Under Saint Isidro's threats and unrelenting stare, Dolores and Pritish recounted all that had transpired since entering the Agape Cult as direct servants to the late Patriarch, Damian Rannickvol.
The dread radiating from the Saint clung to their skin like frost. It prickled across their flesh until even breath became a burden. Fear loosened their tongues to such a degree that their account spilled beyond necessity, laded with details of little consequence.
Yet Isidro did not interrupt. For within the excess lay what he sought.
At last, his gaze shifted.
"You." His dark eyes settled upon Dolores. "You speak well."
Dolores stiffened.
"It is no surprise that Rannickvol chose a frail creature such as yourself to serve him. Perhaps he deemed your silver tongue of use in carrying our word."
Dolores lowered her head further. She dared not answer.
Even gratitude felt dangerous in the presence of such a man.
Then Isidro's gaze moved again. Pritish trembled beneath it.
"As for you…" His voice was calm—cold enough to strip warmth from the room.
"I discern no gift in you that would aid my hunt."
Pritish felt her blood run cold.
"Perhaps I am mistaken. It would not be the first error I have made. Even I am flawed."
His grip tightened around the shaft of his spear, serpent-carved wood groaning faintly beneath his fingers.
"Only the Goddess is without flaw." He leaned forward slightly.
"So, enlighten me." His eyes burned with restrained bloodlust.
"What is it you can bring to my table… to avenge your master's death?"
Pritish had never once been praised in her life. No one—not even she herself—had ever understood why she had been chosen to join the Agape Cult.
Even her magic, the one thing that made her different, was pitifully weak. The cult's mages mocked her for it relentlessly, treating her as something barely above the ungifted.
And so, denied power, she had devoted herself to another source of it: wealth. If magic could not raise her above others, then gold would. Gold enough to command even those who had once looked down on her. Yet even that ambition had proven more fragile than illusion itself.
And now she knelt here, before death made flesh, with nothing worthy to offer it.
In the short time she had spent in his presence, Pritish had understood one truth with terrifying clarity: the Saint despised lies—and pretension even more. Holding fast to that truth, she reached for the last card left to her.
Pleading.
"My lord…" She slowly spread her arms, palms laid bare before him. Tears streamed silently down her cheeks, every trembling line of her body speaking the plea her voice could scarcely carry.
"The gifted, such as my companion, are better suited to tasks only their gifts allow. But one without a gift, such as I, is not bound to a single path. I can serve you in whatever manner you require. I can even offer you… my life."
"Your life?" the Saint asked, his voice grave as stone. "What worth does that hold?"
"It holds whatever worth you, my lord, choose to grant it," she replied gently, lowering her head.
Isidro fixed his gaze upon her without blinking. The silence that followed grew so oppressive that Pritish could hear the frantic pounding of her own heart resounding in the room.
"Raise your head," he finally said.
She obeyed at once, though with measured care, fearing even the slightest abrupt movement might provoke his wrath. Yet the caution proved meaningless.
The moment Pritish lifted her head, the edge of the Saint's spear stood pointed at her eyes.
She held her breath. Yet she neither flinched nor closed her eyes.
Not out of courage—But surrender.
Beside her, Dolores remained frozen in silence. The fear crushing her chest smothered every spark of defiance she might once have possessed.
Isidro studied Pritish without blinking. The wise often claimed that the eyes were the gates of the soul—that through them every truth revealed itself, even those buried deepest beneath flesh and thought.
And there, within hers, he saw it plainly.
Pritish had already resigned herself to two paths alone: to serve the Saint before her… or die by his hand. The choice itself was simple. But unfortunately, it was not hers to make.
"Hmph." The Saint allowed himself a smirk. "I take back what I said."
He withdrew the spear.
Both Pritish and Dolores stared, stunned.
"Loyalty, too, is a talent," the Saint declared. "It has been decided. You two will assist me in my hunt and show me the path that led to this outcome. First, we fly to the forest you spoke of. I will see with my own eyes what became of Rannickvol—and whether my suspicions hold truth."
His gaze settled over them once more.
"Any objection?"
"No, my lord," the women answered at once.
"Then approach. Turn your backs to me." He ordered; they obeyed.
"Armish."
The Saint intoned the spell.
