By the ti you read this, I suppose I will have already reunited with your father.
I wonder if I fulfilled my responsibilities properly at the end. Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself.
In any case, Reinhard—happy fifteenth birthday.
This book is my gift to you. You didn't open it early, did you? I gave Master Valerius very strict instructions. You must be much taller now, and surely you've beco a magnificent magic user.
Are you still practicing your father's swordsmanship? I know... many painful things have happened. You've poured in so much effort, only to feel as though nothing remains. But please, do not admit defeat.
There will be tis when you feel lonely. There will be tis when you want to cry. But never forget: you are a noble of the House of Andrew.
Reinhard's gaze froze on that final line. The parchnt slipped from his trembling fingers, fluttering onto the dust-laden floor.
He couldn't hold it back anymore. He curled into a ball on the cold ground, clutching the letter against his chest as if trying to pull the words into his heart, wailing with every scrap of strength in his lungs. Tears and bile sared across his face, but he didn't care.
His father's death. The fall of Iron Fortress. The Hero's end. His mother's blood staining her plain dress.
The scenes replayed in his mind like a twisted carousel, each rotation a blade cutting deeper into his soul. Why? Why was he so powerless? Why was he so weak that he could do nothing but watch?
The wails eventually faded into suppressed, ragged sobs, until finally, there was only silence. Reinhard lay on the frigid floor, feeling as though the very marrow of his bones had been hollowed out. He didn't want to move. He didn't want to exist. Perhaps rotting here in the dark was the most fitting end for a failure like him.
Ti lost its aning.
Eventually, his eyes drifted toward the rows of bookshelves. Hundreds of volus. Hundreds of envelopes tucked into the spines.
The gift for sixteen. The gift for seventeen. The gift for eighteen...
Reinhard's gaze returned to the letter on the floor.
"But never forget: you are a noble of the House of Andrew."
Noble. What did that word even an?
Was it like his father—standing upon a crumbling wall for his people until the very end? Was it like his mother—using her own body as a shield to intercept a lethal blade ant for her son? Was it like the Hero—burning his life to a cinder to protect strangers?
He reached out and retrieved the letter. Looking at the familiar script, the image of her gentle face filled his mind.
"A proper noble... must remain composed..." her final breath whispered in his ear once more.
Reinhard slowly sat up. He wiped his face with a stiff, chanical motion of his sleeve. He stood, leaving the basent that still carried the faint, lingering scent of his mother, and walked back through the courtyard.
The flowers she had planted were still in bloom, vibrant and defiant.
He returned to his room in the guest wing. The Holy Sword sat silently on the table. He walked toward it and reached out. The mont his fingertips brushed the hilt—
HUM—
The blade let out a sharp, resonant ring. A golden radiance flowed along the steel, reflecting in Reinhard's hollow eyes. He gripped the hilt tight.
"I will beco..." he paused, a vow forming in the depths of his Od, spoken to the sword and his own soul. "A true noble."
Lilia was running.
She didn't know where, only that she had to flee. Away from that place, away from that castle, away from the eyes of the living. Panic had a death grip on her heart.
Why had she drawn her knife? Why had she lunged at Reinhard? Why... why was that kind woman the one who took the blow?
The look in Reinhard's eyes when Lino fell—that mixture of horror and righteous fury—was branded into her psyche.
"It wasn't ..." Lilia sobbed as she sprinted, her vision blurring, her path growing jagged. "I didn't do it..."
She wanted to go ho. Back to Iron Fortress. Back to the small, poor shack where her parents and Hamus had once lived. If she could just get back there, everything would be okay. Yes. Ho.
The thought sustained her, pushing her through exhaustion and hunger until her legs moved purely by instinct.
CRACK.
A sickening snap echoed. A white-hot spike of agony shot up from her ankle. Lilia lost her balance, slamming into the dirt. She struggled to rise, but her mangled ankle could no longer support her weight.
She couldn't stand. Lilia stared at her twisted foot, no sound escaping her throat. She flattened herself against the earth and began to crawl, her hands digging into the grit and soil.
Ho. I have to go ho.
Her nails were ground down to the quick, then torn. Blood stained her fingertips, but she felt no pain. She only knew she had to move forward.
She crawled. And crawled. Her movents slowed. Her consciousness began to flicker like a guttering candle.
What is life? Who am I? Why am I still breathing?
Lilia stopped. She lifted her head. Ahead of her was a field of wild flowers in full bloom. Under the dying light of the sunset, each petal looked like a flickering fla.
So familiar.
A blurred, smiling face surfaced in her mind. Hamus. He had once picked flowers like these for her, his face turning as red as the evening clouds as he clumsily handed them over.
Lilia gazed at the sea of flowers. The madness and agony on her face slowly dissolved into a strange, hollow peace. She allowed a small, faint smile to touch her lips. With her final strength, she dragged herself into the soft, fragrant blossoms.
The scent of the earth and the flora enveloped her.
So tired. I'm so very tired.
Let it end here.
Lilia closed her eyes. In the final second of her life, a wisp of almost imperceptible purple-black miasma drifted from the nape of her neck, dissipating into the air.
Her breathing stilled.
Jade Territory, The Count's Castle.
Inside the study, Count Barton sat alone behind his desk. The fire in the hearth cast long, dancing shadows across his weary face.
The Hero had failed. Humanity's hope had been snuffed out as easily as a candle in a gale. What ca next? Surrender? To a tide of dead things that knew only slaughter? Barton's fist tightened.
Creaaak—
The door to the study was nudged open.
"Who is it?" Barton looked up, his voice sharp with vigilance. He didn't call for the guards; at this hour, only a handful of people could enter his study without announcent.
A figure stepped through the doorway. He wore an immaculately tailored suit of noble's evening wear. His stride was elegant, his features so handso they seed almost non-human. He walked to the center of the room and offered an impeccable, courtly bow.
"My deepest apologies for the late intrusion, esteed Count Barton."
The visitor's voice was warm, carrying a strange, magnetic resonance. But Barton's body stiffened instantly, his every instinct screaming.
"Who are you?" Barton's voice was a low growl. His hand drifted beneath the desk toward the ergency bell.
"?" The man smiled, stepping closer to the desk. His gaze landed on a letter sitting on the blotter. "I am rely... a ssenger of peace."
He reached out as if to take the letter.
"Don't touch that!" Barton barked.
The man's hand stopped in mid-air. He looked up at Barton, the smile never leaving his face. "My Lord Count, why so tense?"
In the next heartbeat, Barton felt his body pinned to his chair by an invisible, crushing force. He couldn't move. He couldn't even twitch a finger. Cold sweat soaked through his shirt instantly.
The man ignored him, glancing at the contents of the letter. "Are you already preparing to send out intelligence regarding us? You move quite quickly."
He turned his head back to the paralyzed Count.
"Allow to introduce myself. My na is Greed."
"Under my Master's command, I have co to discuss a trade... regarding the future of Jade Territory."
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