Sol Palace, Heartfire Plateau
Apollo, Sol star system
Regulus galaxy
Pleiades star sector
16th Krios cycle, Solaris prime
The corridor that led to the Sun Throne was silent, save for the faint hum of radiant conduits pulsing beneath the obsidian-tiled floor. Leon walked alone, his steps measured and unhurried, the soles of his boots brushing against sun-carved sigils etched into the path—ancestral scripts of the Haravok bloodline, humming softly with his presence.
The air was warm with residual solar energy, the kind that gently radiated from the core of the palace itself. Tall pillars of translucent sunstone flanked either side of the corridor, glowing with internal luminescence that reacted to his proximity, casting elongated shadows behind him. Here, in the upper sanctum of the Sol Palace, the architecture was both functional and ceremonial—designed not merely to house the ruling line of Apollo, but to affirm its supremacy with every step taken.
Ahead, the arched gateway to the Sun Throne Hall loomed—massive, circular, and forged from starlaced obsidian alloy, veined with molten gold that traced a solar sigil across the entire surface. As Leon approached, the gate recognized his bio-signature. Without a sound, the structure separated down the middle, each half folding away in a spiral motion, like petals withdrawing from a bloom.
Inside, the Sun Throne Hall revealed itself—a circular chamber the size of a starport dome, ringed by solar pylons that channeled energy from the Solar Core Crystal above. Beams of concentrated sunlight streamed down through the lattice of the high ceiling, striking designated plates in the floor to provide heat, light, and mana-saturation throughout the hall. Everything in the room existed in harmonic balance with the Red Sun above. It wasn't just a throne room.
It was a living solar circuit.
At the heart of the chamber, raised on a stepped platform of polished volcanic glass and solarstone, stood the Sun Throne itself. It was less a chair and more a structure—a seat of power grown from a fusion of archaic solar forge design and divine reinforcement. Its back stretched high into the air like a solar flare, curving into a crown-like arc adorned with ancient runes. The base of the throne pulsed with light, a reservoir of radiant mana channeled directly from the planetary leyline beneath the palace.
As Leon stepped onto the dais, the throne activated in response. Runes ignited, slowly spreading out from its base in concentric circles, interfacing with his presence. The chamber brightened slightly, the sunlight shifting in color to match his internal energy signature—deep gold with hints of crimson at the edge. He paused before sitting, turning instead to look at the guests standing a respectful distance away near the edge of the hall.
Leon said nothing at first. He simply observed.
Each of the guest were tall—cloaked in a robe woven with Earthbound fibers and plated with adaptive armor. A traveler's uniform, shaped by practicality more than formality. From this distance, Leon could see traces of Terran technology embedded in the figure's vambraces and cloak nodes, subtle but refined. A visitor from Terra, standing at the threshold of the solar bloodline's inner sanctum. Eleanor stood at the guest's side, silent but vigilant. Her eyes flicked briefly to Leon, offering the faintest nod. The guest was unarmed—physically, at least. Leon studied them for a long moment before descending a step from the dais.
"Welcome," Leon said, his voice steady and resonant, echoing faintly through the radiant chamber. "You've come a long way to stand before the Sun Throne."
He didn't ask who they were—not yet.
Because he already knew.
His gaze settled on the robed figure, noting the cut of the cloak, the Terran fibertech lining, and the slight tilt of the head that always gave her away. His expression remained unreadable.
"How goes Terra, Vuelo?"
A soft giggle broke the air—light, melodic, and far too controlled to be spontaneous.
The figure reached up with delicate, gloved fingers and pulled back her hood.
Vuelo Vysileaf stood revealed—her pale complexion almost porcelain beneath the filtered solar light of the throne chamber. Her long silver hair spilled over her shoulders like woven moonlight, catching the golden hues around them in soft reflections. But what stood out, as always, were her eyes: one crimson, one silver—an omen's gaze, beautiful and unsettling.
Leon studied her closely, remembering the last time they had met. She had been a Seer-for-hire then, selling cryptic visions and fractured truths, her allegiance unknown. At the time, he hadn't realized she was part of something larger—a shadow node in his mother's far-reaching web.
"Terra," Vuelo said, bowing low in fluid, almost ceremonial grace, "is undergoing significant changes, Your Highness. Changes that I know will be of great interest to you."
There was a glint in her dual-colored eyes—a shimmer of intent she made no effort to hide. It wasn't malicious… but it wasn't innocent either. It was that same quiet calculation he had seen a thousand times before in another set of eyes.
