"Now tell us—how is this a continental crisis?" Valemir finally spoke, his voice low but firm, slicing through the heavy silence. "You've proven this is Sylvathar's blood… but what makes this an issue for all of Amthar? Why should every kingdom be alarmed?"
Mystica gave a small bow. "Of course, Your Highness."
She dismissed the floating blood orbs with a flick of her fingers, then gently waved the corpse of Aveline back into her dimensional vault.
"A few weeks ago," she began, "Galen Magna and Magnus Yaer were dispatched to the Ruined Lands. A rift had appeared—one we suspected might be Sylvathar's point of entry."
Murmurs stirred at the mention of the Ruined Lands.
"But instead of Sylvathar himself," she continued, "they encountered a Gaia demon. Not just any—this one was stronger than anything on record. A mutated force. A monster. According to their report, this demon had both a name and a title: the right hand of Sylvathar."
"The right hand?" Berg scoffed. "Since when do demons have titles like that?"
Mystica tilted her head with a coy smirk. "Well, since I'm not a demon, I suppose I wouldn't know. Would I?"
Lucy stifled a chuckle. Berg, unsurprisingly, didn't.
Mystica pressed on. "After a brutal fight, Galen managed to tear critical information from the demon before ending it."
Her tone dropped an octave.
"Phase one of Sylvathar's plan is already complete. He's been quietly gifting his blood to humans—those blinded by ambition, power-hungry enough to accept it. Sylvathar didn't just arrive recently. He's been on Amthar far longer than we realized… planting seeds."
She looked around the room slowly.
"His plan is to birth what I now call Hybrids—humans fused with his Gaia blood. They're stronger, faster, and far more adaptable. And when he has enough of them, he intends to return to the Demon Realm… and challenge for power there. To rank up in the hierarchy."
The chamber fell into stunned silence. Even the flickering torches seemed to hesitate.
"And what makes you so sure that's his goal?" Valemir asked, narrowing his eyes.
Mystica didn't blink. "Because those weren't my words, Your Highness. They were the dying declaration of the right-hand demon Galen slew."
'Are they always this slow, or are they just trying to get on my nerves?' she thought bitterly.
Eliv leaned forward, his tone sharp. "Then if what you're saying is true… that means anyone—any noble, soldier, or citizen who accepted Sylvathar's blood—could be in any kingdom right now."
Lucy stepped in, her voice cold and clear. "Exactly, Mage Eliv. That's why this isn't just a problem for my kingdom. It's a storm brewing over all of Amthar."
"Your Majesty," Lucy rose, her movements calm and deliberate—hands folded before her. "I understand if you wish to approach this with caution. Truly. It is the mark of a wise king to wait, to weigh the tide before stepping in. But there comes a moment when hesitation doesn't shield the kingdom—it sabotages it."
Her voice was velvet dipped in blade, and the room quieted under its cut.
"You rule Crescent—the land of strategy, foresight, and calculated strength. But even you know... when the battlefield shifts from the fields beyond to the halls within, the old rules no longer hold."
She stepped forward slowly, her gaze sweeping across each noble like a spotlight in the dark. "Sylvathar is not storming our gates. He is already inside. In the wine goblets of noble banquets. In whispers behind closed doors. In every soul willing to trade loyalty for a taste of unnatural power."
Her steps echoed louder now.
"And I know what you're thinking. Maybe it hasn't touched us. Maybe we're clean." She turned back to Valemir. "But we didn't know Aveline was lost until her corpse proved it. If a duchess can be corrupted without a whisper of suspicion... how many more walk among us, smiling with borrowed blood?"
The silence that followed was thick, almost breathing.
"This is no longer about whose borders it started in. It's about whether Amthar survives the next season of this era. Sylvathar doesn't wear a crown, yet he commands a growing army. One born from our people, wearing our skin."
She moved closer, just a breath of space between her and the war table.
"You are a king forged in both wisdom and war, Your Majesty. But even iron snaps when it stands alone."
Her voice softened, almost sorrowful. Almost. "I don't ask for trust. Trust is a seed that grows over time. I ask for alliance—for the sake of every child who has not yet been born into a world of fire and ash."
Then she turned her head, looking each noble dead in the eye before resting her gaze once more on Valemir.
"Because whether we like it or not, the game has already started. The board is moving. The war isn't coming—it's here.
And we will either rise together... or fall as strangers."
Valemir sat in silence, his eyes fixed on nothing, though his mind was a storm of contradiction. He had greeted Lucy with warmth—at least on the surface—but inside, resentment brewed like old wine turned to vinegar. The truth was, he despised the Tempest Kingdom. Not just out of politics, but history—and heartbreak.
The history? Tempest had once defended dark magic users when the world branded them demons. To Valemir, that was treason cloaked as compassion. A disgrace to Amthar and everything the three kingdoms were supposed to uphold.
The heartbreak? That was personal. Percy and Sheila—his own blood—had turned away from the Crescent Kingdom. Sheila followed her brother out of loyalty, even with the tension between them. But Percy? Percy rejected the kingdom outright, and in Valemir's eyes, the Tempest Kingdom stole them both.
He had once considered war against Tempest. A full campaign. A reckoning. But the thought of his children caught in the crossfire always stayed his hand. And now? Now he had to ally with them. Swallow his pride, chain his rage—for the sake of a greater threat. It tasted like ash in his throat.
A soft, familiar touch broke through the tempest. Elanora's hand, warm on his shoulder.
"Do what's right," she whispered, only for him. "For our children."
He inhaled slowly. The breath felt heavier than armor. Then, he straightened his back and looked across the table.
"Very well, Queen Rature," he said at last. "I accept your proposal. But on one condition."
Lucy didn't flinch. "Name it."
"You will make sure my children—Percy and Sheila—are protected. No matter what. They chose to attend your academy. That means they are in your care."
Lucy nodded once, her voice even. "I can't make promises I can't keep, King Valemir. But I can promise I will do everything in my power to protect them."
A long silence passed between them. Then, Valemir rose, extending a hand.
"Then we have an alliance."
Lucy stood and shook it firmly. "We do."
She turned and returned to her seat, the tension in the room finally easing—if only slightly.
Valemir sat again, casting a sharp glance toward her. "And what of the Solara Kingdom? This is a continental crisis, is it not?"
Lucy leaned back, calm as a mountain breeze. "No need to worry. I've already made plans regarding them."
"I see," Valemir replied. "And... how do we find these so-called hybrids?"
"At the moment, we don't know," Lucy said honestly. "But with this alliance, I believe we'll find a way."
Meanwhile, in the heart of Zone 15's capital city, Llis, a sleek black carriage rolled to a stop within the radiant expanse of the Solara Palace's grand compound.
The doors creaked open, and out stepped Galen and Magnus, their boots clicking against the marble path.
"Damn, Gally," Magnus whistled, eyes sweeping over the golden spires and sun-kissed gardens. "Sometimes I wonder why you ever ditched your royal roots. Look at this palace—pure eye candy."
"Shut it, Magnus," Galen muttered, running a hand through his hair with clear irritation. "I'm not planning to stay here long, so let's get this over with."