creid’s stead, then the time is ripe for him to state his terms—what Varant seeks to gain, and by what measure House eum-Creid will judge those who lay claim to The Dragon’s Promise.”

The energy in the hall had naturally shifted. Earlier, Ashton had endured the imperial siblings’ abuse in silence. Now, he took charge in a manner just as quiet, effortlessly grasping authority as if it had, by mere happenstance, drifted his way.

Evgeni was the swiftest to speak. “...Name Varant’s price, Sir Kylian. I assure you—of all my kin, I command the greatest means.”

“Deny me the ring and I shall make certain Varant suffers,” Isolde snapped. “I am being magnanimous when I offer coin to obtain what is my birthright.”

All eyes turned toward Severus. But he said nothing—shrugging with an indifferent smile. 

“Severus!” Millie punched him on the shoulder and hissed. “Severus… say something before you lose your chance.”

“Millie, it’s rude to interrupt a show,” Severus laughed.

Both of his siblings stared at him incredulously. But with Severus content to smirk and say nothing of substance, the weight of the chamber shifted toward the knight who held temporary stewardship of The Dragon’s Promise.

“You’ve heard their offers,” Ashton said, clasping his hands. “Now let us hear Varant’s answer.”

“Varant is of the view that…” Kylian hesitated. “This negotiation is forfeit without the explicit sanction of Emperor Caecilius.”

No one spoke. The Great Hall itself seemed to stiffen with held breath.  

___________________________

As Ailn and the others were led to the conservatory, his echo stone suddenly gave off a chime. 

He gave Horace an apologetic glance—but the viscount was deep in thought, holding and staring at the chronicle even as he walked. The sight of the Blanc family tree had reduced him to silence, as if words spoken rashly would cause a reckoning. 

Rubbing the back of his neck, Ailn considered whether he should take the message now or later. 

“You gotta answer…” Bea said, her brow wrinkling as if she couldn’t understand why Ailn would be so rude. Then she pressed the button for him. 

‘Listen carefully, Duke eum-Creid. You will answer me.  Meet me and I will cordially remind you of your place. But slight me further, and I will teach you what you are. 

You’ve mistaken patience for weakness. You fancy yourself a titan. You are wild game, Ailn. You will learn. And you will submit. Or you will break.’

“Uh… wow, how do you even respond to that?” Ailn wondered aloud. “Wait, Bea, don’t touch that! You’re gonna send a message!” 

“When Cant… makes me stressed…” Bea spoke helpfully into the echo stone, even as Ailn gently, frantically pulled her paw off the dial. “It’s good to nap.”

He stopped her in time, right?

Whatever the case, they’d arrived at the conservatory, where a waiting maid held the door open. 

“Thank you,” Horace said absentmindedly, offering her nothing more than a soft smile and nod. 

A small gesture, but it was enough to bring a tint of red to the maid’s cheeks. If Horace noticed, though, he didn’t say anything. 

After they’d made their way inside, the maid led them to a set of garden chairs with a matching table—all wrought iron, shaped with ornate floral motifs. The maid affectionately set snacks upon the table, prompting Camille to arch a brow. 

“Jam tarts?” Camille uttered.

“Do you not enjoy these anymore?” Horace asked, tilting his head, momentarily interrupted from his thoughts. 

“No, I…” Camille held her temple. Then, she simply courteously addressed the maid, “Thank you. It was very kind of you to prepare these.”

“Of course, Lady Gren, we’re well aware these were your favorite snacks as a chi—” the maid started, her voice unsettlingly motherly. 

Ailn noted that she was roughly Camille’s age. He was starting to see why Camille hated her childhood home. 

“Yes, as a child,” Camille interrupted. “Perhaps Bea will enjoy them.”

But Bea, sat in a garden chair large enough for herself and her stuffed friends, shook her head. She’d apparently learned her lesson. “Cant says… if everyone ate too much sugar… then society would collapse.”

She spoke grimly, and the way she stared at the maid setting the snacks almost seemed to suggest Bea found her at fault.

The maid seemed not to mind, however. And just before she departed, a piece of cloth began fluttering through the air, landing squarely a few feet before Horace.

“Oops! I seem to have dropped a handkerchief—” the maid said, poised to retrieve it in a matter that was rather suggestive. 

Before she could, Camille loudly trudged over, boots clinking, kneeled to ground herself and handed the maid the napkin.

“Please. Leave us to our discourse,” Camille said. Her voice grew firm. “This matter is not for your ears. Go. Now.”

The maid paled and retreated, and through this entire interaction Horace hardly seemed to have noticed. 

Finally, the viscount spoke. 

“If I’m being honest, Ailn, I find it difficult to take you at your word. You claim a Blanc is attempting to murder your brother—yet you refuse to disclose the source of your information,” Horace said, sounding troubled. He hesitated. “And yet…”

Horace set the open book on the table. His grimace deepened, eyes shadowed with strain as  he drew his finger along the bottom of the family tree. “I’ll reveal this truth to you, as you are Varant’s current duke—and rightfully privy. Sigurd spared the entire youngest generation of the Blancs.”

Astrid. Ciel. Therèze. Mirek. Gerhardt.

“A whole generation?” Ailn asked.

“Yes, as well as those spouses who lacked the divine blessing…” Horace said, pointing to two names on the line above. Godfrey, and then Edith.

Camille sucked in a sharp breath. “...What? I’ve never heard of this.”

Frankly, Ailn’s message from his future self had been too cryptic for him to place any real confidence in his interpretation. Going from a blank sheet of paper to accusing the Blancs of murdering Sigurd was a stretch, to say the least. 

His only evidence that any of them even survived was Ciel’s use of the divine blessing—and even then, he couldn’t be certain the eum-Creids and the Blancs were truly the only families in the empire who possessed it.

But if there were this many members of the family left, then revenge really was a plausible motive. 

“Papa… spared?” Bea asked softly, tilting her head. She looked troubled, as if she were on the verge of realization. 

Ailn flinched.

“It means your father helped a lot of people live,” Camille said, kneeling down in front of Bea. She smiled softly, as she spoke the misleading but gentle truth. “These people are alive today because of him.”

Horace stared at Bea. The shock didn’t display on his face so much as it momentarily stilled his expression. 

“Do you know their whereabouts, Horace? Anything about what happened to them after?” Ailn asked.

“I know Sigurd offered Varant’s support for all of them for quite some time,” Horace explained, unable to stop the slight tremble in his hand as it rested upon the book. “But most of them disappeared on their own terms.” 

“Edith, Alaric’s wife, emerged from the ordeal a broken woman,” Horace continued. “Last I heard, she had set out for mer-Sereia.” Then he pointed to the name Godfrey. “Godfrey… was a failure of a merchant who’d managed to marry into the Blancs, only to find their coffers were emptier than his.”

His grimace deepened, and took on a note of sadness. “He and Marcella… had mutually tricked each other. There seemed to be little more than contempt between them. And yet…”

“They still had a child together,” Ailn said, noting the name “Ciel.” Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Bea, sat in the garden chair with her stuffed friends. She wasn’t old enough to read, was she?

“That’s right,” Horace said. “Godfrey vanished to God knows where—left the empire aboard a ship. His daughter continues to live under the auspices of Varant.”

Godfrey had up and left his daughter. Given everything else Ailn just heard about the man, that tracked. 

“As far as I’m aware, Ciel still lives in V—” 

“I’m actually not super interested in her,” Ailn said, trying to brush past it. 

“Mama?” Bea perked up at the sound of her mother’s name. 

But Ailn ignored her. If ever, now was probably the worst time for Bea to learn how her parents had met. 

“...What?” Camille whispered. 