His right hand extended toward them, palm open, middle and ring fingers crossed in a precise formation. At once, the Agape Cult's emblem etched upon the women's elbows began to burn.
Pain bloomed like fire beneath the skin.
Yet they forced their hands over their mouths, swallowing their screams before they could escape. The agony lasted only moments.
When it ceased, the embers faded into the air—leaving behind a new sigil. Though it still bore traces of the Cult's mark, it had been altered, refined… reshaped into something that redefined the very purpose of those who bore it.
From this moment onward, Dolores and Pritish were no longer servants of a dead man—but of a living one.
"Now. We depart."
They dressed quickly, gathering the meagre belongings they possessed. Before crossing the threshold, both women paused.
They turned back.
Sigrid, Eliane, and Eliakim still slept—unaware, untouched by what had transpired. There was no chance to bid farewell, nor any way to explain their sudden departure.
Worse still, fear lingered in their chests—the fear that the Saint might choose to end the lives of those left behind as easily as he commanded their own.
After all, they were non-mages in a world where their kind suffered constant disdain.
But they were poor at hiding their thoughts—especially Dolores. Anxiety was written plainly across her face. And Isidro saw it immediately.
"Fear not," he said calmly as he stepped outside.
"Elves are sacred within our traditions. To spill their blood would be sacrilege. As for the two non-mages… they remain in a state akin to death. What becomes of them is for the Creator alone to decide."
Only then did something loosen in their chests.
Relief—fragile, uncertain—but real.
They followed him out of the wooden house, hearts a little lighter.
But the very relief that had begun to settle in their hearts was swiftly swallowed by fear and stillness when their gaze fell upon a creature they had until now only seen in books and heard of in legends.
A griffon.
Its form matched the ancient depictions almost perfectly—but witnessing it in reality was something else entirely.
It was enormous. Towering. A living embodiment of myth given flesh.
Its eyes burned with hostility toward them all, sparing only its master.
"Andromed." The Saint's voice cut through the air.
"Make space. They are to travel with us now."
The creature did not resist. At once, it obeyed.
Its body shifted and expanded, bones and feathers seeming to stretch with unnatural fluidity until it reached a size vast enough to carry them all with ease.
Without further delay, they followed the Saint's lead and mounted the beast.
And under the weight of night's darkness, the griffon took flight, carrying them into the unknown.
***
Corniche Village, the next day.
In the afternoon, an explosion echoed through the surrounding forest. It was not the first—it was the sixth since morning.
Though the village lay beyond its reach, unease had begun to settle among the villagers. Fortunately, the guild members had reassured them, explaining the cause of the disturbances.
Deep within the woods, in a scorched clearing of obliterated trees and shattered branches, Victoria lay on the ground, panting. Bruises marked her body, and the air itself still trembled with residual heat—an aftereffect of the repeated blasts.
Aristovelli approached with an umbrella, then crouched beside her, casting shade over the fallen princess.
"Another failure," the Legendary Witch sighed.
"What am I doing wrong?" Victoria asked between breaths.
"Everything." She spoke without hesitation.
"Listen. Mana is the force that gives rise to magic. To use it properly, you must trust its flow. Your problem is that you are trying to bypass the essential steps of control. In doing so, you create an internal discord that breaks the chain before it even forms."
She raised a finger.
"Tell me—when you speak, you think before you do, do you not?"
"Obviously," Victoria replied.
"And what happens when you speak without thinking?"
"I usually say nonsense," she admitted, narrowing her eyes slightly, unsure where the lesson was leading.
"Exactly." Aristovelli snapped her fingers and pointed at her.
"Consider your thoughts as your mana and your words as your magic. If you can maintain that sequence, there is no reason you should fail."
She exhaled lightly and added, "Now get up. You look pathetic."
She pulled Victoria back to her feet.
Then, with a flick of her magic, Aristovelli summoned a small crystal orb filled with shifting liquids.
"Are you ready?" she asked, offering it forward.
Victoria drew a steady breath, closed her eyes, then opened them again with sharpened resolve. "Yes," she said firmly.
Aristovelli placed the orb into her hands. The moment Victoria received it, she did not hesitate. Mana surged from her body—raw and immediate—flowing around the orb in an instant.
It responded at once, settling into magic as it levitated gently between her palms. Aristovelli circled her slowly, observing with quiet focus; this was her seventh attempt.