His mother's.
Leon's gaze shifted past her, narrowing slightly as he noted the second figure still cloaked, still silent.
"You don't have to hide yourself, Cousin," he said, his tone neutral but laced with subtle challenge.
At his words, the second figure hesitated, then reached up to lower her hood.
Aria Delphi.
Her features emerged beneath the cloth—light brown skin, smooth and unblemished, framed by soft yellow hair pulled back in tight braids. Her blue eyes, clear and alert, glinted with restrained tension. Once, her eyes had mirrored Leon's own, back when he still bore the gaze of a mortal. That shared trait had always unsettled him in some small, unspoken way.
"Cousin," Aria said, nodding respectfully. Her tone was formal, but something in it resisted warmth.
Leon blinked, his expression unreadable. Of all the people he expected to see standing in his hall, Aria had not been one of them. They were blood, yes. But barely family. His memories of her were scattered—moments spent in training halls, brief interactions at political gatherings, visions seen in passing. What tied them more than anything was the fact that while his mother trained Aria personally, he had been left behind—sent off to distant martial sects, passed from one teacher to the next like a burden too heavy for any single person to carry.
Leon had never resented Aria for it. Not exactly. But it was hard not to feel the imbalance.
"I didn't expect to see you here," Leon admitted. "Last I heard, you were busy whispering to stars in the Dreaming Halls."
"For a time," Aria replied. "I'm here because Vuelo has shown me a future that requires my presence here."
Of course she did. Leon resisted the urge to scoff. He had little patience for seers, even less for those who believed foresight exempted them from consequence. Visions came and went, and too often, they served agendas disguised as prophecy. He turned his attention back to Vuelo.
"So tell me," he said, his tone sharpening slightly, "why have you dragged my cousin across systems to meet me now? What future are you trying to manipulate this time?"
Vuelo's smile deepened. She clasped her hands in front of her, her aura soft but steady.
"Not manipulate, Leon. Catalyze. Terra is awakening… and you're at the center of what comes next." Vuelo said.
"Have you heard from my mother?" Leon asked, his voice directed to both women.
There was a moment of silence. A subtle tension passed through the air, one only noticeable to those who paid attention. Leon did. He saw it immediately: the flicker in Aria's expression, the tightening of her jaw, the micro-shift in her posture. She knew something. Or had once hoped to.
Vuelo answered first.
"I'm afraid I haven't spoken to Julia since the Metamorphosis of Terra," she said, tone neutral but laced with something distant—perhaps respect, perhaps regret.
Leon's eyes shifted to Aria. "What about you, cousin? Surely the Delphi clan knows where their head is."
Aria didn't respond immediately. When she did, her voice was steady, but there was a weight to it.
"Aunt Julia hasn't returned to the Dreaming Hall in decades," she said. "The last time I saw her… she left me on Terra. Said it was my time to lead the clan."
"I see," Leon replied quietly.
His face remained unreadable. Stoic. But beneath the calm, a tide of thoughts surged.
There was so much he needed to say to his mother. So many questions unanswered. Not just about the Twilight Crown, or the path she had woven for him—but about the cost she had paid to shape it. He had wondered, again and again, whether she had acted out of foresight or faith… or something deeper that only a Seer could understand.
Yet, she was always just beyond reach, as she had been for most of his life.
Leon forced his breathing to remain even. He wouldn't allow himself to show the frustration. It was too easy to mistake silence for resentment, and the truth was far more complicated.
Despite everything, Leon loved his mother.
Fiercely. Unconditionally.
He, more than anyone, understood the price she had paid. The way she had cast him into the crucibles of the galaxy's harshest martial sects—not to abandon him, but to forge him. It was there, in the fires of combat and discipline, that he had learned how to master pain, how to wield mana as both weapon and shield, how to survive. Those years had tempered his body and mind long before the Twilight Crown reforged his soul.
If not for that foundation, Leon doubted he would have lasted long enough to earn the Crown's blessing.
He took a long breath and shifted focus, letting go of what he could not control, for now.
"I understand that Terra is the ancestral homeland of my mother's people," he said, turning to Aria. "But I am Haravok, not Delphi. My blood may trace back to the Seers, but my loyalty lies with the House of Leo. So tell me again—how exactly am I tied to Terra's fate?"
He didn't mention Sam.
Didn't allow her name to form on his tongue.