Camille and Horace both, however, had not failed to take notice. The full weight of the situation—and the origin of the child sitting with her stuffed animals—was hitting them all at once. Yet they carried on as naturally as they could. 

“Anyone else still supported by Varant?” Ailn asked. 

“...Not quite,” Horace said, hesitantly. “One of the boys was—but now, he is quite independent.”

He drew a long breath, seeming to question the wisdom of revealing what he was about to.

“That boy, Mirek, was adopted into House ark-Chelon.”

Posts updated! June 5, 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 117: Symbolism

While Kylian negotiated with the imperial family, and Ailn aided Bea in her desperate effort to save her father, a lone knight commander was riding deep into the Singing Mountains—his pace brisk, his visage grim.

He’d departed from Varant just three days prior, traveling as swiftly as his horse’s endurance would allow. Forcing himself to rest each night had taken all of his self-control—and even then, it had hardly been restorative. 

He had not informed the knights of his departure. Not even Sir Fontaine, who he trusted above all else as the most loyal of all the eum-Creid’s knightly vassals. Nor had he told his family where he was going.

For all intents and purposes, he’d forsaken his duties. While his comrades protected the northern wall, and his younger sister the Saintess vanquished shadows… Sigurd eum-Creid pressed onward through wind and crag, echo stone clenched within his fist, fully aware something sinister lay in wait.

__________________

Camille was sprinting through Calum.

The knight felt she truly might kill him, fealty be damned. There was a limit. There was a point where idiocy bordered on tyranny.

‘Ow! Watch where you’re going!’

‘Tch. One of those coarse knights from Varant…’

As she pressed through the crowds, faintly aware she was only adding to Varant’s poor reputation, Camille added another grievance to her growing list against Ailn. He was the one who’d forced her hand after all. Her desperation was his fault. 

Indeed, she never would have had to stiffly trudge over to the third prince’s retainers, tail between her legs, pleading for the location of her own liege. If her lord didn’t play the truant, then she’d have never even entertained the thought of playing his keeper. 

She came upon Calum’s oldest library, hoping she had not yet missed them. It was a modest structure, but a pretty one, built with travertine long before marble had dominated the city’s landscape. 

The once creamy white facade had faded to a color closer to that of sand. And each time Camille laid eyes on the library, she couldn’t shake the feeling that the porous surface had gathered a few more divots. 

She was here. But suddenly she felt exhausted. Running all this way in armor had been no small feat. Camille leaned against the building’s weathered exterior, steadying herself as she caught her breath, ignoring the curious stares which wondered why a knight was panting from exertion outside the library.

When she finally entered, and began to make her way through, she noted with some embarrassment the clinking of her boots against the library’s hard floor. The scholars’ irritated gazes were a little harder to take. She busied herself by measuring her words—crafting an argument, courteous yet firm, with which to persuade Ailn to return with her to the Great Hall. 

“I’m going to murder you,” Camille said, unable to stop herself from grabbing Ailn’s collar. 

“Well, you’d have to beat me in a sword fight first,” Ailn replied, shrugging yet averting his eyes. One of his hands held a book. “I’ve heard you’ve had a pretty long losing streak against Dame Alera.”

Camille’s fingers twitched in her gauntlets. How difficult would it be to simply seize his throat?

“You can’t!” A small girl suddenly tugged down on Camille’s right arm, attempting to protect a duke who did not deserve it. “Uncle Ailn is… Uncle Ailn is helping me…”

“...Uncle Ailn?” Camille blankly echoed.

The girl’s stuffed animals had dropped to the floor in her frantic act. So, Camille knelt down, picked up her pig, dog, and turtle, and handed them to the girl gently. Then she explained to the small girl with a sweet smile, “This bad man has lied to you.”

“I didn’t, actually,” Ailn said casually. “This is Bea. Bea, this is your Aunt Camille. Well, technically your first cousin once removed.”

“Have you no shame?!” Camille hissed. “Whatever gambit you believe you’re playing, no result can justify toying with the feelings of a child.”

“I told you I’m not,” Ailn said, impatience edging into his tone as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just so you know, it’s the Azure Knights who completely missed her. She stowed away in the supply cart.”

“That’s absurd, I checked the cart myself—” Camille fumed. 

But Bea interrupted her, peering up guiltily as she clutched her stuffed animals tighter. “That time you looked for me at the carriage… I was hiding…” Her gaze lowered. “Under the chair… You thought I was a burmin…”

Camille froze, recalling the time she thought a racoon had been eating foodstuffs from the supply cart.

“That—still fails to explain how she would be—” Camille began to sputter. “From where—”

“Bea, where’s your home?” Ailn asked. 

“Venlind,” Bea said.

“And what’s your papa’s name?” Ailn asked. 

“Sig…Sigherd…” Bea mumbled. 

Very quickly, Camille’s world was losing all sense of reason. 

A knight was negotiating with the imperial family, and a duke was taking a child to eat strawberries. 

The irresponsible and irreverent second son of the eum-Creids was covering for the scandal of the gilded heir.

A four-year-old had outwitted Varant’s finest knights. 

“Even so!” she snapped, desperately holding onto her sense of indignation. “One of the knights could have watched—watched—”

“Bea,” Bea said. “Like a bzz.”

“Watched Bea! Thank you, Bea!” Camille glared at Ailn. “What matter have you that ‘concerns the security and prosperity of Varant?!’”

Ailn winced and fell into that odd habit of his—where he fidgeted with the buttons near his wrist. Then, he seemed to come to a decision.

“Look, I can’t explain everything,” Ailn said. “There are… sources which I can’t share with anyone. But I can tell you this.” He held up the book he’d taken from the library, opening to a specific page. 

The book was a collection of chronicles, detailing the noble histories and lineages of the duchy of ark-Chelon. A decade old, the book was still fairly new. But still, the lineage on the open page had been purged in the years following its compilation.

Camille’s eyes widened in alarm. Perplexed as she still was, that was not a name she could forget—and any matter which bore relation could only be insidious.

Ailn pointed to the family tree. “I don’t know how exactly. But I have a strong feeling that someone among these names is aiming for Sigurd’s life.”

Then he added, “It’s a good thing you came, by the way. We were headed to your dad’s place.”

__________________

All at the roundtable were struck nearly speechless. Kylian certainly had no words. When Ailn had slighted the imperial family with his absence, it could have generously been called intrepid. Spending his day in such conspicuous frivolity, however, was a glaring insult—the suggestion that the imperial family were less deserving of his time than the child of a commoner. 

And Kylian still had no idea where Ailn had gotten the child in the first place.

Though it was Ailn who—whatever his intentions—insulted the imperial family, it was Kylian who had to take his seat at the table, bearing their furious, imperial gazes. 

“...Donuts?” Isolde finally uttered. “Strawberries?”

The second imperial princess’s red eyes bore into Kylian, as if he were the keeper of Ailn’s evidently lacking diet. What, exactly, did she expect him to say?

Abruptly, Severus burst into laughter. He even slammed the table, it was apparently so riotous. 

“Severus…?” Millie called his name worriedly, placing her palm upon his chest. “Is your pride wounded, Severus…? I’m sure the duke had his reasons for acting like such an insufferable, self-absorbed son of a—”

She cleared her throat, clasped her hands together demurely. “Ahem. Ashton, darling, a glass of water if you would please?”

It was rather bold for a barons’ daughter to call a duke’s son by his first name. To say nothing of asking him to personally retrieve a glass of water. Kylian couldn’t help but think that Ashton’s smooth, unbothered smile was beginning to come off as a touch pathetic, as he stiffly requested glasses of water from his retainers.

“The duke certainly does have his reasons,” Severus said, sounding coolly amused. He paused, his gaze wandering over his siblings. His eyes narrowed in condescension and disbelief. “Are you two really so blind?”

