"It’s been five months! *Five months!* And not a single word from His Lordship!"
The voice rang sharply through the sacred hall, a vast and solemn chamber of stained glass, towering pillars, and black banners draped from vaulted ceilings. At the center, on a throne of steel and stone, sat a woman with long green hair streaked by striking white strands, her knuckles pale as she gripped the edge of the armrest.
Duchess Sapphira’s eyes were calm, but her posture betrayed the storm beneath. For five long months, she had journeyed to Eden again and again, seeking answers, seeking him, but Asher remained beyond her reach.
"My lady," ca a trembling voice. It was Viscount Claude, stepping forward, his brow damp, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. "The people are worried. The plague of the Abyss has begun to fester. We’re seeing more and more refugees at our borders, fleeing kingdoms, villages... even cities. And beyond our borders..." he swallowed, "...the world says the Duke is dead. Whispers have beco proclamations. The more that enter, the louder that notion grows."
He lifted his head, slowly, and t her eyes. His heart pounded.
He didn’t want to believe it. For months, he had denied the thought, buried it beneath duty and blind faith. But now... there was no ssage. No sign. Not even a body this ti. Nothing. Only silence.
In that silence stood Sapphira, flanked by two priestesses, her face veiled in silver lace. Even the sacred whispers of the seers had given her no clarity. And now...
She closed her eyes. Let out a long, breathless sigh.
"I don’t know."
The words struck like thunder.
A gasp rippled through the crowd gathered at both sides of the hall. Gasps. Murmurs. Fear.
For months, Sapphira had stood firm, "He lives," she had declared. Again and again. "He lives." But now, for the first ti... she could no longer say it with certainty.
Behind her, Mia stepped forward slightly, her young face tight with sorrow, eyes glistening.
Viscount Claude swayed, as if the very floor had tilted beneath him.
"Ahem," ca a firm voice. Kelvin stepped forward, voice steadier than his clenched jaw. "His Lordship has survived more than any of us could even dream of. We must hold to his words. He will return. We must trust in the Duchess, and act according to her commands."
Count Alex snapped his gaze toward him, fists clenched at his sides. "So we should sit and wait? Let the rumored death of the Duke beco prophecy by inaction?" His voice rose, raw with emotion. "Even you have doubts, don’t you? There’s nothing this ti. Not a word. Not a shadow. We can’t even reach Eden! We are blind."
"He is not dead!" Kelvin thundered, his voice echoing across the chamber.
"Then prove it!" Alex roared back, stepping forward, his face red, veins bulging.
Silence followed. Thick and suffocating.
Then ca Sapphira’s voice, soft but clear, each word like a blade slicing through the noise.
"If he is dead..." she said slowly, "then we know whose sword has his blood."
All eyes turned toward her.
Her eyes glead as she continued to speak.
"House Zaur. House Nethaneel. And their allies," she said coldly. "If they have slain the Wolf of Ashbourne, then let the heavens bear witness, they will pay for it with fire and blood."
The chamber fell utterly silent.
"But..." a calm, almost ethereal voice echoed through the chamber.
Aquila, the Lady of Paradise, stepped forward, her robes a cascade of moonlight and starlight, her blue eyes troubled.
"The Angels have sent word," she continued. "They’ve sighted over a hundred flying warships preparing to depart from Cyrenia... and an army of at least one hundred thousand. This is not a rumor. This is a fact. We cannot ignore it."
Murmurs rippled through the hall once more. Aquila’s voice carried weight, as one who seldom spoke unless the circumstances and truth themselves urged her.
"No one has faced Cyrenia’s full force in centuries," she said gravely. "No one knows the true extent of their might. Their Awoken Ones are hidden, their weapons older than recorded ti. And as of now... we have no Awoken One."
Her words were not ant as accusations. They were the truth. Cold and crushing.
All eyes turned to Sapphira once again.
But she did not falter.
Lowering her gaze, Sapphira looked at Aquila, her voice calm and controlled. "I have not been idle, Lady of Paradise. I have not rely tended the heirs of this Dukedom, nor sat upon this throne in wait." She stood now, fully, her veil lifting slightly in the light.
Her voice rang with quiet thunder.
"I discovered I had been slacking... relying too much on what I once was. But no more. I have pushed myself, forced this mortal shell to climb beyond to its limits."
She paused, then spoke with unmistakable weight:
"As of now, I stand at the Exalted rank."
Gasps filled the room. So hands trembled. Even Aquila tilted her head in asured surprise.
But Sapphira did not smile. There was no pride in her tone, only resolve, and sorrow.
She knew the truth no one else did. The Abyss plague had spread so rapidly not by accident, and not because of a rift.
It was because she had diverted her divine essence. Her true body, the continent itself, was the one safeguarding against the creeping void. But for months, she had redirected that divine energy, using it instead to reinforce her mortal vessel, to train, to fight, to beco what Ashbourne needed.
It was a desperate choice. A selfish one. Her true body was now deteriorating, her anchor weakening, and the consequence had been the deaths and sickness of thousands.
In her quiet monts, she wondered if her creator still watched. If the divine eyes saw her failure. Her betrayal.
But despite the guilt, her conviction did not waver.
She looked across the chamber, her erald and white-streaked hair flowing as she stepped down from the throne. Her voice rose, not with emotion, but with command.
"We must not turn on each other every ti he disappears," she said. "The Duke is not our only pillar. Ashbourne cannot remain a Dukedom ruled by fear and rumor."
The hall was silent once more, the mood shifted, less hysteria, more reflection.
Sapphira stood tall before them all.
"We prepare for Cyrenia," she declared. "With or without him."Absolutely.
Boom!
The massive doors of the sacred hall burst open with thunderous force, the sound echoing like the strike of divine judgnt through the vaulted chamber. A hush fell instantly over the gathered lords and nobles, all turning in unison, hearts freezing, breath stolen from lungs.
From the blinding light beyond the doorway erged a figure, Asher.
Clad in immaculate black armor, its surface gleaming like polished obsidian, the newcor floated forward.
Etched along his chestplate were silver streaks, shaped like ancient runes that shimred faintly with power. His long, snow-white hair cascaded down his back like flowing silk, glinting in the light from the glass above, giving him an otherworldly elegance, like a blade sheathed in starlight.
Upon his head rested a black crown-helm. A ghostly mantle, woven from dark ethereal threads, drifted behind him like mist in the wind, wrapping around portions of his armor and trailing into shadow.
He hovered, seven feet above the ground, without effort, without sound. The weight of his presence pressed down on all who beheld him.
Behind him marched paladins in solemn formation, their armor scarred by war, weapons still stained with the blood of conquest. And behind them ca the beastn, hulking, terrible, ancient, each radiating a primal aura so suffocating that seasoned knights clenched their teeth and tightened their grip around their weapons.
At the front of the hall, Duchess Sapphira stood frozen. All composure slipped from her. Her lips parted, but no words ca. Her heart thundered in her chest.
Asher’s golden eyes locked onto hers, and for a mont, the room seed to fade away.
"I have returned," he said, his voice calm and steady. Yet it carried a weight, an authority so deep it resonated in the bones of those who heard it. It wasn’t just a statent.
He looked once more to Sapphira, and this ti, his voice softened, lower... personal.
"I am sorry."
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