In the grand audience chamber, the morning light filtered through stained-glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the intricately carved pillars and vaulted ceilings. Ren’s request for a direct audience with the Queen had been granted, thanks to Princess Elaria’s personal intervention. Without delay, the eting was scheduled promptly.
As Ren entered, the eyes of the ministers turned toward him, their gazes sharp and unwelcoming. Suspicion, disdain, and a hint of hostility reflected the deep-seated wounds between humans and elves.
Undeterred, Ren walked steadily, his body still wrapped in conspicuous white bandages beneath borrowed formal attire. Behind him, a few attendants who had tended to his injuries bowed respectfully, surprised to see him standing tall just three days after his near-fatal wounds.
He paused in the center of the silent hall, realizing he had yet to introduce himself formally. His old na, Ren, felt too ordinary... too human.
Suddenly, like a whisper carried by the breeze through the grand windows, a na surfaced in his mind. Not from mory, but perhaps from a dream or a forgotten past.
"Nico... Mustang, that will do," he murmured internally. The na felt both foreign and familiar, as if it had been waiting for this mont.
Drawing a deep breath, he straightened his posture. Whether accepted or rejected, he would be known not as a lost soldier but as Nico Mustang—a man forging his own path.
As the ceremonial bells tolled thrice, the hall fell into complete silence. At the far end, beneath a cascade of crystal light, the Elven Queen appeared—seated gracefully with a crown of golden leaves and a shimring green silk robe that glistened like morning dew. Her gaze was sharp yet serene, eyes that had witnessed centuries and could discern a soul’s essence with a single look.
Nico Mustang advanced slowly. The sound of his footsteps echoed against the marble floor, each step amplifying the pounding of his heart. He knelt, placing one hand over his bandaged chest. Though his wounds were not fully healed, the aura he exuded was undeniable.
The soft thud of his leather shoes resonated in the hushed chamber. Elven nobles seated on either side observed him intently—so sneering, others silently vigilant. Before them, the Queen sat regally on her throne, surrounded by softly glowing crystal lamps.
He reached the throne and knelt in formal gesture. One hand over his chest, Nico bowed his head in respect. His heartbeat echoed in his ears, but he showed no trace of hesitation.
"Welco, human...?" The Queen’s voice was gentle, yet it carried an undeniable authority.
"My na is Nico Mustang, Your Majesty," Nico responded firmly, eting her gaze with calm determination.
"Ah, yes... Nico-san," the Queen regarded him briefly, then nodded slightly. "Very well. What brings you to seek this audience?"
Nico inhaled deeply and raised his head. His eyes remained steady. "I’ll be direct. Allow to participate in this war... and confront Veskar directly."
The room fell into sudden silence. Nobles who had been observing from afar now sat upright. So exchanged quick glances, their expressions filled with astonishnt.
"Impossible...!" muttered a military advisor, unable to contain his shock. "This is not the concern of an outsider!"
Elaria, standing to the Queen’s right, held her breath. She looked at Nico with disbelief, mingled with a growing admiration. The Queen narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing the human who spoke as if his life held no value.
"You do realize who Veskar is, don’t you?" The Queen’s voice was colder now, like a winter wind seeping into one’s bones. Her gaze was piercing, analyzing Nico’s every move for any sign of insincerity.
Nico nodded slowly, unflinching. "I do. But I also know... none among the Elves can face Veskar directly."
His statent fell like a stone into a still pond, its ripples spreading throughout the hall. Nobles shifted uneasily in their seats. An elder advisor who had been sneering now sat rigid, his face tense, struck by an undeniable truth.
"How dare you say such a thing..." he murmured, but no one refuted Nico’s words. The reality was clear: the only warrior who had ever matched Veskar—the previous Elven King—was gone. What remained were hollow hopes and fragile pride.
"Why are you so certain?" the Queen inquired again, her tone less sharp, tinged with curiosity.
"Because I have a personal matter to settle with him." Nico’s eyes looked straight ahead, unwavering despite the judgntal stares from all corners of the room. "Your Majesty knows—I held my own against Veskar during Princess Elaria’s rescue. Though I was gravely injured, I did not fall... and I will not flee. I’m ready to face him again. So, please, grant permission to join!"
His words resonated like the first war drums of autumn. So nobles seed poised to interject but hesitated. Despite his wounds and status as a foreign human, this man had displayed a bravery that many Elves lacked.
Elaria, standing half a step behind the throne, slowly lowered her head. A faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips—not out of mockery, but understanding. Nico’s words weren’t just empty bravado; they were the flas of determination she had witnessed firsthand on the battlefield.
Though the man’s body was still wrapped in bandages, his presence betrayed not a trace of hesitation. If anything, his wounds served as proof that he had pushed beyond the limits of ordinary n to save both her and the hornet princess. There was sothing more than re strength within him—sothing even the Elven nobility could not ignore.
Yet the Queen let out a long sigh, her voice heavier than before. "But it’s not that simple..." she said, her gaze now shifting from Nico to encompass the entire council chamber.
Her eyes swept across the advisors and nobles, whose expressions had subtly begun to shift—from skeptical to uncertain. "Your request... requires more than just courage," she continued. "Haah..." She leaned back slightly against her throne, her eyes closing for the briefest mont. "Let think on it first."
The atmosphere in the audience chamber froze in tension, as though even the stone walls held their breath, listening for the words left unspoken. Amid the silence, a single voice slowly erged, breaking through with a tremor that carried surprise.
"Forgive the interruption, Your Majesty..." ca the voice of a middle-aged man clad in a dark robe embroidered with gold—one of the younger ministers, Aaron, known for his quiet deanor and ticulous mind.
The Queen turned toward him, her brow furrowing slightly. "What is it, Aaron?"
Aaron bowed respectfully before stepping forward. "It’s like this... Yesterday, the palace received a delivery of materials addressed specifically to Sir Nico. Along with it ca several personal ssages from refugees who had just returned from the border."
The room instantly buzzed with whispers from nobles seated to the left and right. So faces showed doubt, others a deep curiosity.
"ssages from the refugees?" the Queen asked, her voice now carrying a more genuine interest.
Aaron nodded gracefully. "Indeed. They expressed their gratitude for Sir Nico’s heroic actions. Among them were a woman nad Sylphia and her daughter, Shua—known to be forr hostages rescued during the fall of the border fortress into human hands."
Those nas struck sothing personal within Nico’s mory. (Sylphia... and Shua...) he thought quietly, recalling the hopeful smile of the little girl he had once protected with all his might.
One of the elder ministers, his wrinkled face etched with doubt, furrowed his brow and muttered, "And why should such a report be presented in the royal audience chamber?"
But Aaron pressed on. His gaze remained steady, his voice calm but firm. "Because it wasn’t just Sylphia, Your Majesty. Most of the other hostages have agreed as well. They sold their valuables, traded whatever they could... just to purchase a piece of mithril and send it to Sir Nico."
The chamber fell silent once more, but this ti with a different air. A ripple of emotion—part awe, part quiet reverence—began to spread among those present.
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