He knew Terra was her home. Knew that if he allowed his feelings for her to influence his judgment, it would cloud everything. He couldn't afford that—not now. For too long, he had been absent from Apollo, from the affairs of the House of Leo. He had no intention of abandoning them again.
Before either woman could answer, Vuelo spoke again, changing the subject with the grace of a practiced tactician.
"Before we discuss that, have you heard about the upcoming trial?"
Leon raised an eyebrow. The pivot wasn't subtle, but it was deliberate. She was playing at something, threading conversation like a web. He noticed Eleanor shift beside him, a sharp breath drawn, as though ready to snap a response—but a glance from Leon stopped her.
He allowed a small, inward smile.
He suspected this "trial" was part of the answer to his own question.
"Yes," Leon said, tone composed. "I'm quite aware of the trial of Alexander Pendragon. The so-called Fallen One."
According to public record, Alexander was the disgraced leader of the Fallen Stars, a terrorist faction blamed for the assault on Agartha, the capital world of the Divine Federation. The Federation's narrative was neat, packaged, and easy to digest.
But Leon had never accepted it.
Even as a child, the story had never made sense to him. There had been video—footage of Alexander clashing with his father, Jonathan Haravok. But it cut off before the final blow. No conclusive proof. Just... implication. The Federation had filled in the blanks, and most were content to believe them.
Leon wasn't.
At the time, he didn't understand why he couldn't believe it. But now he did. He was a Delphi by blood, even if he didn't claim the name. And though he had denied it for most of his life, his instincts had always bordered on prescience. Back then, it had been a quiet resistance to accepted truths. Now, awakened and reshaped by the Twilight Crown, Leon knew exactly what that unease had been. His foresight had spoken.
"It seems the Defense is planning to call up Delacroix as a witness," Vuelo said calmly. "You remember Maxwell Delacroix, don't you?"
Leon did. All too well. The name stirred old memories—unsettled scores and unfulfilled threats. He remembered standing face to face with Delacroix five decades ago, vowing to kill him if he discovered the man had played any part in the web of lies surrounding his search for the truth. At the time, Leon had walked away. Later, he learned the truth: Delacroix had been involved with Sector Zero. Leon had never acted on his promise.
Delacroix's eventual arrest had been one of the final dominoes that led to the lifting of Leon's exile from the Federation—a gesture of political closure. That gesture hadn't come from the Federation itself, but from Rex—his brother, and perhaps the only one still able to move the pieces from within.
Leon's eyes narrowed.
"What does Delacroix have to do with me?" he asked, tone flat.
Vuelo's voice remained measured. "He's going to request to speak with you."
Leon stilled. The temperature in the room seemed to drop—not physically, but in presence. His gaze turned sharp, dissecting Vuelo for answers she had not yet given.
"And that's something you've seen in your web of fate?" he asked coldly.
"Yes," Vuelo replied, unflinching. "I've seen a future where he calls for you. And you refuse."
Leon's instincts flared. She was right. Had such a request come to him under normal circumstances, he would have rejected it without hesitation.
"And what happens if I refuse?" he asked.
"It's not a path I want to see fulfilled," Aria said quietly.
Leon turned to her, studying her face.
"Is that so?"
"Yes," she said, a little firmer now. "Even I've seen it. If you refuse to speak with Delacroix… you die. Samantha dies. Terra falls."
Leon blinked once. Aria wasn't exaggerating. He could see the emotion in her eyes, the haunted look that came from seeing something she wished she hadn't. She wasn't just repeating someone else's vision—she had seen it herself.
"The future is volatile right now," she continued. "Unstable. Chaotic. The flow of fate is erratic, constantly shifting. But… in nearly every branching path I've observed, it all begins with you refusing to meet with him."
She stopped herself there. Her voice trailed off, but Leon understood the weight behind her silence. She'd seen it. The devastation. The collapse. She didn't know why this one meeting mattered so much, only that in the few futures where things didn't spiral, it began with Leon agreeing to the meeting.
Leon exhaled slowly, gaze drifting away. He believed her. Not because she was his cousin. Not because of some deep trust in seers. But because his instincts—his own budding foresight—sensed the same tremor in the timeline. Still… he hated it. He hated that someone like Delacroix might hold the key to something important.
"I understand your concern," Leon said quietly. "But I haven't received any such request. Until I do, I'm not going to start making special trips to Agartha just to entertain the whims of a prisoner."
He rose from the Sun Throne, the light around him dimming slightly in response.
