In a modest room of white—white pillows, white sheets, clean tal fras, sunlight pouring in through an open window and the sharp tang of antiseptic clinging heavily to the air—Gloria woke up groggily.
Where am I?
She turned her head, taking in her surroundings. There were weathered cracks and a small chip on the white stone walls a few ters away from her bed.
She recognized that.
Dammit.
If she was back in the recovery ward, that ant she had lost the match. One glance at her body, now wrapped in pristine white bandages, confird the suspicion.
Though serious burns and blemishes could eventually be treated with alchemical potions, it would take ti—and skilled healers were in short supply.
Ah.
Gloria muttered with a sigh of slight exasperation. Swinging her legs off the bed, she placed her feet on the cold floor, managing to stand despite the pain riddling her body.
She probably should have been more worried about her condition, but since she had lost, it didn’t really matter—not to her, anyway.
She walked unsteadily toward the window.
The view outside was peaceful—lush green grass shimring beneath a brilliant sun, its beauty almost too pure to be real.
A scattering of clean, orderly buildings lay not too far away, and beyond them, rising like a divine sentinel, stood the imposing cathedral of white stone and crimson spires.
Pyrellis. The city of white.
She’d heard stories—how those who revered tradition often compared it to the ancient serenity of her ho city, Drakensmar.
But now, seeing it with her own eyes, she knew Pyrellis was sothing else entirely. Perhaps it really was more beautiful.
In fact, the pristine aesthetic almost felt like overcompensation—as if the builders were desperately trying to outdo the tiless elegance of Drakensmar.
If that was the case, they had certainly succeeded.
The pure white motif wasn’t just relaxing—it was captivating. The city looked irresistible. Almost holy.
But Gloria knew better. There was nothing holy about this place. Behind the pale walls of its expensive manors lurked the rotten core of power-hungry mages.
The sa kind who had done nothing while she and others like her suffered under the heel of Heieg’s soldiers.
She inhaled deeply, letting the clean, fragrant air fill her lungs, her dark eyes contrasting with the room’s gentle brightness.
Then ca a creak. The door swung open. Two people stepped in, similar enough in appearance to be twins, though one was male and the other female.
"Gloria! What are you doing out of bed?"
Sister Marilyn rushed forward, her twin brother trailing just behind.
Funny.
That was what Gloria always thought when she saw them. They were old enough to have families of their own, yet still moved as if attached by the hip, in perfect tandem.
It wasn’t the usual sibling dynamic she was used to, it was more like a mother and child. Or more accurately, in their case, a father and daughter.
"You shouldn’t really be up,"
Said the man. His voice was deep and firm, echoing faintly in the clean walls of the room.
A beat passed before he added, with casual reproach,
"But seriously, what is it with you and getting injured? Do you really love the clinic that much?"
Gloria regarded him with her usual calm, detached gaze.
He t her stare, unfazed. They remained like that for a mont—silent, watchful—until she finally spoke.
"You know, I’ve always wondered what your parents were thinking when they nad you Marin."
Both twins froze, caught off-guard.
Before they could recover, Gloria pressed on.
"It sounds like a cheap knockoff of Marilyn. Like they weren’t expecting twins and just decided to go with the flow."
"You picking a fight?"
Marin’s voice was sharp with indignation. His sister quickly stepped in, tugging playfully at Gloria’s cheeks until they puffed out like a chipmunk.
"Give him a break. He’s just worried about you, that’s all."
"What does it even matter?"
Gloria replied, her voice quiet, dejected.
Marin clicked his tongue in irritation.
"What do you an what does it matter?"
Gloria rolled her eyes.
"What I an is, why do I have to rest?"
"Huh? What do you an why?"
"Huh? What do you an why?"
The twins spoke in perfect unison. It wasn’t rehearsed, but it happened often enough to be disturbing.
Gloria always found it a little eerie.
Still, that wasn’t what was bothering her. Sothing else felt off.
Blinking slowly, she murmured,
"I lost, didn’t I?"
"Ah."
"Ah."
"Stop it."
"We can’t help—"
"We can’t help—"
They froze, glanced at each other, and this ti, Marilyn spoke alone.
"We can’t help it."
Then Marin’s voice followed, firm and final.
"You didn’t lose."
"...How is that possible?"
Gloria asked.
"I lost consciousness. I had to be rushed to the clinic."
Marilyn scratched her head, sheepish.
"Well, yeah. But... have you seen the other guy?"
"...No? Did sothing happen to the team captain?"
She asked hesitantly.
"He almost died,"
Marin said, blunt as ever.
"Lost a lot of skin. A few more touches and he’d be as good as roast pork. The high-ranking priests had to step in just to save his life."
At that, Gloria recoiled, wide-eyed with shock.
Marilyn placed a hand on her shoulder, gently.
"Such things... they’re not rare. But for a newbie like you, they’re definitely unusual. You seem really talented. And compatible with fla. Your magic is like a work of art."
She gave a half-smile.
"... At least, that’s what people are saying."
Gloria said nothing. Her mind flicked to the mory of the cup of blood—the one the High Cardinal had forced down her throat. Not literally, of course.
She was sorry to say this but her performance hadn’t been about talent at all.
Still, she refocused.
"So you’re saying... I qualified for the Selection?"
"Yes."
"Yes."
They responded in eerie harmony again.
"Yes!"
The word left her mouth in a breath of disbelief. But then, she wobbled slightly, the weakness in her legs making itself known.
"Oh no. I need to conserve my strength—!"
She hustled awkwardly back to the bed and crashed down with a soft plop.
Lifting her head, she blinked.
"...What?"
Marilyn cleared her throat with an awkward smile.
"Oh, it’s nothing. Has anyone ever told you—you look cute?"
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