“...Severus, spare me,” Isolde spat, stealing an icy glare at Millie. “You of all people have no right to speak of blindness.”

“Severus!” Millie buried her face into his arm with a pleading sob. “I told you Isi detests me…”

“What… did you just call me?” ‘Isi’ stared unblinkingly at Millie’s back. 

“There is nothing to ‘see,’ Severus,” Evgeni lectured. “The young duke’s reputation as a fool precedes him. He mistakes puerility for wit. Self-indulgence for statecraft. That will cost him.”

One of Severus’s retainers nervously approached the roundtable, whispering something in his ear. This only led to more laughter from Severus.

“Tell me, Evgeni,” Severus’s voice cut through the air. “Why, this very morning, would Duke eum-Creid see fit to dispatch a courier to Varant, summoning the former duke, Sigurd? If he is so daft, then unraveling his motives should be facile.”

He did what? Kylian resisted the urge to openly nurse his headache. 

The knight maintained his stoic posture. His arms were crossed. His gaze was level.

…His stomach was twisting into knots. 

“Because he is an imbecile, Severus,” Evgeni ground out. “I can think of no other reason why.” 

“I pity you, Evgeni. Duke eum-Creid has merely wrapped himself in the illusion you so dutifully maintain.” Severus’s voice was amused, yet coolly appraising. “Fools always make this fatal mistake. They let the clever don the hat of a jester. Ah.” 

He calmly gestured toward Kylian. “But I suppose his knight here will do us the courtesy of explaining it. Even now, the duke’s designs become clearer to me.”

What? Kylian genuinely had no idea what Severus was talking about. 

“Consider this,” Severus went ahead and began to dissect Ailn’s actions. “The man has a reputation for lacking political acumen. And what does he do? On the very day of the negotiation? He sends for his ‘superior’ brother. He retreats to the library with a child, as if accepting he isn’t sufficiently learned. Meanwhile you two wait for him, sulking and gnashing your teeth.”

“He parades as an idiot, and yet we bear the banner?” Isolde scoffed at the absurdity. Her mocking glare snapped to Kylian. "Tell me, Sir Kylian, how in all the world does that follow?"

It didn’t. But his experience in battle told him even knights must sometimes ride the tides of fortune. 

“His Highness Ailn’s victory over His Grace Sigurd… stemmed partially from an ability to unravel the former duke’s mind,” Kylian said. 

And that was all he said. Because it was the truth, however misleading. Ailn hadn’t so much orchestrated grand psychological gambits, as simply profoundly irritated his older brother. 

“This is… a profound overestimation of Duke eum-Creid’s intelligence,” Ashton said irritably. He wasn’t even smiling anymore. 

At least in the realm of politics, Kylian had to agree. But Severus pressed on, taking Kylian’s opportunistic comment as the absolute confirmation of his ornate theory. 

“The symbolism should speak for itself, Evgeni,” Severus said dryly. “Truly, what use are all your academic learnings if you cannot apply them?” Just as Evgeni began to rebut, he added, “Tell me. What shape is a donut? What color is a strawberry? What item brings us all here, today, and what are its characteristics?”

Evgeni froze, then flinched in realization. He raised his head, staring at his brother for a moment with harrowed eyes, before resting it once again on his steepled hands.

Which had begun to tremble.

Isolde’s eyes shot wide—only for a fleeting moment—and the amused curl of her lips began to stretch. “This is the dumbest, godsdamned—”

“The Dragon’s Promise is his,” Severus went on. “His to offer. His to destroy. And we are the ones in need of it. Tell me this. What color defines the imperial lineage?”

“Ah, so he’ll pluck out our eyes as a treat for children,” Isolde giggled freely, her eyes beginning to drift away in boredom as if she only now grasped the extent of her brother’s pseudo-intellect. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“Allow me to put this in terms suited to your… particularities, Isolde,” Severus said, letting out a heavy, chuckling sigh, as if his sister’s ignorance were truly tragic.

The crown prince pantomimed the plucking of a strawberry, and the slow raising to his mouth—biting it with a sharp and succulent pop. Then he let out a breathy ‘ahhh,’ as if the invisible strawberry really were that delicious. 

And as if that weren’t enough, he made a show of licking every single one of his fingers, to Isolde’s growing rage. “He’s playing…” Severus said, in between licks, “...with his food.”

At this, finally, Isolde’s smirk completely disappeared. The entire hall was silent, as the sclera of her eyes turned as bloody as the crimson of her irises. 

“And what… makes him think… he can do that?” Isolde finally gritted out.

Kylian wondered if perhaps he had horribly miscalculated. 

Posts updated! June 3, 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 116: The Dragon’s Roar

If Kylian had to describe Isolde ryu-Genis in one word, it would be “menacing.” Across the empire, it was said that there were none who embodied the imperial lineage quite like she did. Her reputation as a warmonger had even reached Varant. 

The Radoscht Empire spanned the entire continent, sans the ruined lands in the north. Isolde staked her claim to the throne on the fulfillment of destiny: that one day the empire should span the world, and only she could steer it toward that future.

Before she had even finished her descent, both Kylian and Camille kneeled in deference, while Ashton gave a light bow. 

“Sir Kylian, is it?” Isolde said, looking down on him. Then down at Camille. “And Lady Gren. I had heard you liked to play with swords.”

Camille’s face lightly flushed at the insult, but she showed no signs of impudence. “It is true I have a fondness for the blade,” she agreed, diplomatically. “I’ve been lucky and honored to raise it for the Azur—”

“Quiet,” Isolde commanded with a murmur. Soft. Yet brooking no resistance—beneath it lurked a beastly snarl. 

Camille’s reaction was instinctual. Her throat seized with fear. Sweat prickled her skin. Even Kylian, who had not been commanded directly, felt it. 

Kylian had heard of the dragon’s roar—the gift of the imperial bloodline which proved their right to rule. But he had not been prepared for how physical it was, how it shattered the defenses of reason and evoked a primal sense of terror. 

“I’m—sorry,” Camille apologized, swallowing hard. Her breathing came unsteady even as she said it, and she dared not meet Isolde’s gaze. 

“Oh?” Isolde arched her eyebrow as if she were impressed. “I commanded silence, yet words managed to drip from your tongue.” She laughed pleasantly as she took her seat, crossing one leg over the other. “Quaint. Truly.”

Isolde lazily rested her face in her palm, smirking at the kneeling knights. Her gaze drifted to the bowing Ashton. She giggled.  “I do always find your company more agreeable when you shut the fuck up.”

Ashton’s smile did not falter. But there was a bead of sweat running down his cheek. 

She gave no indication that she’d permit them to rise. “Well then—what say you to this? You may remain precisely as you are… until Duke eum-Creid graces us with his presence.”

“Prithee… forgive Dame Camille… And it shall reflect well in these talks.”

Forcing the words out, Kylian painfully lifted his head and met Isolde’s gaze. It felt as if someone were gripping his ribs and wrenching them apart—as if he were in the middle of battle, barely on his back foot. 

There was a time for deference, and a time for defiance… however slight.

As a knight, Kylian showed his due respect to the imperial family, kneeling as Isolde entered the Great Hall. As a participant in this parley, however, he stood as Ailn’s proxy. The ducal houses submitted to the emperor. Not to his kin. 

The right—and the duty—to confer The Dragon’s Promise rested with him now, and he intended to wield it as entrusted. Whatever the risks to his own person. 

“Do you imagine I’d ever suffer,” Isolde began with a lazy cadence, “if I should ask you to carve out your own throat, sir knight?” 

Her smirk was light and careless, while the glint in her eyes dared him gainsay. 