"It was good to see you again, Cousin," he said. "And you too, Vuelo. My home is open to you both. If there's nothing more—we're done here."
His tone signaled the end of the audience. Aria and Vuelo both bowed respectfully as two attendants emerged from a side corridor, prepared to escort them to private chambers elsewhere in the palace. Eleanor moved quickly to follow Leon as he strode toward the exit.
"That witch…" Eleanor muttered under her breath, only for Leon to respond with a low laugh.
"She's probably telling the truth," he said, but there was no warmth in the laugh that followed. "Though I don't doubt she has her own reasons for doing so."
"What about Princess Aria?" Eleanor asked, using the formal title out of respect. The Delphi clan had married into the Haravok bloodline when Jonathan Haravok took Julia Delphi as his wife. Aria, by birth, was of royal blood. Leon gave a short nod.
"She's the same," he said. "All Seers are the same. They see too much. And when you see the truth often enough, it becomes a tool. A weapon. Something to shape the future, not just observe it."
He paused, then added:
"They say knowledge is power. And when you can see what others can't, it's easy to manipulate their choices. Aria might be kinder than most, but she's still a Seer. I don't forget that."
They entered another hallway—one of the training galleries within the upper levels of the Sol Palace. Below them, visible through a wide crystal lattice platform, a military drill was underway. Dozens of House of Leo warriors sparred in synchronized combat drills, executing maneuvers with practiced precision. Every one of them bore the crest of the Haravok family—either by blood or allegiance.
Leon paused at the edge of the overlook, resting a hand on the railing as he watched. Their armor, custom-built for solar-born physiology, gleamed under the palace's radiant lighting. Some wielded plasma spears, others channeled pure mana through their gauntlets, engaging in forms that blended martial arts with energy displacement techniques.
"This is what we are," Leon said. "One house. One bloodline. No fractured politics. No divided loyalties."
Unlike the other Celestial Houses, where endless internal disputes and power struggles plagued the ruling families, the House of Leo remained singular in structure. Unified under the Haravok name. Only the House of Pisces came close in cohesion, though that was due to their matriarch's overwhelming power rather than shared loyalty. As Leon spoke, the warriors below—members of the Sunflame Guard—stilled.
Their movements ceased mid-form as they turned upward, each one sensing the unmistakable presence that had just entered the upper platform. One by one, they dropped to a knee, their foreheads bowed, sun-sigils on their armor dimly glowing in response to his arrival.
Their lord had returned.
Leon offered a small smile, the kind born not of arrogance, but of pride. Despite his long absence, their loyalty hadn't wavered. He could feel it in the air—that golden thread of reverence and devotion that connected them to the Haravok bloodline, to him.
He sensed the next arrival before the man even materialized—a ripple in the ambient mana field, familiar and steady. A moment later, Wen Dawnshade stepped through the arched gateway.
The General of the Sunflame Guard.
In his grandfather's era, Wen had been the royal steward, a living extension of the Haravok will. For generations, he had remained at the core of the palace's legacy—what Eleanor was to Leon, Wen had once been to both his grandfather and father.
He stood tall, matching Leon's height at over seven feet, his frame wide and sculpted by centuries of training. His dark skin bore glowing solar runes, etched along thick veins like living tattoos. Though his head was shaved clean, a full, bristling beard framed his jaw, giving him a regal and commanding presence. His sleeveless martial robe revealed a physique built like carved stone, but it was his eyes, golden and steady, that truly spoke of his age and experience.
He knelt immediately, bowing low.
"Your Highness," Wen said, voice deep, rough, and unwavering.
Leon stepped forward.
"Old man, you haven't aged a day," he said with a smirk. "Still a wall of muscle and solar fire. I half expected you to be a withered relic by now."
Wen rose, a rare grin flickering across his face. "I live to serve the House of Leo and the Haravok line. My strength remains so long as our bloodline stands."
There was reverence in his gaze, but also recognition. He could sense it. The subtle change in Leon's presence. The power that radiated just beneath his skin.
"You've broken past the Awakening stage," Wen said. "You've entered Harmonization."
Leon's grin widened. "You noticed?"
"How could I not?" Wen said. "Your aura's aligned. Your body's in balance with your core. The glow in your skin—it's the resonance of someone who's passed the first wall."
