Night blanketed the capital of Vanadias, casting a shadow over an atmosphere already tensed enough.
Commotion surged through every corner of the city as citizens sensed sothing was amiss. The Teraquin Royal Army had sealed off the city entirely, cordoning off streets with rows of soldiers, their armor gleaming under the moonlight. Hundreds-perhaps thousands-stood guard, their expressions stern and eyes vigilant. With no explanation given, an order swept through the capital, instructing all residents to exit their hos and stand outside with their families.
Initially, unease rippled through the crowd, mingling with murmurs of confusion, but when the next command resonated, comprehension dawned. Sothing monuntal was underway. The air grew taut as a new order was barked out, forcing families to divide by race. Elves were gathered in one sector, while Vampires, Werewolves, and Humans were directed to another. Those of mixed heritage-Halves-were relegated to a separate, final sector.
"Hold your ranks!"
"You there! Stop moving!"
"Don't even think about trying anything clever. Get to your designated race rank!"
The city's residents complied, many reluctantly, their expressions flashing with outrage and anxiety. Elves, clearly favored, received gentler, respectful treatnt, though a certain firmness marked the soldiers' tone with them. The other races-Vampires, Werewolves, and Humans-faced sharper gazes. And finally, the Halves were t with outright hostility, treated like criminals, herded into their places as though any mont they might attempt an escape.
In pockets of the crowd, frustration boiled over. So defied the orders, shouting or attempting to resist, only to be ruthlessly subdued. Soldiers moved swiftly, restraining dissenters with practiced efficiency, and those who resisted too fiercely were beaten down, brutal displays ant to discourage further defiance.
The strongest among them-those who would have otherwise defended their dignity-chose patience over confrontation. This was the Teraquin Royal Army, and the implications of a wrong move were grave.
anwhile, in the Teraquin port, a spectacle unlike any other unfolded, drawing a second wave of collective breath from those who beheld it. Ships glided into the harbor, one after another, their flags bearing the emblem of Utopia. Though the sight suggested an impending invasion, the knights of Teraquin stood calmly along the shoreline with eerie composure.
Panic swept through the nearby residents. So fled instinctively, terror in their eyes, certain that the city was under attack. But others lingered, captivated.
Talks of truce ongoing between Sancta Vedelia and Utopia were widely known already. For them the only reason the Teraquin knights could be waiting for them as if Utopia was an important guest was that the talks ended well.
Finally, a grand, opulently adorned ship drifted into place, its hull painted in colors so deep they seed to drink in the starlight. This was no re vessel but a floating fortress. The ship docked at the quai, the very spot where Amael and John had arrived almost ten months prior as criminals under rehabilitation.
One by one, Knights of Utopia descended the ship's ramp. Their silver armor shone like the very moonlight above, encasing them from head to toe. Only their ears remained visible, a glint of pale skin amid the gleaming tal. In disciplined formation, they arranged themselves in two lines along the quai.
Even the hardened Teraquin Knights couldn't help but feel a touch of awe as they stood in the presence of the Utopian knights. These knights radiated an intense charisma that hinted at rigorous training and impeccable discipline. The Teraquin soldiers murmured quietly among themselves, convinced they were witnessing the very finest warriors Utopia had to offer, the elite of the elite. And they were right. These Utopian knights had spent years preparing for this mont, each one keenly aware of their role and purpose, moving with the ease of n who'd rehearsed a thousand tis.
With a low groan, the grand staircase connected to the ship slowly descended, its polished wood gleaming as it thudded into place upon the ground of Sancta Vedelia. The thick, reinforced doors of the ship opened, releasing a cool wave of air that carried the faint, rich scent of the sea. As the crowd's gaze settled on the figure erging, a hush fell, reverent and breathless.
The first to step forward was a man of striking beauty, and his appearance alone put imdiate silence. His silver hair, ticulously swept back, cascaded over his shoulders in a way that seed both natural and intentional, a glimr of elegance under the pale night sky. His elongated, pointed ears-unmistakable markers of his pure High Elven heritage- bore delicate earrings that dangled like void eyes, dark and reflective in the night breeze. His attire was to the finest traditions of the Elves, a ceremonial dress adorned with golden embroidery that caught the light with each step.
