Chapter 187

The moment flames erupted from the fortress at Riosa, Rezette knew the plan had succeeded. The brother’s strategy, his sister’s execution—the two had struck with perfect precision. From his vantage point upon the ridge, the burning fortress was no mere structure in ruin; it was a single, vast blaze, a pillar of fire that seemed to reach into the heavens.

Yet even as triumph flickered in his chest, he could not remain idle. He had promised Elise he would wait. He had sworn to trust her. But success did not guarantee her safety, and Rezette Kyrstan was not a man built for inaction. The instant he saw the fire consume the stronghold, he gave the order.

“Kill every Ugel soldier who escapes the fortress. Send the Argan men down into the gorge—move!”

The command had scarcely left his lips before he was already in motion. But what greeted him as he and his men crested the final rise was a sight beyond anything imagination could conjure.

The fortress had vanished behind a cyclone of flame. The walls were lost beneath a storm of fire that roared like a living beast. From the gaping gates poured smoke so thick and black it blotted out the sun. Ruben, who had gone ahead to survey the structure, came stumbling back, his voice hoarse.

“We can’t approach, Your Grace! The flames won’t yield—it’s not natural fire!”

Rezette stared into the inferno, narrowing his eyes. The blaze devoured everything within its reach—stone, steel, and flesh alike. It was not ordinary fire; it was a sentient hunger, a force that consumed life itself. When Rezette extended his own magic toward it, his power was swallowed whole. Worse still, it seemed to feed the flames, not quell them. His dragonborn mana only made the blaze flare higher.

The instant he realized it, he pulled his magic back, teeth grinding in frustration.

She’s still inside.

His palm was slick with sweat. He strained to sense the unique current of power that marked teleportation, that faint ripple Elise’s spells always left behind—but there was nothing. Not even the smallest trace.

One second. Two. Three. Each heartbeat stretched into eternity.

Then he decided.

No more waiting. No more hesitation. He seized the reins, spurred his black stallion forward, and charged straight into the flames. Ruben’s desperate shout—“Your Grace!”—vanished behind him.

The stench of burning stone and flesh filled his lungs, but he did not slow. He tore through the choking smoke, through the crumbling archway of the gate. The heat was unbearable; even the fortress stones ran molten like wax. Any ordinary soldier would have perished in seconds. But Rezette, touched by dragon’s blood, strode through the fire as if through mist.

“Elise!” His voice rang out, hoarse but unwavering.

They had promised—no matter what happened, she would call to him when it was done. Yet the only reply was the crackle of flame and the low groan of collapsing stone.

He halted abruptly. Beneath the choking air, he felt it: a pulse of energy so vile, so familiar that every nerve in his body recoiled.

Sameshita.

The name slithered through his mind like venom. A cold shudder crawled up his spine. Could it be that Elise could no longer summon him—that she was already trapped beyond reach? A surge of dread, raw and violent, clenched his chest. He bit down hard enough that his jaw ached.

Still, he felt nothing of her—no spark, no whisper. Only Sameshita’s taint pervaded the ruins. Rezette leapt across the debris like a man possessed. The flames licked harmlessly at his armor, but inside, his heart felt as though it were burning to ash.

“Elise… Elise!”

The fortress was collapsing in on itself, walls caving, ceilings melting. The smell of charred flesh hung heavy in the air. Nowhere did he catch the faintest trace of her scent—the delicate fragrance of fresh blooms she always carried.

Then, without warning, the fire’s heat vanished. The air grew still, eerily cold.

***

Elise barely had time to draw breath. Magic surged around her in a furious cyclone, too fast for the eye to follow. The threads of energy twisted and bound, forming a lattice that sealed her in. Only as the spell flared did she recognize what it was.

Teleportation.

She gasped. “You’re moving us? Where—?”

Her question died in her throat as the world reformed before her eyes.

The scene that unfolded was so bright, so impossibly vivid that for a heartbeat she thought she must be dreaming. The alabaster towers gleamed in the sun, spires glistening like ivory. The scent of marble and morning air filled her lungs.

Before her stood the Imperial Palace of Argan—the Golden Fortress of Opel.

Her home.

She froze, dumbstruck. How? The distance between Riosa and Opel spanned half the southern continent. Yet here she was, standing beneath the banners of the empire, beneath the high towers upon which the barbarian flags now hung limp in the breeze.

“This… this is…”

Her voice faltered into a whisper. “The capital?”

Sameshita’s laughter rippled beside her, silken and cruel. “Indeed. The Imperial City of Argan.”

He seized her arm, his grip firm as iron, and forced her upright. Magic pulsed through her, harsh and invasive.

“Now,” he said, smiling as though he were offering her a dance, “take me to Gallian’s tomb. At once.”

***

“Kh–!”

The Ugel soldiers guarding the palace chapel flew aside as if swept by an invisible hand. Some fell with their necks twisted at unnatural angles; others were struck by bolts of lightning that reduced them to smoldering husks. Not even the briefest cry escaped them.

