A warm house, children around a fireplace, a man sitting on a nearby chair, smoking a pipe.

  A cold, empty building—the chair rotting, the walls moulded.

  A garden orchestrated wonderfully like a symphony, with a serene woman in a white hat with a long brim and gloves tending to the life.

  A discordant mess. Carrion birds are about. They do not look hungry.

  Sol mechanically crawls out of bed. The time—only 3 in the morning.

  He appears in the old woman’s inn. Dry tears stain the sheets; she appears to be unaware of the ruckus caused in the commotion. He places his finger on her eyelid.

  A humid yet pleasant, sandalwood-scented carpet shop. The air inducing nostalgia. Male hands position a nail and strike at it. With three successive blows, the scene concludes.

  He leaves in an instant.

  Seraphiel wanders around the room as the clock strikes 7. He sees a barrel filled with an eclectic variety of weapons taken from across the realms. They look like trophies, yet they appear to be rusting with such little care that it seems intentional. He withdraws a short rapier and twirls the tip around in the air, trying to acclimatise himself to the thought of using it. He presses it down into the ground, testing its sharpness as it pierces the stone like a hot knife in lard.

  The air today is especially fiery and catches at his throat.

  As Seraphiel thrusts his sword into the air in practice, he fails to notice Sol behind him, who now has a deathly sharp blade rushing toward his jugular vein. He shifts to the right before seemingly making an effort to move toward the blade once more as it just barely nicks his neck.

  “Argh, I’m sorry—I didn’t see you there, Sol, sir.”

  Seraphiel says, trying to portray himself as serious despite this embarrassing sight.

  “Calm down, it’s just a scratch,”

  he retorts smugly as the blood trickles down the side of his neck.

  Considering this man’s horrific feats of speed just a dozen hours prior, being able to even touch him didn’t quite make sense.

  “I see you’re practising for… something. You don’t need to do that, you know. If I can’t handle something, then you’re as good as dead no matter what—haha.” He smacks Seraphiel on the back so hard he knocks the wind out of him.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Nonetheless, Seraphiel resolves to be nobody’s “pawn” and still plans on keeping this blade, if only for dignity. As the king’s representative—or more likely, as the king said—“the humiliation of inaction” is something Seraphiel would much rather avoid.

  Back in the capital, Noro pushes his way through the intoxicated masses, searching for signs of the Envoy.

  He looks up assuredly toward the balcony—and finds exactly what he is looking for. The man from earlier, the one with the grimoire, is now crouched there, attempting what looks like an infiltration.

  Noro loses sight of him as the Envoy slips inside.

  Only moments later, a blood-curdling scream rings out, followed by a foreign chant. The air grows thick with the stench of butchered lamb and coppery notes.

  The people do not appear to care. Neither does Noro. The scream stirs nothing in him—something trained out long ago—but the fact that it came from the Envoy intrigues his rational curiosity.

  Ryo has returned to his chambers. He sits alone, nursing a black eye, an entire platoon vanished.

  “An Appellation functioning as some kind of guardian spirit… the Eye—that’s the vessel,” he mutters, hurling crumpled battle reports onto the floor. “But why didn’t he kill me? I suppose he didn’t want to kill the top commanding officer of a foreign nation and risk inciting war. Still, he could have left no traces.”

  He exhales sharply.

  “His portal-hopping only registered him as a presence—not a name. I suppose he doesn’t know that, since we have the Log.”

  He clenches his jaw. He cannot yet face the raven-haired woman’s judgment—Rea’s Vessel of the Mind.

  Rea, though not the most powerful nation in brute force, possesses two grimoires: the Ear and the Mind. The Ear’s ability to register crucial moments no matter the circumstance, combined with the Mind’s capacity to interpret the world with near-perfect clarity, makes them a strategic threat far greater than any physical power.

  Seriol, having “misplaced” its Appellation entirely and now seemingly defenceless, makes every effort to remain cordial. It has become a major ally and benefactor of Rea.

  Rea, among the major nations, is one of the most pleasant to its citizens. The raven-haired woman, Yumi, is a kind woman who is loved by the masses both in private and in the open, by commoners and the wealthy alike. No class is split by privilege; the only distinction is the accumulation of wealth, which all have opportunity for.

  In Yumi’s chamber, she lies on a fur sofa with her head hanging off the edge, as if relieving weight from it. She is aware of the assassination’s failure—she was aware before she sent it. She is aware of the Appellation protecting Seraphiel and is cognizant that all their objectives will fail. She wants to reveal this wildcard’s actions, and she wants to provoke the king.

  A knock at her door.

  “Madam, please—will you see to my son? His mind is fragmented. He sees things he should not and hears things never said.”

  Yumi smiles. In an instant, without hearing more or seeing the boy, she hands over a prepared note with guidance on a herbal remedy before closing the door with a smile, careful not to be seen as rude.

  She moves to her desk and opens her grimoire.

  Her fingers glide across the pages, and her eyes roll upward.

  She inhabits the mind of the Envoy. She sees through his eyes, shares his desires—she becomes him. Absolute empathy and understanding, both affective and cognitive.

  She shrieks in terror, destroying her stone-cold composure as she once again crashes into the table, losing consciousness.