Kylian did not avert his gaze. “...Only sleepless nights… grieving the moment you squandered your chance to rule…” 

The smirk on Isolde’s lips curdled like spoiled milk. And just as the Azure Knights began to wonder if they’d be forced to watch the horrifying death of one of their own, a voice rang out from the Great Hall’s entrance—stately and regal, like a lion’s roar.  

“Rise.” 

The command was just as powerful, yet not nearly as laced with malice. Those who’d been left in forcible deference now felt themselves compelled to stand. And though they were still shaken, the fear that had been twisting their guts lifted. 

Crown Prince Severus descended the steps unhurriedly, Lady Moonlace at his side. The sheer force of his presence was utterly at odds with the besotted and doting manner in which he escorted her. 

“Disgusting as always, Isolde,” Severus said, casting a disdainful gaze down toward his sister. “Millie abhors the way you treat our subjects.”

“...What is truly disgusting is the way you cuddle with that serpent,” Isolde said dryly. She crossed her arms, and gave Millie a hollow stare as the two reached the roundtable.  

“Please don’t fight,” Millie’s eyes shimmered as she buried her face in Severus’s arm. “All of us… are human.”

“How profound,” Severus said, smiling gently, lifting her chin and gently cupping her face. “Wipe those tears Millie. When I’m the emperor, none will forget that.”

With Isolde thoroughly distracted by the public display of affection, Camille took her chance to escape, paling as she realized she had to awkwardly sidle past the enamored couple. 

Hesitating at first, then realizing they weren’t even aware of her presence, she gave a light bow, and shot an apologetic glance backward toward Kylian as she made her way to the rest of the knights. 

Ashton, who’d evidently had enough of suffering for Ailn’s sake, was in the midst of sending an angry dispatch via the echo stone bidding him attend—though it came off more as a threat, given his white-knuckled, full-palm press upon the dial. 

It almost seemed as if he were attempting to crush the turtle. 

“...If the prosperity of your duchy means nothing to you, so be it. But I wonder—do you find it amusing to make an enemy of the imperial family?” Ashton asked. He kept his typical composure, yet his unnerving smile seemed oddly diminished when directed at an echo stone which could never convey it. “Perhaps the story of ark-Chelon’s great tortoise left no impression on you. Would you rather a parable of a gutted wolf?”

Sighing, Kylian took his seat at the roundtable. Things were already going terribly, and the last attending sibling hadn’t even arrived. 

__________________

The ark-Chelon estate did have strawberries in the kitchen. But Ailn, feeling a little bit awkward about having lunch so close to the meeting he was skipping, once again left the estate with Bea and found a nice park. 

Despite her initial excitement, however, Bea did not look like she was enjoying them.

“It tastes… bad…?” Bea asked herself, perplexed. She gazed pleadingly at Bent Ham. “But strawberries taste good… and make me happy…”

Uh oh. Ailn had really underestimated how little sugar a small body could handle. He’d thought fruits should be fine—they’re healthy enough, aren’t they?—but Bea looked pretty sick. He probably should’ve waited a little longer after those donuts. 

“You’ll want to sit up Bea,” Ailn said, gently forcing her to a sitting position after she tried to lie down in a sugar coma. “You’ll wanna throw up if you lie down. And that’ll be really bad.”

Looking a little mad about it, Bea gave Ailn a teary look that wasn’t entirely unwarranted. “Aristurtle says you… didn’t exercise moderayshun…”

“...Technically it was both of us,” Ailn said. “Just focus on the smell of the flowers.”

As Bea gave him a quiet nod, and stared dazedly at some tulips, Ailn set to thinking about the blank sheet of paper Bea had seen in her vision. What did that answer mean? 

“My most useful question…” Ailn mused. He glanced at Bea. Some light had returned to her eyes. “Feeling better? Move around a bit. Bent Ham needs some exercise.”

Bea gasped. “If he gets too fat… they’ll turn him into bacon,” she said, her voice reflecting the gravity of the situation.

She scampered off, still within sight, running around with Bent Ham like she was his personal trainer. 

Ailn’s echo stone suddenly gave off a single chime. The sound caught him off guard, because it was the first time Ailn had ever received a message. His stomach sank, as a brief moment of guilt knotted it up. 

The urge to simply ignore the dispatch was strong. 

“Alright, let’s hear how things are going,” Ailn sighed, pressing down on the dial. 

‘Where. Are. You? 

I must grant you this, Ailn. I never expected this. As much as it pains me, you have caught me off guard. 

If the prosperity of your duchy means nothing to you, so be it. But I wonder—do you find it amusing to make an enemy of the imperial family? Perhaps the story of ark-Chelon’s great tortoise left no impression on you. Would you rather a parable of a gutted wolf?’

“Passive aggression really comes through over voicemail, huh?” Ailn remarked to himself. 

It wasn’t as bad as he expected… yet. Ashton sounded unhappy, but as far as Ailn was concerned that was a good thing. He’d been worried he’d hear the crown prince ordering his execution, or worse—that Kylian had finally decided to quit the Azure Knights. 

He decided to keep things short and simple. Telling the truth when they’d never get the full context was a terrible option. But lying—or not responding at all—would be even worse. 

“There are urgent concerns that call me away this day,” Ailn said, pressing the button to send a dispatch. “It is not a matter I can divulge as it touches upon the security and prosperity of Varant. I can only entreat your patience. But take heart—you are in the most capable of hands. See that you extend to Sir Kylian the same regard as you would me.”

Ailn let go of the button. That was pretty ducal, right?

He returned to his thoughts regarding Bea’s vision—specifically, deciphering what the blank sheet meant. 

In retrospect, he’d given his future self a pretty tough problem. If, say, he were trying to reveal the location of Sigurd’s death, Ailn had been naive enough to think a map would work. Even if it was blurry, he could make do with knowing the rough area. 

But it wouldn’t just be filtered through Bea’s fuzzy precognition—it would be described in her words. Ailn wasn’t confident Bea could describe what she saw on a map. Actually, he wasn’t confident he could do it either. 

So what question was both useful, and answerable through these constraints? If he had to choose, the things he’d like to know were: where, when, who, and then how—in that specific order.

‘Where and when’ were most useful together, but ‘where’ alone would still go a long way in figuring out the rest. Knowing the ‘who’ in Sigurd’s death would be a great start too—but if it were just an accident, then ‘how’ was probably the most pertinent question.

Which one of these could possibly be answered by a blank sheet of paper? 

Was it a philosophical thing? As in, there is no answer? If that were the case, then future Ailn might as well have shot him the middle finger. 

Where will Sigurd die? When will he die? Who wants to kill him, and how?

“Blank… Sigurd dies at blank. Nope. Sigurd dies at blank o’clock. Still no,” Ailn muttered nonsense to himself, hoping it would start to make sense. “Blank… killed… Sigurd…”

Ailn’s eyes widened in realization. 

__________________

There was unrest in the Great Hall. Not just at the central table, but within the whole auditorium. By now, the seats had nearly filled up with supporters of the prince and princess, as well as those citizens of Calum who were simply interested in the public proceedings.

The appearance of the crown prince had created a stalemate. All the mirth seemed to have left Isolde’s demeanor as she tried, with mounting irritation, not to stare at her older brother as he fawned over his lover. 

Meanwhile, they waited for Ailn’s response.

“Has he not yet heard the message…?” Ashton muttered irritably.

The first prince, for once, took his eyes off of Lady Moonlace and cast Ashton a contemptuous look. “You could stand to learn from Duke eum-Creid, Ashton,” Severus chided him. “This is why you remain merely a would-be duke.”

“...I am not yet duke because my father still lives, Prince Severus,” Ashton said, failing to stifle a twitch of his eye. 

“Does he?” Severus frowned, looking as if he genuinely didn’t know.

