As the guards scoured the streets in search of the sorcerer, Benedict—the very man they hunted—sought refuge in an abandoned enclosure. Victoria, having endured profound trauma, had fallen unconscious—the atrocity and weight of the night too heavy for her soul to bear. Anticipating the flare of the Mastiffs, Benedict cloaked them both in a veil of mana, a mastery so precise that even the greatest mage would have applauded, the enchantment carefully designed to mask their scent from the tracking beasts.
With another spell, he materialized a protective mantle. Tender as a dove, gentle as a mother cradling her child, he enfolded the princess, keeping her warm.
"Poor child," the Lord Hand thought."So young, yet heavily burdened. This suffocating situation… My kaleidoscope reports we are cornered. Decades of enforced silence have dulled my magic—the price I paid for walking in peace at the king's side."
As Benedict stroked Victoria's silken hair, a memory resurfaced—one that had forged his eternal loyalty to the late god-king.
Forty-eight years ago, his clan of sorcerers had been annihilated on a blood-soaked night. The perpetrators were the VanDead family, a cultic outlaw clan who believed that drinking the blood of those blessed by mana granted immortality.
Benedict had been a young man then, one of the survivors, hiding until dawn before attempting to flee. The VanDead pursued him across fields, only to encounter Victor—then not yet king—escorted by knights. Fearing a clash with the Auronites, the VanDead abandoned the hunt.
It was that encounter that brought Benedict and Victor together, and they returned to Auronis side by side.
Upon returning to Auronis, after eating, bathing, and a brief, graceful rest, the two men sat together. Victor's words soon reawakened a fear long buried in Benedict's heart.
"You are a sorcerer, aren't you?"
Benedict, struck by fear yet too cautious to show it, countered with measured inquiry.
"I… don't know what you mean. What makes you think I'm a sorcerer?"
"The ones who pursued you. The VanDead are infamous for hunting and torturing sorcerers," the prince replied.
Benedict, having discerned the royal blood of the man before him, knew that escape was impossible. Even as the king's heir, Victor's influence over Auronis made the kingdom his playing ground. As his face grew pale, he asked,
"What will happen to me?"
Victor, known for his ability to dispel tension in countless ways, did so this time with a light tap on Benedict's shoulder and a bright smile.
"Nothing burdensome! Would you do me the honour of being my friend? I've always been curious about cultural diversity. Tell me—can you fly? Is it true that sorcerers can command the elements?"
The young heir's passion and excitement had once caught Benedict off guard, a sudden spark of life that few could have expected. That moment now lingered in his thoughts, drawing a nostalgic smile to his face as he caressed the hair of the only child of the man to whom he owed his life.
But the nostalgic moment was broken by a sudden, icy presence at his back.
Turning back, Benedict realized it was not winter's frost that chilled him, but Apporion's predatory gaze, having located its master's prey. Understanding the significance of peregrine falcons as eternal servants to the Strassfey, he fled the enclosure immediately, knowing it was only a matter of time before he would be found.
Apporion pierced the wind at lightning speed, carrying word of Benedict's location. West of Auronis—Ludwig's quarters—was the destination the falcon indicated in its primitive, precise language to its master. Without hesitation, Helios and his men spurred their mounts, racing toward the site.
Benedict, meanwhile, arrived at an open square dominated by an ancient statue of a beheaded man, proudly holding Athena's the sword of justice. Urgency pressing upon him, he drew a magic circle with his mana, placing the sleeping Victoria at its centre. Focused, he began the intricate incantations needed to reinforce his spell.
"North Star… Phoenix Ember… Ero's Tears… Vital Trinity."
The spell he sought to perform had never been meant for a single caster—it demanded the power of at least ten sorcerers to manifest. Benedict, however, resolved to use his own life force as a catalyst, compensating for the missing casters.
Sorcerers—already rare, with mana granted to only a chosen few at birth—were heavily outnumbered by non-sorcerers. Most had long abandoned thoughts of war, choosing survival above all. Through tireless study and relentless refinement of their mana, they devised a spell capable of opening a passage to another world—a reality where they could live free from fear and persecution. And yet, despite their efforts, the cruel truth remained: the current generation of sorcerers was doomed to bear the consequences of a handful whose ideology had strayed, paying for sins they had never committed.
As the magic circle glittered against the darkened sky, Helios discerned Benedict's precise location. Then, without wasting anytime, the Lord Hand released his spell.
"Transitus Universalis."
The kaleidoscope that had once flooded the king's chamber was insignificant by comparison. Ludwig's quarters were engulfed in a storm of luminous butterflies, their glow drowning the night itself. Victoria, gently stirred awake by Benedict's touch, opened her eyes to a paradisiacal vision—one blooming within the most horrific night of her life.
"Where am I…? What is this?" she whispered.
Sensing the warlord's approach, Benedict turned to her and bowed.
Benedict's gaze lingered on the young princess, and in that moment, he saw not just the child of the king, but the rightful ruler of Auronis.
"Your Highness, there is no time left. This is my spell. I do not expect you to understand it—but this is my life's final act."
The butterflies settled upon Victoria's skin, their warmth steadying her breath.
"What do you mean…?" She asked, confused.
