To the south of the Empire, the road vanished among ancient trees.
The mist did not cover the path.
It swallowed it.
Dense. Cold. Persistent.
Each step seemed to push the world back, as if the air itself refused passage.
Éreon walked beneath the cloak.
Silent.
His feet found the ground without hesitation, even where the trail no longer existed.
Roots crossed the earth like exposed veins. Low branches scraped the dark fabric, lacking the force to stop him.
He did not deviate.
The forest did not touch him.
It gave way.
Ahead—
the mist thinned.
And then… the structure emerged.
The building rose beyond the trees, wide, deformed by time.
Dark stone.
Split.
What had once been imposing now seemed… forgotten.
The walls were covered in ancient moss, thick, as if it had grown there for ages.
The windows — broken, opaque — reflected no light.
They watched back.
Empty.
The iron gate hung crooked, held by a single hinge. The wind moved it at irregular intervals.
It creaked.
Low.
Drawn.
Like something that was never meant to move again.
Éreon stopped before the entrance.
For an instant—
His head lifted.
Slowly.
His gaze met what remained of the sign, fixed above the stone arch.
Broken wood.
Exposed nails.
Some letters had yielded to time.
Others remained.
Crooked. Broken. Incomplete.
Even so—
enough.
B—ack—horn.
The rest… lost.
The silence stretched.
Too long to be mere contemplation.
Then—
he moved forward.
The gate gave with a heavier groan as it was pushed. The metal vibrated under the touch, echoing through the courtyard like a forgotten warning.
The ground was broken.
Loose stones.
Dead weeds growing between the cracks.
Each step reverberated more than it should.
Dry.
The sound did not dissipate.
It remained.
As if the space returned each movement with delay.
He crossed the courtyard without shifting his gaze.
Without haste.
Without caution.
Like one who already knew every inch of that place.
He stopped at the center.
Body still.
But the air—
was still heavy.
His hand lowered.
Slow.
It stopped over the katana's hilt.
He did not draw it.
His fingers closed lightly.
The body turned toward the entrance.
Direct gaze.
Nothing.
The gate remained open, motionless.
The courtyard empty.
The mist still beyond the stone limits.
No presence.
No change in the air.
Silence.
An instant—
long enough to confirm.
Then—
The body turned back in the same flow in which the blade left the sheath.
The dry sound of steel cutting the air came with the movement, precise, horizontal, without hesitation.
Before the impact.
The blade met resistance where— an instant before— there had been nothing.
The steel did not advance.
Éreon stepped back.
A single step.
The blade lowered a degree, still firm, still ready.
His head lifted slowly.
And then—
his gaze fixed on the figure.
The skin was pale. Not like absence of color, but like something that had never belonged to the common world.
Impeccable. Untouched.
The hair fell long, white as filtered light, aligned beyond gravity.
Not a strand moved. None reacted to the air.
The eyes, pale-gold, almost translucent, carried neither shine nor threat.
They only observed.
The garments fell in white layers, marked by precise golden lines.
Nothing was excess. Nothing was decorative.
Every detail seemed to fulfill a function that did not need to be explained.
The figure did not move immediately.
It only observed.
The pale-gold eyes rested on Éreon as if there were no surprise in his presence. As if that encounter were not an event… but a continuation.
When it spoke, the voice did not come loud.
It came steady.
Without variation.
"I came to fulfill my part."
The silence did not break.
The hand over the katana adjusted.
Subtle.
The weight shifted at the base.
The body responded before thought.
The figure advanced.
There was no preparation.
No transition.
One instant it was distant.
In the next—
it was already before him.
The wind came after.
Late.
Dragged by the displacement.
The hood was thrown back, revealing the face.
Black eyes met the golden ones.
And, in that meeting—
something gave.
Not in the body.
Deeper.
As if a certainty… had been broken before the impact itself.
The katana slipped from his fingers.
The steel touched the ground with a dry sound.
His eyes lowered.
Slow.
To his own chest.
The figure's hand was already there.
Passing through.
Without effort.
Without visible rupture.
As if flesh and bone… were not an obstacle.
The breath failed.
The body responded too late.
The blood came.
Warm.
Direct.
Escaping through the lips in a single contained surge.
"…Nika."
The lips moved.
Without sound.
The figure did not look away.
"The promise has been honored."
"My debt to the Abyss… is ended."
There was no satisfaction in the voice.
No relief.
Only… conclusion.
The arm withdrew.
The flesh yielded on the return.
The void remained.