It took all of Kylian’s self-control to maintain his stoicism. He couldn’t even piece together Severus’s misapprehension—had the prince thought Ashton was simply denied the title because he lacked boldness? Who would withhold it from him?

Besides waiting to see if Ailn could be compelled to come, they were also waiting for the third prince. Grimacing, Kylian remembered Varant’s recent quarrels with said prince. 

After Renea was shown to lack the divine blessing, he had tried to force the duchy’s hand and have her removed from the family register. The entire debacle had led to Ailn’s challenge for the headship, and his subsequent investiture as duke. 

Kylian’s discomfort stemmed from more than the third prince’s overt hostility. The sheer arbitrariness of it had been striking. 

There was essentially nothing to gain from coming to blows with Varant. Was it simply another manifestation of the imperial family’s abrasive, entitled nature? That had been the prevailing belief, but forced to consider the third prince’s motives more deeply, Kylian wasn’t sure. 

It was troubling, to say the least. These were the only three imperial siblings who had come to negotiate for The Dragon’s Promise, and Kylian wasn’t certain they could walk away without making a choice among them.

Prince Evgeni had only ever shown himself as Varant’s enemy. Severus was an empty-headed fool. And Isolde was a power-hungry sadist. The pickings were slim.

Slow footfalls came down the steps of the Great Hall. If Kylian had not turned his head, he would have assumed it was merely one of the other siblings’ supporters. 

Unlike his older brother and sister, who saw fit to announce their presence theatrically and draw all eyes, Evgeni simply walked down to the table. Though he said not a word, the Great Hall had slowly quieted with each step.

Then he sat.

Perhaps his presence was lacking within his family, or they saw him as no threat. Neither Severus nor Isolde so much as acknowledged him. 

“I regret my lateness,” Evgeni said coolly. He had a sharp gaze, but he spoke politely. “I see both of you are in good health. Isolde. Severus.”

He gave a light bow, showing respect to his two siblings. Isolde again ignored him, while Severus—still distracted by Millie whispering into his ear—gave him an offhand nod. In the abrupt quiet of the Great Hall, their extremely audible flirting became all the more ostentatious. 

“But surely I can’t be held too much at fault. After all, I am here. Unlike Duke eum-Creid who, by all accounts,” Evgeni explained for everyone at the table, “has had quite the eventful day.”

This incendiary remark was uttered casually, and every head at the table turned. He’d abruptly captured their attention—including Kylian’s, who despite his ironclad fealty, had still been wondering where the hell Ailn was. 

“...Oh?” Isolde asked, tilting her head, curling her lips. “Do go on.”

“You see, he’s kept the rigorous itinerary of entertaining one of his knight’s children all afternoon,” Evgeni said.

“He did… what now?” Isolde faltered. 

Kylian blinked. His brain stuttered mid-thought. Whose child? 

“Yes, well, they indulged in donuts this morning,” Evgeni started. “Then he took the knight’s child to the stables. Finally, they had strawberries for lunch—procured from this estate’s kitchen of course.”

A chime rang out from the turtle-shaped echo stone—sudden, yet resonant. All eyes snapped toward the artifact. The crystalline tone hung in the air. Ashton flicked a questioning glance at the third prince.

Evgeni merely gestured toward the artifact. “Well then. Best to let the man speak for himself.”

Another chime played as Ashton pressed the dial, and soon enough Ailn’s voice spilled forth from the turtle.

‘There are urgent concerns that call me away this day. It is not a matter I can divulge as it touches upon the security and prosperity of Varant. I can only entreat your patience. But take heart—you are in the most capable of hands. See that you extend to Sir Kylian the same regard as you would me.’

Pretending as if he didn’t notice the resentment simmering in the stunned silence, he gave Kylian a casual look which only served to heighten the knight’s headache. 

“Now, with that—let us envision Sir Kylian here as Duke eum-Creid himself. How do we all feel?”

Posts updated! June 1 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 115: Skipping Work

The next morning, a rather shocking letter arrived for Kylian, delivered by a retainer of House ark-Chelon. It was from Ailn.

Kylian was certain he understood how Ailn operated by this point. In the short time they’d known each other, they’d shared more than a number of adventures—and misadventures. He’d seen just how capable Ailn was. More importantly, he’d come to realize just how conscientious his friend was, beneath the irreverence and seemingly carefree attitude. 

But if there was anything that could test the dutiful knight’s faith, loyalty, and friendship, it was this letter.

‘Kylian, 

I can’t attend the meeting today. I promise you this is for the greater good. No, I can’t explain. I’m truly sorry.

Please act as my voice in negotiations. If things come to a head, use your own judgment.

P.S. My Echo Stone can be reached via the blue resonance, Echo VII.

Duke Ailn eum-Creid’

Slowly, Kylian crumpled the letter in his hands from sheer vexation—something he’d never done before. 

“Damn him…!” Kylian gritted out. 

____________________

Ailn and Bea were eating breakfast. 

“Dessert… for breakfast?” Bea’s eyes were wide as the server set down a plate of donuts for the two of them, and a glass of milk for Bea. 

“That’s right,” Ailn said. “But you can’t do this every day, alright? And uh, don’t tell your mom I let you eat sweets first thing in the morning.”

Bea’s eyes glimmered. She gave a miffed look toward Cant—all three of her stuffed animals were given chairs of their own—and defended herself. “We already paid, Cant…! Be practical!”  

It wasn’t exactly that Ailn enjoyed shirking his duties. But if it was completely out of his hands, he wasn’t going to stress about it either. 

Not to mention he was trying to raise Bea’s spirits. If they really wanted to save Sigurd’s life—if, indeed, he really was in mortal danger—then they definitely weren’t going to get it done with a pessimistic attitude. 

So, donuts it was. 

The sugary treat would take up half her mental space, so it was a good time to ask questions. If she thought too hard about her powers, she might start fixating on the vision that made her cry. 

He wiped chocolate off Bea’s cheek while she ate. “Tell me something, Bea. If I was planning to buy you chocolate for lunch, could you see the future where I buy it for you?”

“That’s easy ‘cause it’s pacific,” Bea nodded. Her eyes briefly went out of focus. Then she tilted her head. “...But we eat strawberries?”

“Can’t have too much sugar, of course,” Ailn replied. “How many strawberries do we have for lunch, Bea? Can you see?”

“The shapes are too fuzzy…” Bea complained. 

“Fuzzy, huh?” Ailn mused. So, she couldn’t see perfect details.

He actually intended to find some honeyed pears or apples—the kind Renea liked. Now that he’d heard ‘strawberries,’ though, he had to admit: kids probably liked strawberries better.

So, there wasn’t a perfect match between intent and the future. Of course there wouldn’t be. The real question was whether lunch had changed to strawberries because Bea had told him, or if he was always going to change his mind, anyway.

“Alright, Bea. Let’s try this,” Ailn said. “I wanna go ride home fast so I can see your dad. Can you look into my future and tell me what’s gonna happen?”

Bea gazed at Ailn unblinkingly, but her eyes never went out of focus. 

“Don’t see it…” Bea said after a while. Her eyes came back into focus, and she started rubbing them as if they ached. 

“Is it too far for you to see?” Ailn asked.

Bea shook her head. “I see far stuff… sometimes…” Her chewing slowed down, and tears welled in her eyes.  

Ailn could guess what she was thinking about, so he picked her up and set her on his lap, not caring that powdered sugar was getting all over his trench coat. “Just think of this as a game we’re playing Bea.” 

He tapped his index against her noggin. “You told me yourself, right? You’re good at changing the future to be better.”

____________________

Mere minutes remained before members of the imperial family were to arrive at the Great Hall. The vast hall of oak and walnut stood mostly empty, save for the Azure Knights, whose murmurs were sufficient to suffuse the air with an oppressive hum.