"Your father was kind to me," Benedict said softly. "I owe him my life. And this life, I now offer to you, with all my heart."
At that very moment, Helios arrived. Benedict and Victoria were in his sight, yet the warlord was momentarily taken aback—not by admiration for the Lord Hand's spell, but by the uncertainty of its true purpose.
"What is he scheming? Is he attempting to fight back? No… such a move would be strategically absurd for a man of his intellect. It would only cement the notion of treachery in the eyes of all. Time is not on my side. I cannot afford the luxury of overthinking."
Helios thought, raising his right hand to issue his next command.
"Archers," he commanded coldly. "Loose."
Though all the warriors present stood on the same side under Helios' command, their aims diverged—some driven by loyalty, others by fervent devotion. The Abaddons set their sights on Benedict, having judged and branded him a traitor, while the Night Dreads turned toward the princess, recognizing her as the foremost obstacle to their master's consecration.
Arrows tore through the night, swift and merciless, aimed at the man and the princess whom Helios deemed threats to his ascension to the throne. Benedict, his life force already devoured by the colossal spell he had unleashed, could cast no protective enchantment. Yet, sensing Victoria in the path of death, he stepped forward, his own body a shield against the hail of steel. The arrows struck, piercing flesh and bone, and blood spilled freely—a crimson testament to the price of defiance.
"Sir Hand!" Victoria screamed, tears flooding her eyes as the warlord and his forces thundered closer.
Then—defying time itself—Benedict knelt before her and pressed something into her palm. When she opened it, a glittering, multi-coloured butterfly shimmered within.
"Your Highness," he murmured, "this is my clan's treasure. I entrust my final will to you."
"Why does everyone keep entrusting everything to me?" she sobbed. "First my father… now you!"
"Forgive us," Benedict said with a faint smile, blood trailing from his lips. "But you are the future. A future your father and I wagered everything upon. The world beyond is one of infinite possibilities. We leave all to you—so you may return stronger."
The magic circle flared to life without her consent. Mana coalesced around her like a tempest of light, and Victoria's form began to dissolve, held gently within the spell's luminous embrace.
"Sir Hand! What am I supposed to do?! Sir Hand!" she cried—
—but the spell completed its course, and the princess vanished into nothingness, leaving only drifting butterflies and the dying breath of the man who had saved her.
As Benedict's mana faded progressively, leaving his men behind at a measured distance, Helios dismounted from Bucephalus and strode toward the dying Lord Hand, until he finally stood before him.
"Where did you send the princess?" Helios asked, having already noticed her disappearance.
But Benedict ignored him, his gaze locked onto Helios without so much as a single blink.
"He's keeping it a secret. So, she is their joker after all. But what can a hand, long preserved from the harshness of wild fields, truly cultivate?No matter how delusional it may seem, the mere fact that this theory is upheld by the Lord Hand and my late uncle grants it a measure of plausibility. How vexing…"
Helios thought, watching Benedict's body slowly empty itself of blood.
"I must confess," the warlord continued, calm and measured, "I hate sorcerers with all my heart. The notion that skill or talent can be predestined irritates me. All should stand equal beneath the sun, proving themselves by their hands alone. Yet… I owe you gratitude. With your little intervention, all threats to my ascension have been erased, and you shall become a martyr marking the threshold of my glory. Any last words?"
Benedict, gathering what strength remained, met his gaze without flinching, his form gradually dissolving under the toll of the spell he had invoked.
"Do not rush like a vulture to offer thanks—the feast may be poisoned. In time, the rightful queen of Auronis shall return, and you will curse my name. Only then will you understand that your so-called emptiness was solely meant to be filled by the terror her wrath will bring. When all is set, the true sun shall rise. That is the future I see."
Helios studied him for a long moment, his face unreadable, eyes sharp and cold, a glare that incarnated his utter disdain for sorcerers.
"I shall remember your words. Now… farewell, sorcerer."
Benedict closed his eyes, letting the chill of the night seep into him, and for a fleeting moment, the world fell away. He remembered the late king's words, soft yet heavy with meaning: "Benedict—my Hand, my confidant—you are as a dove to me. A speck of hope within my nights of trouble. I pray life continues to treat you with the same gentleness it has thus far shown in recent years."
A faint smile curved his lips, warm and luminous, as if the years of his life had folded into a single, quiet truth—a life fulfilled, a purpose met, and a soul at peace with its place in the immensity of existence—as he whispered to himself:
"Your Highness, my closest friend... let's say life did it best."
He felt no fear, only a strange, serene clarity, as if the memory itself shielded him for a heartbeat.
Under normal circumstances—had the Lord Hand truly been the traitor—Helios would have subjected him to unprecedented torment to extract the princess's whereabouts and unveil the design behind such sacrilege.
But he could not afford that risk. He alone bore the stain of true treachery, and in his agony, Benedict might have revealed truths far more dangerous—truths that would have cast suspicion upon Helios himself.
Abandoning the thought, the warlord chose swiftness over inquiry. The supreme commander pronounced his judgment without a trace of mercy.
With a single, razor-sharp swing—capable of slicing through the very wind—Helios beheaded Benedict. Blood erupted violently as the Lord Hand's severed head was hurled into the cold, dead night, his death marking the dawn of a new era.