The body gave out.
The knees touched the ground.
The dry impact echoed through the empty courtyard.
The chest open.
Breath failing.
Irregular.
The vision did not fall immediately.
It failed.
The edges darkened first.
Slow.
Like ink bleeding beneath the surface.
The center still resisted.
But it no longer held form.
The lines came undone.
The courtyard… gave way.
The weight in the body disappeared before the pain.
The world around did not react.
The mist remained beyond the gate.
The wind ceased.
And the silence—
returned to occupy everything.
And then—
depth.
Not a fall.
A sinking.
No ground.
No direction.
No air.
…
The voice did not come from outside.
Nor from within.
It simply… appeared.
"I see that, at last… you have arrived."
Silence.
An instant—
and the world returned.
Raw.
The lungs pulled air as if tearing from within.
The body reacted before thought.
The eyes opened.
The gaze swept the space.
Around, walls of closed stone rose, marked by ancient runes.
The symbols were not faded.
They pulsed.
Slow.
As if they breathed beneath the surface.
Curved lines, intertwined, traced in patterns that did not belong to the current time — fragments of a language older, forgotten, still alive there.
The air was damp.
Dense.
Heavy.
Each breath seemed to bring more than oxygen.
As if something… watched back.
"So this is how… they hid her."
A short pause.
"The priestess of the gods."
The silence did not remain empty.
The gaze shifted.
Slow.
Stopped at the entrance.
Not from doubt.
But from confirmation.
"Tell me…"
A slight adjustment in the breath.
"for how long do you still intend to remain hidden."
The answer came before any movement.
"For someone who was saved by me… your way of speaking lacks gentleness."
The voice was serene.
Not cold.
But distant enough to allow no closeness.
Then she appeared.
Without haste.
As if she had already been there… long before being seen.
Black hair fell long and straight, like a mantle of continuous night.
The fair skin carried a subtle golden glow, warm, almost imperceptible.
The eyes — golden — held something too ancient to be named, steady like the sunrise that does not ask permission to exist.
His gaze met hers.
And remained.
Time did not break.
But something… tightened.
Not in the air.
Deeper.
He did not look away.
Did not react.
Only observed.
"Who are you."
The question came direct.
Without unnecessary weight.
She held his gaze for a moment longer before answering.
"Madéa."
A short pause.
"I would say more… if there were anything to remember."
Silence returned.
Dense.
He observed her as if measuring not the answer… but what was missing in it.
"How long."
A slight shift of the gaze.
"was I unconscious."
"A month and a half."
The answer came without hesitation.
Exact.
A brief smile touched his lips.
Contained.
Almost imperceptible.
"A month and a half… to rebuild a heart."
The gaze drifted for an instant.
Not on her.
Beyond.
"I see you knew how to take advantage of the gap… in the agreement."
The voice dropped a degree.
Lower.
Madéa moved.
One step.
Closer.
His gaze returned.
Fixed on her again.
"Where are we."
"In a cabin… at the top of a mountain."
The answer came simple.
Without attempt to impress.
"And what are you doing here."
She held his gaze.
Without looking away.
"I don't know."
A short pause.
"When I woke… I was already in this room."
Her eyes shifted a degree.
As if searching for something that was not there.
"I went down the mountain."
The voice did not change.
But something in it… sharpened.
"I found nothing… but ruins."
An instant.
"And a body."
The silence did not break.
"Motionless."
Her eyes returned to him.
Steady.
"On the ground."
His gaze remained on her for a few seconds.
Still.
A slight smile touched his lips.
"Curious."
The word came low.
Unhurried.
"For someone who claims not to remember anything…"
A short pause.
His eyes did not move away.
"there is no hesitation in the way you speak"
The silence held between them.
"There is no search."
Another instant.
"No failure."
His gaze lowered a degree.
Evaluating.
"Only… precision."
A slight tilt of the head.
"It is unusual."
She did not look away.
Her gaze held his with the same firmness.
"And yet…"
The voice came calm.
Unhurried.
"for someone who had their chest pierced…"
A short pause.
Her eyes lowered a degree.
Brief.
Precise.
Then returned.
"your lucidity seems… even more unusual."
Silence fell.
Their gazes did not part.
Neither yielded.
In the Southern County—
sunlight crossed the tall windows, cutting the hall into golden bands that stretched across the long table of dark wood.
The space was vast, enclosed by solid stone walls, adorned with crests that watched in silence every decision made there.