In truth, Kylian had received Ailn’s letter over an hour ago. He should have informed Ashton earlier—that would have been the most prudent response to a poor situation. But instead, he had wasted time stewing in the barracks, hoping this was some sort of joke. 

As the meeting loomed ever closer, reality settled in: Ailn was not coming. 

“I must have misheard you,” Ashton said, his normally smooth smile beginning to fray at the edges. 

“... Duke eum-Creid has informed me that he will be absent today,” Kylian said, keeping his tone flat. “Though it is certainly beyond my station, I will be acting in his stead.”

“He WHAT?!” Dartune bellowed from the gallery. 

A terrible dread rippled through the present members of the Azure Knights in the tiered seats above. And Kylian hardly felt any better. A knight sitting at the table with the imperial family was the height of impudence. 

But what choice did he have? The alternative was that Varant did not come to the table at all. 

“Sir Kylian,” Ashton’s voice turned on a cold edge. ”I trust you do not need me to explain what lèse-majesté is.”

“I am well aware,” Kylian replied. 

“And a knight of your acuity surely understands how fickle Their Imperial Highnesses can be,” Ashton continued, vein throbbing on his forehead. 

“... I have heard,” Kylian said monotonously. 

All the knights had arrived dutifully, and early at that. Though the Azure Knights had a reputation through most of the empire as boors who knew little beyond shadow beasts and swords, they took some pride in their ability to maintain decorum. 

If, perhaps, they did not know the fine rules of etiquette, they at least had good sense and discipline. 

Apparently, this could not be said for their new duke. 

Camille marched anxiously down to the Great Hall’s center. “Tell me where he is, and I shall retrieve him,” she said, her serene smile accompanied by panicked, darting eyes. “Perhaps he is in his room, savoring this jest at our expense.”

“He is not,” Kylian said. He stifled a deep sigh. “Nor do I know where he is.” 

Then, realizing this was his best chance to do so, the long-suffering knight grimly gestured toward the echo stone central to the table. “His Highness Ailn has informed me, however, that his stone will be set to the blue resonance, Echo VII.”

“... He intends to participate through echo stone?” Ashton uttered, his voice taut. 

Laughter rang out from the Great Hall’s entrance—pleasant and easygoing. But as the sharp click of heels descended the steps to the center of the forum, the woman’s laughter became more fitful, as if she couldn’t stand how amusing it was. “How brazen,” she said, wiping a tear from her eye. “I can’t say I dislike it. A man who fears fickle flames has no place in the company of dragons.”

Then, breaking once more into a cascade of scornful giggles, she added, “He must truly wish to burn.

____________________

“Where am I even gonna get the strawberries later?” Ailn wondered. “Maybe from the estate’s kitchen?”

Ailn and Bea had made their way back to the ark-Chelon estate—the very same estate where his absence was causing a diplomatic disaster. He tried not to think too hard about it. 

There were some basics Ailn needed to test. At the moment, he had almost nothing to go on. Lacking a time, place, method, or culprit for a death—or murder—that hadn’t even happened yet, his only option was to start with broad, general probing. 

“Don’t think I’ve ever had to solve a murder that hasn’t even happened yet,” Ailn sighed. Then he addressed Bea, who he was carrying around. “Alright, Bea. To figure stuff out, we’re gonna have to play a little prank, alright?”

“If it’s not mean…” Bea said softly. “Aristurtle says little pranks are okay. In modrayshun.”

She held the turtle solemnly in front of her, as if she were listening to it. Bea had gotten tired of carrying all three of her stuffed animals so Ailn had the other two under his left arm. 

“It’s not too mean,” Ailn replied. “We’re just gonna meet someone and look into his future.”

“Okay,” Bea nodded. She leaned in and cupped a hand to Ailn’s ear. “I need to work harder… if I’m not in the future.”

“...Don’t work too hard, alright?” Ailn said.

From what Ailn understood, the west wing of the ark-Chelon estate housed all of its bureaucrats. By day, the chief steward and an army of scribes convened on the ground floor to manage the ducal house’s affairs, retiring to their private quarters above by night.  

Just outside stood the stables for couriers and their horses, always on standby should a missive need dispatch. 

“I’ve got a message I need to send,” Ailn said, as he entered the stables, addressing a bored-looking clerk sitting half-asleep at her booth. 

“...Duke eum-Creid?” the clerk gaped, straightening her posture. “C-certainly…!” 

Her panic was momentarily interrupted by confusion, her brows knitting together once she noticed Bea. 

“It’s one of the knight’s kids,” Ailn lied. 

“You need not explain yourself to me, Your Highness,” the clerk fumbled. “It is hardly my place…”

So she said—but as she rapidly filled out parchment, her features continued to crease with bewilderment.  She might’ve known Ailn was supposed to be at the negotiations. 

“Rhett! Come promptly!” the clerk yelled for one of the couriers. “A dispatch needs bearing! Duke eum-Creid is waiting!”

“Is that a jest?” A man said, looking disgruntled as he popped out from his horse’s stable. He regarded Ailn skeptically as he approached. “‘Tis rare for us couriers to be called upon, these days.”

Apparently, Calum’s increasing reliance on echo stones had bred some resentment within its couriers’ ranks. They certainly weren’t obsolete, as the majority of the empire still lacked the technology—but the vast majority of Calum’s dealings were with high nobility, particularly those in the capital. It was only a matter of time. 

“Well, Varant still uses them,” Ailn said, shrugging. 

“Ah. Varant. Of course,” the courier said with a look of dawning realization. “Have you a parcel for me?”

“No, just a simple message for my family—specifically the eldest brother, Sigurd eum-Creid. Tell him he’s desperately needed in Calum,” Ailn said. 

“Er, is there any further context I need provide?” the courier asked. 

“No. Just that,” Ailn said. Then he thought for a moment. “I’d appreciate it if you could make sure Sigurd gets the message. They can be a little flaky in Varant—so if you could wait until someone confirms its delivery, that would mean a lot.” 

He handed the courier a silver coin. “For your troubles.”

“A silver?” the courier gaped. 

“You can keep the whole thing, so long as you do what I ask,” Ailn said. “Don’t try to cheat me, though. I’ll ask Sigurd.”

“I would never,” the courier said, fixated on the silver. 

Ailn adjusted Bea on his shoulder, turning so she faced the courier directly. “Alright, say bye to the bureaucrats.” 

“Bye,” Bea waved. Her eyes came out of focus for a few seconds before clearing up. “Have a good trip.”

With that, they left the stables.

“Alright Bea,” Ailn said. “What’d you see in the man’s future? Does he successfully deliver the message?”

“Don’t know,” Bea said, face scrunching up in thought. She rubbed her eyes. “I saw him look grumpy…” 

“I’m guessing no, then,” Ailn mused. 

It was a good way to confirm that whatever happened to Sigurd didn’t happen in Varant. Considering the letter he got from Renea, he already had his suspicions. But now he was almost certain. 

Sigurd’s death and his sudden departure were related. 

There was something else Ailn was testing, too. He wanted to know how the future responded to what they did and what they intended to do. Sending a courier was a concrete and committal action—unlike earlier when he’d simply announced to Bea his intention to ride to Sigurd himself. 

This wasn’t a perfect plan, of course. Ailn was still wary of unwittingly causing the future Bea saw—if, say, Sigurd got the message and was crushed by a freak landslide on his way to Calum—but there was only so much he could account for. 

There was something else Ailn wanted to test, though. Sending a courier had a specific advantage—one he’d actually been complaining about lately. 

“What about my future, Bea?” Ailn asked. “Can you tell me if he gives the coin back sometime next week?”

“Uhuh,” Bea nodded, and gazed at Ailn. After a few seconds, her eyes went out of focus. “He gave you something shiny I think.”