But his eyes captivated the crowd the most. They were an intense heterochromia, his right eye a piercing deep blue like the midnight sea, his left a vivid, erald green, each iridescent hue glowing faintly in the dimness. He looked remarkably young-barely twenty by human standards—yet his gaze carried a wisdom beyond his youthful features. His presence was magnetic, casting an enthralling spell over the onlookers, be they Elves, Vampires, Werewolves, Humans, or Halves.
This was Durathiel Ruvelion, Prince of the High Elves and Commander-in-Chief of Utopia's Armies. With his hands clasped calmly behind his back, he paused on the top step, surveying the crowd that stretched below him.
"Lord Durathiel."
A figure below broke the silence, his voice edged with deference. A high elf hurried forward, lowering himself to one knee, quickly followed by every other Utopian knight present. The one who'd spoken was Kamarel, an emissary who had arrived in Vanadias earlier, now assuming the honored role of welcoming his lord.
Durathiel inclined his head with the slightest of nods, acknowledging Kamarel and the gathered knights. Then, with a asured grace, he began to descend the staircase. Behind him followed another figure, one more subdued but no less striking in his presence. This was an elderly high elf, his age evident in his lined face and the spectacles perched upon his nose. He leaned lightly on a cane, though his movents were careful and controlled. This was Grukel, Durathiel's personal advisor. Though his appearance was unassuming, there was a latent power in his gaze, a coldness that suggested he was soone dangerous. "You didn't have to co this far, Your Highness," Kamarel said, his head still respectfully bowed as Durathiel stepped onto the ground beside him.
Durathiel observed the land with a calm but profound gaze, letting the silence settle before replying. "I needed to see our ancestral lands with my own eyes.'
Grukel, the elder advisor, shifted his gaze to Kamarel. "How are things progressing here, Kamarel?"
Kamarel lifted his gaze briefly. "If you'll follow , we'll et Kendel Teraquin shortly," he replied, gesturing toward the royal carriage that had arrived-a gleaming symbol of luxury, pulled by four of the finest and fastest horses the kingdom could muster.
With a practiced bow, Kamarel held the carriage door open, allowing Durathiel to step inside, followed closely by Grukel, who adjusted his cloak as he settled in beside his lord. As the door clicked shut, the driver urged the horses forward, and they surged ahead with practiced speed. The cobbled roads had been cleared, patrolled, and reinforced for Durathiel's passage, ensuring no delay would impede the swift journey to the royal palace.
The carriage rolled smoothly along the darkened roads, its lanterns casting a steady light onto the shadowed trees and grand estates flanking the route. Though Vanadias was only a short journey from the port, their carriage's reinforced build and the unmatched vigor of the horses brought them to the palace within two hours. By the ti they arrived, night had completely settled over the capital, a pitch-black sky shrouding the towers and walls of the
royal grounds.
The palace gates swung open the mont the carriage drew near, the knights of Teraquin bowing deeply in unison, acknowledging the Utopian entourage respectfully. Among them stood Turan, who regarded the scene with an unreadable expression. Durathiel strode past the
guards silently.
Kamarel, following closely, turned to Turan with a narrow-eyed question. "Why is Kendel Teraquin not here to greet Prince Durathiel himself?" He asked, his tone edged with barely
concealed irritation.
Turan held Kamarel's gaze coldly. "Mind your words, emissary. It is His Highness Kendel
Teraquin."
At this, a small smile tugged at the corners of Grukel's lips as he followed Durathiel into the vast corridors of the palace while Kamarel scoffed lightly.
After a silent procession through dimly lit hallways, they arrived at the grand double doors of the throne hall. With a creak, the massive doors swung open, and Durathiel stepped forward, frad by the opulent glow of the hall's chandelier. His gaze swept across the scene before
him.
Kendel Teraquin sat poised upon the throne, clothed in rich, resplendent robes typically reserved for the reigning monarch. His expression was imperious, his posture exuding an air of quiet arrogance. Flanking him was Allen Teraquin, who stood beside his brother with a somber look, his brows furrowed. A little further back were Glamir and Neia Teraquin, both watching the scene unfold with mixed expressions, the forr with a grin and the latter
conflicted.
Kamarel's gaze darkened as he observed the setup, Kendel Teraquin's decision to receive Durathiel from his elevated seat on the throne-a clear ssage that he intended to assert his authority, insisting that this was his domain.