All bore the same emblem—
a golden lion, raised over a dark field, claws exposed, gaze fixed forward as if judging those who sat beneath its presence.
Men were gathered around the table.
Nobles, commanders, men who carried the weight of the county.
The conversations ceased before the sound of the door fully settled.
A guard crossed the hall in firm steps.
Posture rigid.
Gaze forward.
He stopped near the table.
A clenched fist touched his chest in a formal gesture.
He raised his voice.
"My lady… the Countess of the South enters the hall."
The title was announced in full.
Without haste.
With the weight it demanded.
Chairs moved.
All stood.
Gazes turned to the entrance.
She entered.
The noble fabric followed her steps with controlled lightness, dark tones marked by discreet details that reinforced position without resorting to excess.
White hair was held in place with precision, every strand aligned, sustaining the image of someone who allowed no space for negligence.
The eyes — equally white — did not wander.
They only followed forward.
But it was not appearance that held the hall.
It was presence.
Eyes followed her as she advanced to the head.
No one spoke.
No one moved beyond what was necessary.
She did not ask permission.
Did not hesitate.
She simply took the place that was already hers.
She sat.
The gesture was simple.
Definitive.
An instant later—
the others followed.
Silence returned.
Denser.
More attentive.
As if the air awaited… permission to continue existing.
Gazes crossed briefly among those present, but always returned to her.
"Gentlemen… during the last month and a half, this county has demanded more than agreements and formalities."
A short pause.
Her gaze moved across the table.
"Among us, there were those who did not seek stability… but the position left vacant with the fall of the former lord."
Silence held the weight.
"Some believed that this moment of fragility would give them space to act."
Another pause.
Unhurried.
"It did not."
Her eyes hardened.
"They were identified."
A slight tilt of the head.
"And removed."
The air did not ease.
"The discord that threatened to be born within these walls was contained… before it found strength."
Silence hovered for an instant.
She continued, the voice almost a thread:
"Gentlemen… the instability that might arise in the North no longer threatens us."
A short pause.
Her gaze moved across the table, firm, measuring each reaction.
"Where we expected conflict… we found understanding."
Another instant.
"Even if by convenience."
One of the men at the far end adjusted his posture. Another avoided holding her gaze.
"This grants us something rare."
The voice remained controlled.
"Time."
A light pause, enough to sustain the shift.
"But not security."
The weight changed.
"To the East, the threat remains."
Her eyes set.
"And it will not find a divided county."
Silence.
"Our scouts at the border have confirmed the movement of the royal inspector's caravan."
"He will be here within a week."
A slight inclination of the head.
"Until then… we will act with the authority that still belongs to us."
One of the nobles ran his thumb over the ring on his finger.
Another held his breath for a brief instant.
"When he arrives—"
a pause.
"he will not find a county."
Her eyes fixed.
"But a unified territory."
Another instant.
"A marquisate."
The air seemed to weigh.
"Tirésias."
A chair creaked low.
One of the men moved.
"That name… does not belong to Saint Phoebe."
Her gaze turned to him.
Cold. Direct.
"It does."
The answer came without haste.
"And it will be properly remembered."
The man held her gaze for a second longer…
then yielded.
"For this to hold—"
she continued, without raising her voice—
"the succession cannot remain undefined."
Her eyes returned to the table.
"The title will be granted to the only living heir of the former count."
"Heron."
Another noble leaned forward.
"And his legitimacy?"
She observed him for an instant.
Unhurried.
"It will not be a problem."
A short pause.
"He will unite with the Saint."
The silence changed in nature.
Heavier.
More attentive.
One of those present closed his hand over the table.
Another looked away.
"With that, the temple will stand with us."
The sentence settled without echo.
Her voice dropped a degree.
Colder.
More definitive.
"What remains… is to choose how we will be remembered in this moment."
A pause.
Her eyes moved slowly across the table.
"As those who upheld the South—"
another instant—
"or as those who hesitated while it collapsed."
Silence.
Then—
she pointed, unhurried, toward the door.
"Anyone who disagrees… may leave."
The faint creak of wood came from somewhere along the table.
Someone thought of standing.
Did not.
The silence stretched.
Held breaths.
Still gazes.
"Excellent."
No satisfaction.
No relief.
"By the silence… I understand that we are in agreement."
She leaned slightly forward.
"The former county ceases to exist today."
Eyes turned to the crest on the wall.
The golden lion.
"And with it—"
a short pause—
"the Marquisate of Tirésias is born."
Her voice set.
"And a new lion… rises."