But her gaze didn’t clear. Her eyes flitted around and she seemed confused.

“Do I look sad?” Ailn asked.

“...Uhuh,” Bea said, her voice getting a little quieter. “You’re… doing funny stuff with your arms.”

Unbelievable. Ailn quietly celebrated. He genuinely didn’t think this would work. 

“Can you tell me what letter I’m making with my arms?” Ailn asked. 

“...An X. Then you do a one with your hand,” Bea said. “Then another X… then you put both hands up, like this!”

Bea raised both hands and extended both of her index fingers. She put them behind her ears. “Like a bunny!”

“And after that?” Ailn asked.

But Bea’s eyes suddenly refocused. She blinked a few times, her glare getting sharper as she tried to manifest her precognition once again with pure determination. 

“I can’t see anymore…” Bea said, tearing up. “It’s hard ‘cause I’m not there…”

Ailn wiped her eyes gently, and gave her a reassuring smile. “Important missions are never that easy, Bea. And you got us a big clue, anyway.”

The signs Ailn made in Bea’s vision were answers to questions. Retrieving his coin from the courier created an anchoring point for Bea’s precognition to find—and for future Ailn to ‘send back’ his answers. 

It was a cheat sheet from one week ahead. And the three questions future Ailn answered were as follows:

First, was Sigurd’s death prevented? The answer was no. That alone carried a wealth of information.

Second, did sending the courier inadvertently cause Sigurd’s death? Thankfully, the answer was again negative. 

The third question was a bit more ambitious: what’s the most useful thing you can tell me? 

Uncertain of how much information he could convey in Bea’s vision—he wasn’t certain this would work at all—Ailn had to balance between efficiency and flexibility. Thus, he’d left the third spot open-ended, letting his future self decide what would be most useful. 

Unfortunately, Bea’s vision had prematurely ended. She’d glimpsed a moment from Ailn’s future where she herself wasn’t present, and that took a toll on her. 

It made sense she wasn’t there. By then, she’d surely be reunited with her mother. And it was a timeline where Sigurd was dead. There’d be no way to explain to a grieving Ciel that he wanted to borrow Bea to send a message back in time—especially when that version of Ailn likely lacked proof it would even work

Just as Ailn was considering this, though, Bea’s eyes slipped out of focus one final time. 

“You’ve got paper…” Bea said, biting her lip. Her voice was shaky, and her eyes were starting to tremble—turning bloodshot the way a kid’s never should. She was clearly in pain. “I can’t see what you wrote…”

He wrote something? Based on what Bea said, he’d surmised writing would be too illegible through Bea’s precognition. That’s why he’d planned such big motions to communicate. 

Then again, the third question was free-answer. He’d left the conveyance issue for future Ailn to figure out. 

“...Don’t hurt yourself, Bea,” Ailn said. “If you can’t read it, just let go.”

“Blank…” Bea mumbled. Her voice got soft and doubtful. “The paper’s blank.”

Vol. 3 Cover and Title

Hey! I just realized I posted this to the discord but never to here. Here's the cover for volume 3! I also know I said at one point the title for the arc was tentatively "Sorry, Just Missed You" but it ended up being changed. For everyone reading on the Patreon, thank you, and I hope you enjoy TRAS Vol. 3: Tomorrow Lives Twice.

Posts updated! May 29, 2025

Enjoy!

TRAS Chapter 114: A Teacher and Friend

Bea’s past life was a short one. 

Diagnosed with a life-limiting medical condition at a young age, she slowly came to understand the reality of her prognosis. With proper care, her chances of reaching adulthood were high. And until her disease reached its late stages, she could likely live a relatively normal life. 

But in the end, her health would deteriorate rapidly.

The future was never hers to keep. Yet with its surrender came clarity—the recognition that nothing was as precious as the present, and that it was hers and hers alone.

So rather than dream, she read. The girl with limited time wanted to understand what made a life worth living. Often confined to bed, she sought knowledge instead of experiences, her mind sharp and restless even when her body demanded rest. 

She found philosophy. 

Over time, her friends from school stopped coming to visit. To the outside world, she had already faded from memory. But in books were the words of those who continued to endure. The geniuses of the ages were her company, the lively and vicious debates of intellectuals who in truth lived centuries apart vividly playing out in her mind. 

In that world, the girl chose her legacy: her thoughts, her writings. Her ideas. With the strength she had, she came achingly close to finishing her undergraduate degree—yet even when she knew she wouldn’t, she refused to wilt away. 

She dove deeply into questions of epistemology, wanting to understand what we could truly know. As her time neared, she began to ponder—with trepidation—metaphysics. What are we really? Where did we come from, and where are we headed? 

Yet it was always ethics and its quandaries which resonated with her the most. When the theses of being or belief had tired her out, the language of consequence still made her heart beat fast—the threads humans pull at, untangle, and follow as they try to find their way into the future. 

It was her last attempt to live on in a world that would soon move on without her. By speaking to the echoes of a conversation that began long before, she left herself as a penpal for those yet to come. 

Perhaps she, like those grand intellects she admired, would one day become a lonely thinker’s friend. And if they lived a long life, faced tough decisions… then if her words endured and offered guidance, she would have done her part. 

Her life would matter.

_________________________

So one life ended, and another began. The remnants of the girl who lived before lingered as a voice, a quiet whisper in the mind of the little girl born in the Singing Mountains. 

There were always big thoughts in Bea’s head begging for expression—words she didn’t know, and truths she didn’t quite understand. Something deep inside her called out for her attention. 

Bea didn’t trust it. The small voice had big opinions, and it gave Bea a headache. 

It wasn’t until the village priest came one day, carrying a gift for Bea, that the voice in the back of her head would find a mouthpiece. 

A stuffed animal. A turtle with grandfatherly eyes and a hard nosed look that reminded Bea of something—someone. Was it one of the village hunters? No, there was something wise in the turtle’s eyes. 

Something clicked in Bea’s mind. The bossy whisper in her head suddenly took on the gravelly wisdom of a tortoise who’d seen the rise and fall of conquerors and city-states. And finally the vivid inner monologue of the terminally ill scholar who’d lived her life in thought… 

Properly met the vibrant, colorful world of a little girl who just wanted to play. 

“Aris… Aristurtle…” Bea rasped out, as she reached out to hug the turtle. “Aristurtle wants… to teach me.”

“Ah, does he now?” the priest had smiled at her kindly. “And what is it he seeks to teach you?”

“How to… be good,” Bea replied slowly, her small voice filling with solemnity. “...How to live good.”

A tiny smile crossed her lips. And she hugged her new friend tighter. 

_________________________

At the age of three, Bea developed a special talent—one that confused her very much.

Bea was out with her mother at the pond near the crags. And she was watching one of the fishermen when a strange feeling came over her.

It felt a little like when she was sleepy in the middle of the day. For a second, the world looked fuzzy, as if everything had been knit by thread. And the clumsy fisherman hooked his own foot with a yelp.

Then Bea woke up. At least she thought she did, because she assumed it was a daydream. But moments later, the fisherman hooked his foot—for real this time. 

Puzzled, that night Bea convened an important council.

“Aristurtle says… time is fake, ‘cause it’s just us counting,” Bea said, dutifully relaying her first advisor’s opinion. She tilted her head, frowning. “But time happens even if I don’t count… That’s silly, Aristurtle. You should just say when you don’t know stuff.”

Cant the Dog interjected with an explanation that the nature of time could never be known, anyway. 

Nitty the Donkey suggested that time might be resetting, and Bea was having a vision of the past that was actually the future. 

Bagel the Owl had a lot to say about time as it related to space, and thought, and ‘dialects’… but Bea just didn’t see how the way people talked was relevant to the discussion at hand. 