With a small smile that barely reached his eyes, Kendel inclined his head. "Greetings and welco to Vanadias, Prince Durathiel."
"..." Kendel stared at Kendel for a mont but didn't return the greetings.
Grukel stepped forward, his cane striking the marble floor with a resonant thud that took all attention in the throne hall. He gave a polite bow before lifting his gaze to et Kendel's. "Your Highness, our presence here is to confirm if the terms of our arrangent have been
t."
"..." Kendel's expression remained unreadable.
Grukel's lips curved in a knowing chuckle, "Celeste Indi Zestella, the forthcoming Prophetess... Alvara Freydis Teraquin-the Princess, whom you assured would be present to discuss the union with His Royal Highness Durathiel." His voice dropped slightly, taking on an edge. "Let us not overlook Alector Raonpherys. Without him, it will be most hard to gain access to the Holy Tree of Eden. And lastly... the Seed of Eden."
At this, a ripple of shock washed over the Teraquin siblings. Allen's eyes widened, his expression breaking in disbelief, while Neia's hands clenched.
The Seed of Eden—a legendary artifact, an ancient Hallow of Eden, presud lost amidst the devastation of the Blood Moon War. Whispers of its existence had persisted, though its precise whereabouts remained a mystery, buried deep within the lore of Sancta Vedelia. The thought that Kendel not only knew where to find it but had pledged it to Utopia was nothing
short of shocking.
"Celeste Indi Zestella remains within the boundaries of the Forest of Ashenor. Once we dismantle the protective domain, capturing her will be inevitable. After all, her father is securely in our custody." A faint smile crossed his lips. "As for my sister, Alvara, she too is
within Ashenor and should be exiting the forest soon."
"Alector?" Grukel prompted.
"Currently in Central Vedelia," Kendel replied. "Likely he is already reinforcing the defenses there and closing its borders to the eight other Kingdoms."
Grukel let out a low chuckle, a trace of amusent flickering in his eyes as he rembered the
old Alector. "The sa selfish Alector."
"The Seed." Durathiel, who had remained silent until now, fixed Kendel with his gaze. Kendel t Durathiel's gaze evenly. "First," he replied coolly, "you will respect your part of
the engagent. Your ambitions will remain but a dream as long as Lazarus Raven and Duncan Tepes draw breath on these grounds."
They were the two nas that Utopia was the most scared about as they were the two
Demigods of Sancta Vedelia.
Grukel's smile turned cold as he replied, "Lazarus is no longer an obstacle," he said, strangely
certain. "And, soon enough, neither will Duncan be."
"So you think," Kendel replied. "Then you should have no qualms about arranging my
engagent-with Freya Ruvelion."
Kamarel stiffened slightly at the demand. Kendel was clearly playing his cards, using his own
demands to ensure his control over the negotiations. Without Freya's hand in marriage,
Kendel would not entrust any of them. Durathiel's expression remained inscrutable. He took a single step forward, as he locked eyes
with Kendel. "Then bring the Seed. You have two months."
Then Durathiel turned on his heel.
"Otherwise what?" Kendel asked coldly. The underlying threat grated against his instincts,
stirring a deep, unwelco unease that twisted in his gut.
Duratheil's gaze remained cold. Without a word, he extended his hand toward Glamir. Just
monts earlier, Glamir had been smiling confidently, but that ease evaporated instantly as a strange, frightening mana filled the air.
A piercing beam of silver light, cold and relentless, erupted from Duratheil's hand, the aura
seeming almost alive with nace as it streaked through the air and struck Glamir squarely in the chest.
Glamir's expression slackened, his eyes fluttered, then closed as his body crumpled forward, collapsing to the ground with a heavy, lifeless thud.
"Glamir!" Neia cried, dropping to her knees beside him. She reached for him, her hands
trembling as she checked his pulse. Her fingers pressed against his wrist, only to find his heartbeat dangerously faint, barely discernible, as if life itself were slowly slipping away. Desperation clawed at her as she tried to rouse him, shaking his shoulders, even digging her
nails into his skin, but his eyes stayed closed, his face eerily serene as if he were suspended between life and death.
"What did you do?" Kendel roared, leaping to his feet. His eyes locked onto Durathiel, who
lowered his hand, a faint, silver symbol glowing upon his palm. It pulsed with an otherworldly sheen.
The symbol of Samael's Sloth.
"Don't try ."
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