"Focus," the witch murmured. Her voice seemed to multiply, as though echoing directly within Victoria's mind.
"Do not concern yourself with appearance. It is nothing—barely wind. It disperses before it can be grasped. Instead, look within. The core. The essence. Listen, Victoria. Nature speaks. It would be foolish not to listen."
Victoria obeyed, closing her eyes once more and sinking deeper into concentration until the world itself faded. Even Aristovelli's voice became distant, like an echo carried across a vast expanse. Only the orb remained.
Then it happened. Though her eyes were closed, she saw—not with sight, but with something deeper. Her magic enveloped the crystal orb, revealing its structure in striking clarity. Victoria's lips curved faintly.
"So that's it…"
Inside the orb, she perceived two opposing liquids—hot oil and cold water—held apart by an almost imperceptible pebble containing mana. That was the true core, not the liquids nor the vessel, but that fragile point of control.
"That is what I must manipulate." Her thoughts sharpened.
"But how can I control the faint mana within it, if I cannot even control mine?"
"No!" She pushed the lingering doubt away. "Dig deeper, Victoria… focus."
Tracing her mana, the fallen princess allowed her consciousness to sink into the depths of her subconscious until she reached a realm detached from ordinary reality.
Her spirit hovered above a vast lake so dark its surface revealed nothing, while the sky above mirrored the abyss below, leaving her suspended between two infinite voids.
Before her stood a creature—abominable in form.
A chimera made of dark cloud, vast as a storm front, its shifting mass impossible to fully define or describe. Within it, countless protean shapes of different races and beings flickered and dissolved, as though reality itself could not decide what it was.
Yet it wasn't enough to inspire fear in her. Rather, it was the beast that seemed disturbed by the fallen princess's presence.
"I see," she said coldly, advancing through the air.
"You represent my lack of control, don't you? The rage that clouds my judgment." Her gaze narrowed. "Do you know who now holds the keys to space?"
The answer was not spoken.
The beast surged instead.
It swallowed her whole.
For a moment, she was engulfed within a spiralling vortex, as though caught in the heart of a storm. Yet she did not resist. She allowed herself to be consumed completely.
Then, within that chaos, she spoke again.
"Do you know who now holds the keys to space?"
Silence. Yet again, no answer was given.
"I will answer in your stead."
She settled in midair, crossing her legs and arms with calm finality. "I do."
"You exist only because I allow you to do so. Now… be still. Your master speaks."
At once, the dark chimera disintegrated into diamond dust, scattering into the void. Beneath her, the black waters turned clear and pure, as though pollution itself had been erased from existence.
When she slowly opened her eyes, she had returned to reality.
The liquids within the crystal orb levitating between her palms had stabilized. The hot oil and cold water now rested on opposite sides in perfect balance, their temperatures regulated to normal, while the mana-infused pebble remained suspended between them.
Yet that was not all.
Victoria had not only gained control over her mana—she had also, without chant or intent, cast her first spell. A realization that filled Aristovelli's eyes with quiet admiration.
As for Victoria, she stared at the result in silent disbelief. How had she cast a spell without willing it? Or… had some deeper instinct within her taken the lead?
Still uncertain, she felt her mana spread outward—no longer chaotic, but delicate, almost gentle. It flowed across the shattered clearing, and where it passed, broken trees stirred. Splintered wood mended itself. Scorched earth cooled. The ravaged forest began to knit itself back together.
Aristovelli stepped closer as dark clouds gathered overhead, shielding Victoria with her umbrella just as the first droplets began to fall.
"You killed two birds with one stone," the witch said with a faint smile.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Victoria asked.
"Not only did you take control of your mana," Aristovelli replied, "but you also cast your first spell—and not just any spell. Estorath, the art of restoration. A magic that grants broken things a second chance." Her smile deepened.
"How beautiful."
"Congratulations. Your second day of training was a success. Tomorrow, I will teach you more interesting spells." She patted Victoria lightly on the shoulder.
Victoria did not respond.
Her gaze lingered on the restored forest. The spell she had cast did not destroy or conquer—it healed. It returned what was broken to its original form.
A power that, in ancient belief, mirrored the very principle that had once driven Eros to open Utopia to other worlds: to welcome the persecuted and the broken, and grant them a new beginning.