Below, murmurs began to rise among the Sunflame warriors. Whispers carried between rows of soldiers, awe spreading like wildfire. The prince they once believed forever stunted by his illness… had advanced. He had broken through. For most, even touching the Harmonization stage was a distant dream. To reach it after surviving the kind of affliction Leon had was a miracle. And now, standing above them, their prince radiated health, power, and purpose.
"You know," Leon said, flexing one arm casually, "I've been itching to test this new body of mine. And I can't think of a better opponent than you, Old Man."
A louder buzz erupted through the chamber. A spar between Leon and General Dawnshade? It was the kind of fight that warriors would talk about for years. Wen had long been known as one of the most powerful Ascendants on Apollo. For Leon to challenge him so openly, it spoke volumes.
"It would be an honor to cross hands with you, Your Highness," Wen said, nodding. "Let's see how far you've come."
In a flash of movement, the two vanished from the upper platform, reappearing in the center of the circular sparring floor—a sun-tempered obsidian ring inscribed with radiant glyphs. Around them, the Sunflame Guard gathered, forming a wide circle as anticipation crackled in the air.
Wen glanced sideways, impressed. "Kept up with my Rapid Step. You've gotten faster."
Leon cracked his knuckles. "It's in the blood. We are the fastest of the Pleiadians, aren't we?"
Wen chuckled. "Let's see if you've earned that speed."
Leon nodded. "Just hands?"
"Just hands."
Wen struck first—a knifehand blow, deceptively fluid for someone of his mass. His right arm came down with the precision of a guillotine, targeting Leon's clavicle. Leon stepped in, caught the blow with his left forearm. The impact sent a shock through the air. The force was immense, enough to crush stone—yet Leon held firm, boots grinding against the platform but refusing to yield.
This old bastard's not holding back, Leon thought, grinning. Even without mana reinforcement, the man's pure physical strength was terrifying. If he hadn't diffused the energy correctly, the blow might have cratered the floor beneath them. And that was the point—Wen was testing him.
Leon retaliated with a rising kick aimed at Wen's temple. The general tilted his head slightly, letting it pass overhead before driving a straight punch at Leon's gut.
Blocked.
Leon countered with a side-step, catching Wen's wrist and twisting, shifting his weight to disrupt the man's stance. His other leg came down with a downward heel kick—intercepted cleanly by Wen's raised forearm.
Then Leon pushed off, using Wen's body as leverage to flip back and regain distance.
They met again in the next instant—a blur of motion. Fists collided, elbows darted, knees clashed in rapid succession. Each strike was calculated, controlled, but filled with weight. Their movements were faster than the human eye could follow, but every blow had precision.
From the upper balconies, Aria Delphi watched silently, arms crossed. Vuelo was absent, but Aria's eyes never left the battle below. Eleanor, standing beside her prince, glanced up and acknowledged the princess's presence, but said nothing.
Her focus remained on the fight.
Leon could feel it now. The rhythm. The muscle memory. The instinct that had been buried deep under years of illness and isolation—it was all returning. Each of Wen's moves brought back flashes of childhood—sparring matches under starlight, long days in the palace courtyards, bruises, broken bones, and quiet lectures afterward.
Wen Dawnshade hadn't lost a step. His battle instincts were still monstrous. He moved like a force of nature, not a man. Leon blocked a heavy elbow, then ducked under a hook and swept forward, delivering a sharp palm strike to Wen's sternum. Wen stumbled back a single step, but caught Leon's follow-up blow, twisting his arm to force a retreat. They reset. The crowd held its breath. Leon was breathing steadily, eyes shining with golden light, chest rising with the thrill of battle.
Lord Wen gave a curt nod, his expression unreadable—but Leon caught the glint of respect in his eyes. The prince had shown refined technique, enough to impress a battle-hardened warrior. But Wen wasn't finished. Not even close. He shifted his stance. The atmosphere shifted with him.
Around the ring, the Sunflame Guard fell into silence, their disciplined murmurs snuffed out by the change in air pressure alone. Heat condensed. Mana rippled in waves across the floor. Then, a golden-orange aura erupted from Lord Wen's body, coating him in radiant light, like a controlled solar flare condensed into human form. His muscles tensed, veins glowing faintly with energy as his internal channels opened fully.
It was Combat Aura—a technique known to advanced martial artists that flooded the body with mana, enhancing strength, reflexes, and sensory awareness far beyond natural limits.
The pressure was immense. Even seasoned warriors in the crowd shifted uncomfortably, feeling the crushing weight of it in their bones. The walls of the chamber shimmered faintly, the enchantments reacting to the spike in power.