With each step they took, the floor behind them was littered with corpses. Elise’s shoulders stiffened under the weight of the slaughter.

Sameshita’s golden eyes glimmered with a fervent gleam. As they passed beneath the high arches of the chapel, he drank in the sight like a man possessed.

“So this is the kingdom you built after betraying me,” he said, voice echoing grandly through the vaulted chamber. Laughter burst from him, wild and thunderous, reverberating off the walls until even the stained glass trembled.

He no longer bothered with Andrei’s voice; the sound that filled the chapel was purely his own—deep, resonant, and inhuman.

“I’ve watched it only through your descendants’ eyes until now,” he went on, turning in delighted circles like a child. “But to feel it for myself—marvelous! Elegant! Every inch of it, a reflection of what I taught!”

He was not wrong. The palace had been constructed centuries ago by Gallian, Argan’s first emperor and Sameshita’s favored disciple. No mortal architect had aided him. For a hundred days and nights, Gallian had raised the capital alone with his magic, shaping stone and sky alike into symmetry. The tallest spires pierced the heavens; the archways and domes intertwined with perfect balance. Legends claimed that the magic in the palace walls could still sing when the wind passed through them.

Elise kept walking, unsteady but resolute. I didn’t think he’d bring me straight to the capital.

She knew he would not release her until he had taken what he wanted. It was better to guide him quickly and end it than to risk provoking him further.

The passage to the imperial crypt lay beneath the altar at the heart of the chapel. Two stairways curved downward on either side, meeting at a pair of massive doors below. The marks of battle scarred the walls—deep cracks where barbarian axes had struck, scorch marks from broken spells. The roof above the stairs had half-collapsed; one side of the stone steps was shattered.

Elise chose her footing carefully, descending along the intact edge. Overhead, Sameshita tilted his head back to admire the painted ceiling, where the founding of Argan was depicted in glimmering gold. Then his gaze fell upon her again, burning with quiet impatience.

“Come,” he said curtly.

She reached for Andrei’s hand—the body he inhabited—and took his index finger in her grasp. “Give me your hand.”

Without hesitation, she bit down, drawing a bead of blood. The copper tang of it mingled with dust and the faint scent of stone. She smeared it across her palm, then drew her own blood and mixed the two together.

“Twins are one,” she murmured. “The crypt won’t open without both.”

The mingled blood soaked into the carved sigils upon the door. Light burst forth, white and pure, as if the stone itself exhaled. The seal recognized the blood of the imperial line and yielded. The doors groaned open.

Cold air wafted from within, thick with the scent of old magic and earth. Elise stepped inside, her footsteps echoing faintly down the spiral of the descent.

The imperial catacombs were vast, a labyrinth beneath the palace. Here rested the emperors and empresses of Argan, along with those few royals whose mastery of magic had earned them the right to lie among their sovereigns.

Her breath came easier as she entered. The air here pulsed faintly with mana—the distilled essence of centuries of rule.

“There are seven chambers,” she said quietly, more to herself than to him. “Each one older than the last.”

The first tomb she passed belonged to her parents, the late Emperor and Empress. Beyond that were the graves of her grandparents, who had died before her birth.

At last, she reached the innermost chamber—the oldest of them all.

“Some here,” she whispered, “were not buried as ashes but as whole bodies. The heroes who stood beside the dragon himself: Gallian, Ignashio, Hugo.”

Three of Sameshita’s five disciples rested here. Their relics were entombed with them.

The dragon grew quieter the deeper they went. By the time they entered the final vault, his mirth had vanished entirely.

Only three stone markers stood there, simple yet majestic. Along the walls stretched intricate arrays of script and symbols—the work of Ignashio, the historian among the five. He had chronicled everything: the meeting of Gallian and the dragon, the teachings they shared, the nature of magic, and the eventual schism that tore them apart.

When Sameshita crossed the threshold into the final chamber, the ground shuddered. The walls trembled with a low, mournful hum. Elise stumbled, clutching at the base of the staircase, and sank to her knees. The vibrations pulsed through her body like a heartbeat.

“So this is where you buried him,” Sameshita murmured.

Elise had expected him to rush forward, to claw open Gallian’s tomb in fury. But instead, he merely stood there, eyes tracing the inscriptions upon the walls.

“Ah, Ignashio,” he said softly, his tone almost wistful. “You were the brightest after Gallian. More gifted in theory than he ever was. You and Hugo—loyal to the end. As for Lucia and Septimion… ah, they’re not here, are they? Pity. They sided with me, after all.”

He chuckled under his breath, though there was no mirth in it. His eyes gleamed with a predatory hunger.

Elise wrapped her cloak tighter, keeping her distance as he wandered among the tombs, murmuring to ghosts long dead.

By now, she thought, her heart tightening, I should have already returned to Rezette.

The thought made her chest ache. The longing to see him—to feel his hand, his voice—rose in her throat like a sob. But her breath came short, her body heavy, her abdomen tightening painfully.

Her time was running out.