“The meaninglessness and futility of events are determined not by a single player, but by a group of players who have reached a dead end and dare not turn back to find a new path.”

  [ 12th Lumiran 1749 | Miren | 01:25 | Streets of Sumerenn ]

  We walked through the empty, deserted streets of Sumerenn like shadows searching for salvation. The silence was broken only by our footsteps and the creak of old shutters. Evelina, wearing only her chemise, walked ahead, clutching the hem of Nova’s black dress over her shoulders—a dress Nova had nobly torn so her cousin would not feel completely exposed. And so we walked, three women who looked as if they had survived an assault, wandering senselessly through the streets in tattered clothes.

  The wound ached. The dream blade that had pierced my flesh could not be silenced by blocking nerve impulses, and I was forced to endure the full fragility of this human body. Our steps were slow, and soon we found ourselves before a tavern with a proud, bright name that sounded like a mockery—The Gilded Sunflower. It was one of those places that stayed open all night, serving late-night travelers and revelers. At the entrance, a lone coachman stood slumped against the wall. His horses, covered with blankets, shifted sleepily from hoof to hoof, breathing clouds of steam into the cold air. Evelina, despite her vulnerability and the way a man’s eyes might interpret it, approached him. A few sharp, quiet words, and he agreed, nodding toward his carriage.

  We climbed in quickly, and the carriage began to carry us through the dark streets toward the castle. Inside, it smelled of damp leather and hay. Light from the streetlamps sliced through the windows in intermittent, sickly stripes, snatching details from the darkness: Evelina’s face, pale as marble, her lips pressed into a white line; Nova’s dark silhouette as she sat beside her, creating a living shield with her body; my own hands, resting on my knees—one of them still bleeding, staining the fabric of my dress.

  No one spoke. The silence was thick, viscous, more oppressive than the night’s chill. Each of us was processing what had happened in her own way. Evelina stared at a single point, her gaze vacant. There was no fear in her, no panic, only a cold, scorched emptiness that threatened to consume everything around it. She hadn’t just lost control; she had seen that control had never existed. Her world, built on politics, alliances, and calculations, had collapsed in the face of an irrational horror that needed no reason.

  Nova, by contrast, was coiled tight with tension. She wasn't breathing so much as snatching air in short, sharp gasps, as if fearing even the sound of it might attract a new threat. Her hand was clenched into a fist, but her fingers still trembled. Tonight, she had not just seen an enemy—she had seen the limit of her strength, her training, her lineage. Her entire life, dedicated to becoming a pillar of support, had proven meaningless against a magic that followed no rules. In her eyes, I saw not fear, but humiliation. The humiliation of a warrior who had, for the first time, understood that her blade was nothing but a toy.

  I sat in silence, pressing a hand to the wound to stanch the bleeding, while my mind replayed the fight again and again, breaking it down into a thousand variables: vectors, impulses, probabilities. The attack had been twofold, coordinated. The monster was a diversion, a blunt instrument aimed at Evelina. The assassin with the desecrated blade was a precision strike, aimed at me. They knew. They knew who I was. Not my true essence, but my function—the protector, the mage-guardian, and most importantly, the mage of Order. It all formed a single picture. The men I had seen in the alleys on the night of Frederik’s abduction were assassins, just like the one I had faced. How many were there? Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? I didn’t yet have an answer, but one thing was certain: the cults were operating with different objectives.

  I glanced at the blade, wrapped in a scrap of Nova’s dress, lying on the seat away from me. The artifact remained a threat even at a distance; its resonance was actively siphoning my Order magic. But where was it redirecting the energy? The signature was too chaotic, too unstable to be certain.

  The carriage stopped at a side gate of the Two-Faced Palace. The guards, seeing us, froze in shock. Their faces, usually impassive masks of duty, twisted with horror and disbelief. Their princess, their pillar, had returned not in triumph, but as a refugee from a nightmare. Rumors would spread through the palace faster than fire, and this image—three wounded, tattered women—would become the symbol of a new era. An era where power no longer offered protection.

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  At Evelina’s command, a guard paid the coachman, and we were escorted to the princess’s chambers. As soon as she was safe, Evelina collapsed into an armchair, her body, which had been held together by sheer will, finally surrendering. Nova rushed to her side, trying to cover her with a blanket, to bring her water. I walked to a table, searching for something to bandage my wound.