But Leon didn't move. He stood perfectly still, unbothered. His expression was calm. So the old man's getting serious now. And just like that, the aura vanished. The pressure dissipated. Silence returned. Then Wen struck—blindingly fast.
This time, his knifehand came diagonally from below, angled to slip past Leon's defenses and sever his stance. But Leon was ready. He twisted into the motion and met the strike with a solid block, his forearm crashing into the blade of Wen's hand with a resounding shockwave.
The force of the impact sent a gust of wind across the platform, toppling several nearby warriors from their feet. Dust lifted. Runic anchors flared to stabilize the flooring.
Leon retaliated immediately, snapping a side kick toward Wen's ribs. The old general raised his arm, absorbing the blow with a firm block. In return, Wen pivoted on his heel, launching his own kick—fast and brutally efficient.
What followed was a ballet of fists and feet, each movement more refined and ferocious than the last. Their motions blurred into streaks of radiant afterimage—two titans exchanging blows at speeds no unenhanced mortal could ever hope to see.
There was grace, yes, but also precision—decades of discipline channeled through motion. The crowd could barely follow, but they understood they were witnessing something sacred: not just a spar, but a reunion of styles. A living display of the martial inheritance of the House of Leo.
Leon lashed out with a backhand strike, aiming for Wen's temple—but the veteran caught it mid-air, parried it aside with a palm redirect, and then with his free hand, gathered mana into his fingers. It pulsed into a sharp spear-thrust motion, aimed at Leon's chest.
The move was subtle, but devastatingly fast. Leon's instincts flared. He vanished with Rapid Step, leaving only a ripple in the air. In the next instant, he reappeared upside down above the arena, arms spread, legs bent as golden light began to gather in his palms. Mana conversion activated, elemental coding restructuring itself in real-time. Within seconds, the energy condensed into a solid sphere of dense light-element mana, vibrating with potential.
He hurled it.
"Gran Rey Zero."
A brilliant beam of light erupted from his hands, searing across the chamber like a solar cannon. Its trajectory was straight and absolute. Warriors shielded their eyes, several instinctively activating minor shields in fear that the blast might tear through the training grounds.
But Wen didn't move. He waited until the last moment—then, like a veteran of a thousand wars, he raised his mana-coated arm and cleaved through the beam in one brutal motion. The light split, refracting across the dome above in an arc of heat and color.
By the time the light faded, Wen was gone—zipping past the beam and into Leon's blindside with uncanny speed. His fist came for Leon's ribs, aimed to drive him into the ground. But—
CLANG.
A triangular prism of hard light expanded mid-air, shielding Leon at the last second. Wen's strike detonated against it, triggering a burst of reactive energy. The shield—an automated mana construct—not only blocked the strike but absorbed the kinetic force and released it in a light-pulse counterblast that knocked Wen back.
Both men landed, skidding across the platform and regaining their stance. Wen looked at his arm—a slight burn where the shield had exploded on contact. He flexed his hand, the injury already knitting shut.
"His Highness has grown strong," he said calmly, voice tinged with awe.
He wasn't just speaking in formality—he meant it. The defensive technique Leon had used wasn't just reaction-based. It was automated foresight shielding—a technique that required a fusion of sensory attunement and pre-cast mana lattices. It activated based on blindspot threat detection and countered with both defense and explosive redirection. It was a technique of a scholar-warrior. A strategist. A king.
"Not bad, old man," Leon said, rolling his shoulders.
"Thank you, Your Highness," Wen replied with a slight bow.
His tone shifted as he turned to the gathered warriors. His commanding presence returned instantly.
"Enough watching! Return to formation! Train as though the House of Leo's survival depends on it—because it does! Serve your Prince as I have. Be the strength that shields him!"
The warriors saluted in unison, their morale burning with newfound fire.
Leon stepped down from the platform, smiling faintly. As he turned, his eyes caught the glint of gold above. Aria stood silently, having observed the entire fight, her gaze fixed on him. Eleanor approached at that moment, silver scroll in hand, her expression tight.
"My lord," she said, voice clipped. "A message has just arrived—from the Ebony Zone."
Leon accepted the scroll, unrolling it slowly.
"It's from Maxwell Delacroix," Eleanor added, eyes narrowing with distaste.
Leon looked back to where Aria had stood, only moments ago. But the platform was empty. His lips curled upward—not in joy, but in dry amusement.
"Fate does love its little games."