“Bagel…” Bea shook her head at the owl’s obtuse words, and gave a weary sigh. “You always make it too complicated… Next time you might not be invited.”

Thus, Bagel was unfortunately pushed out of Bea’s inner circle (though the little chairman made sure to phrase it as if the decision were out of her hands).  

Of course, the whisper in the back of Bea’s head had an endless number of thoughts about time and its implications. But Bea only had so many toys. And at the end of the day, she resolved that there needed to be less thinking and more action. 

Bea ran some experiments.

When she had a vision of her mother knocking over a jug, Bea helpfully moved it beforehand. Her mother bumped the table, but the jug never broke. 

When she glimpsed a future where the mayor’s son Iain dropped a hammer on his toe, she poked his knee trying to warn him. This led to him dropping a hammer on his toe. The future was tricky. 

Over the next year, Bea came to understand her visions—the threads which she could grasp fleetingly and pull at. The world became a symphony of sensation and a kaleidoscope of possibilities. 

It was a lot for a little girl to handle. All the special things playing out in Bea’s mind were almost too much for her, even with her extensive moral council of stuffed friends. The past continued to whisper in her ear, while the future danced before her eyes. 

But it was alright. 

Because Bea’s mother Ciel loved her in the present—and in her every gesture promised to love Bea forever. 

Ciel held her in her arms when she was overwhelmed, stroked her hair when she couldn’t sleep. She talked to Bea when she was lonely, giving her the space and security she needed to ponder big questions about a big world.  

Her mother gave her the wings she needed to soar. And so the day Ailn came visiting their little home in Venlind, Bea saw her uncle for the first time, glimpsing a vision that tugged at the quiet hopes and fears in her heart. 

She found herself yearning, and because of it, decided to fly. 

_________________________

The young philosopher’s escape hadn’t just relied on pluck and luck. 

If Bea was actually present in the future she saw, then her vision became more extensive and engaged all her senses. When she wasn’t, she could only catch fleeting glimpses into other people’s futures—and it strained her eyes more. 

But if she needed to be stealthy, all she had to do was avoid futures where she saw herself getting caught. 

Using her powers, Bea snuck on the cart, watching a future where the knight was tempted away by salted pork. Glimpsing the futures where the knight found her struggling to climb in, Bea avoided them by bringing a little stool. 

The knight, assuming it belonged in the cart, placed it inside himself. 

Once she was in the cart, it wasn’t hard to peek through its entrance flaps and eventually get an eye on every knight. She caught a glimpse of Camille, and with it, the diverging threads of their shared futures. 

That was how she knew to hide under the driver’s bench when Camille came into the cart. There was a future where she found Bea under the tarp. 

At the ark-Chelon estate, things got a bit trickier. There was no way Bea would see every single servant. Getting into the kitchen, she actually had to sneak in, peering around corners at maids busily preparing the feast. 

She spotted a single group, and caught the thread into the future where she climbed beneath the table right as they walked in. Then she knew from that thread, she could simply keep watching maids passing through.

It wasn’t every maid. But it was enough that Bea felt comfortable finding a room to sleep. In the room she finally picked, Bea peeked in—and saw no futures where the maids entered it. If she slept in that room, she wouldn’t get caught. 

What she did see was a future where she could talk to her Uncle Ailn. 

She didn’t understand why, but Bea knew this much: there was a single thread into the future that didn’t end with her being sent back home. So long as she met her Uncle Ailn at the right place, at the right time, she knew he’d let her stay.

And past that she could see the deep future—still fuzzy. There was Uncle Ailn, patting her head and smiling.

‘We’re going to see your papa, alright?’ 

Her father wasn’t in the vision, because Bea had never seen him. And until she did, he’d remain a phantom. 

The feeling both tickled and itched, the sense that he was right there, just out of sight. Because if she saw him, just once… Bea could see into his future. She could follow the thread, no matter how thin. 

The problem was, when she actually got to her uncle—and peered further into that future where he was patting her head—she saw something she didn’t anticipate.

Which led to the present moment where she was sitting on the couch in Ailn’s suite, surrounded by her stuffed animals and bawling. 

Ailn scratched his head, watching as Bea broke into tears once more.  

He wasn’t bad with kids. But he was having a hard time here. No matter how much cheese he tried to offer her, Bea was inconsolable. She seemed utterly convinced she’d unwittingly condemned her father to death.

“Come on Bea, let’s not be too hasty,” Ailn said, keeping his voice gentle as he picked her up. “Explain to me what’s going on, alright?”

Bea wiped her tears—and snot—on Ailn’s detective coat, as she tried to explain everything to her uncle. 

“‘Cause I can see… the future,” Bea rasped out. “And I thought I could see papa…”

“...The future, huh?” Ailn mumbled. “Did you see a vision of your dad getting hurt?” 

“I saw—I saw you,” Bea said. Her breath kept catching as she tried to speak, like she was telling on herself. “You were patting my head and smiling, telling me we were gonna go see papa. I just—I wanted to see him.”

She bit her lip, as more tears welled up in her eyes. “I just… wanted to see papa with me… and mama…”

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with that,” Ailn said gently. 

“But then… you picked me up and I saw more and I heard mama crying…” Bea’s voice continued to crack, her face screwing up while big tears kept falling. “And I saw a box…”

She let out a tiny whimper which crumbled into a sob. “I think papa was in the box…”

_________________________

It took a long time for Bea to calm down and fall asleep. She’d left him with a lot to think about, and normally he’d like to take a chance to smoke and think things through. 

Unfortunately, he had to watch her. Clearly this child was capable of incredible feats in the one or two minutes when no adults were watching. 

Everything tracked. He’d seen her sapphire eyes, which was a type of shard Ailn hadn’t come across yet. And it would make perfect sense if the sapphire represented Time. Among the other facets that Ailn knew—Psyche, Truth, Union—Time fit pretty well.

From what Bea explained to him, the futures she saw weren’t fixed. So theoretically, all they had to do was keep following Bea’s visions until she saw one where Sigurd lived, and nudge the future in that direction. 

The hard part was, they didn’t even know how Sigurd would die. Ailn couldn’t fully follow Bea’s scattered and childlike explanation, but the rough gist Ailn got was this: she’d never seen her father, so she couldn’t see visions of his future. 

All she saw was Ailn’s future, where Sigurd ended up in a coffin. And she didn’t see what put him in there. For all they knew, Sigurd could be swallowing poison right that moment. 

He tried to unravel the logic. Had Bea actually been the cause? Ailn wasn’t completely convinced that her jumping on the supply cart and coming to Calum had actually led to his death. 

It was entirely possible Sigurd was destined to die anyway. And now that Bea had come to Ailn in a desperate attempt to see her father, they’d stepped onto the timeline where Bea was brought to the funeral. 

In the other timelines, her mother might simply have let her stay blissfully unaware. 

At any rate, whether it was fated or not, Ailn couldn’t simply hang around and let Sigurd die. If there was any chance of preventing it, they had to try—and their first step was by figuring out how it was going to happen. 

Suddenly, Renea’s letter where she worried over Sigurd’s disappearance carried a lot more portent.

With how little information they had, the odds were stacked against them, but at least they had Bea’s visions. The more certain a future was, the more clearly she could see it. That meant they had to try and make her vision of Sigurd’s funeral blur, step by step, until it disappeared altogether. 

The good news was, before Bea had fallen asleep, she and Ailn had figured out the first step. The problem was, it was a step Ailn really shouldn’t take. 

Bea had gazed into his future before announcing something that made his temples throb.

“You’ve…You’ve gotta skip work tomorrow,” Bea told him, dead serious.

May 27, 2024 Posts updated!

Enjoy!