  I glanced again at the weapon lying on the table beside Evelina, and she spoke to me.

  “Is that… is that the desecrated blade?” Evelina’s voice was muffled, as if coming from underwater.

  “Yes,” I answered impassively. “It destroys the structure of Order magic.”

  “We almost died because of it. First the beast, and then that,” Nova whispered, looking at my bleeding hand.

  “It must be destroyed,” Evelina said firmly.

  “No,” I objected. “We have to study it. Understand how it works. It is the only physical evidence we have. And the only weapon that can give us answers about who is behind the Cult of Chaos.”

  Evelina looked up at me. The shock was gone from her eyes. In its place, a cold, dark fury was beginning to form. “They came for my heart, Arta. For my life. They killed the Lenfords without blinking an eye. They wanted to tear me to pieces. And you suggest we… study their toys?”

  “Your Highness, permit me to clarify. The cultist with the blade came for me,” I cut in, realizing she was speaking nonsense. “The woman in the mask—likely the leader of the Cult of the Gods of Dreams—her power is on another level entirely and is directly tied to dream magic.”

  Evelina frowned.

  “Then why did they come at the same time?” Evelina asked, biting her lower lip. It was clear she had little control over her own body.

  “Because they were sent by the same person. And you know perfectly well who that is.”

  Evelina froze. She threw off the blanket and walked to the window, where the dawn was beginning to break. Sumerenn was waking up, unaware that its familiar world had already cracked.

  “Now it all makes sense,” she said, without turning around. “And, as always, we have no direct proof. I will have Vespera arrested and sentenced to death.”

  It was a rash decision, and I felt I had to try and dissuade the overconfident princess.

  “I don’t think that’s wise. Execution without trial will only undermine the people’s faith in their future queen.”

  “No, Arta. Nothing will undermine my power now.” She looked at me, her eyes glinting in the dim light. “I will give the order for her arrest at once. Then we will return to the academy.”

  I said nothing. Evelina was digging her own grave, and I had no intention of handing her the shovel.

  “Evelina, I’ll help Arta treat her wound, alright?” Nova interjected.

  Evelina nodded silently. We left for the hall and made our way toward the infirmary. In the darkness of the corridors, I felt the energy of Chaotic-Darkness, as if it were singing a void-like dissonant, insane melody in a language of Darkness only the two of us could understand.

  After navigating the long palace corridors, we reached a bathroom. Nova tore my dress and began to wash my hand with water that, on the first floor of the castle, likely came straight from the Luren River through a system of pipes.

  Her movements were careful, her eyes serious. When she finished cleaning the wound, she tore a towel and wrapped it around my hand.

  “Thank you,” I said with a slight nod of gratitude.

  “Arta, you can’t imagine how scared I am…” Nova whispered. “This all feels so surreal… What… What am I going to tell Beatrice?” Nova’s hands began to tremble, and her eyes filled with unshed tears.

  “Focus, Nova. Panic has no meaning.” I put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her.

  After a few silent moments, the tears in Nova’s eyes dried before a single one could fall.

  “We have to stick together,” Nova said quietly.

  I just nodded, and releasing her, we headed back to the princess.

  We returned to Evelina’s chambers. She was already giving orders to the captain of her personal guard—a woman with chiseled features and a gaze as cold as steel.

  “Find Vespera Tenembrite. Bring her to the palace dungeons. If she resists, act according to wartime protocol,” Evelina’s voice was firm, unwavering.

  The captain nodded silently and disappeared, leaving behind only a sense of inevitability.

  We changed, quickly gathered our things, and less than an hour later, we were in a carriage, heading back to the academy.

  The two-day journey passed in oppressive silence. The carriage, swaying over the rough roads, felt like a sarcophagus carrying us away from the ruins of yesterday’s world. Evelina sat motionless, her gaze fixed on the window, but I knew she wasn't seeing the passing landscapes, but visions of the slaughter to come. Nova was huddled in a corner, her face pale. She was trying not to think about what she would have to say to Beatrice, about how she was supposed to go on living. And I simply observed their vulnerability, remaining silent so as not to introduce any unnecessary variables into our space.

  When we stepped out at the eastern gate and were enveloped by the morning quiet, each of us understood a simple truth—everything had changed too quickly, and the echoes of this night would reverberate throughout Valtheim for a long time to come.