Midnight approached, and at the entrance of Westdel, two guardsmen patrolled under the dim yellow glow of magic light crystals hanging on either side of the gate. The quiet of the night was broken by the distant sound of galloping horses. The guards paused, exchanging uncertain glances before peering into the darkness. Slowly, multiple figures on horseback emerged, their outlines becoming clearer in the faint light. Sir Francis led the group, his face serious and determined.

At the magic research facility. "What is this commotion all about?" came the raspy, groggy voice of Master Frode, an elderly mage, as he was stirred from his sleep by his young apprentice. The two descended a narrow winding staircase, the apprentice holding a candle that flickered in the dark.

"Master Frode, it's Sir Knight Francis. He's here—with the mother crystal!" the young apprentice announced in a tone of urgency.

As they reached the lower level, another mage stood waiting by the entrance. He looked more mature, with a calm demeanor. "Master," he said, acknowledging Frode's presence.

Outside, Sir Francis and his group had arrived. Several guardsmen stood behind him, while Sylvia was right at his side. Sir Francis stepped forward and addressed the elder mage. "Master Frode."

Master Frode adjusted his glasses, observing the group with a discerning gaze. His eyes lingered on the box containing the mother crystal before he turned back to Sir Francis. With a puzzled tone, he remarked, "You were supposed to arrive tomorrow morning."

Sir Francis gave a grim nod. "We... had to change plans. We encountered unexpected obstacles along the way."

Master Frode's gaze sharpened as he studied them closely. Sir Francis was not wearing his full knight's attire; his armor was worn, covered in dirt, mud, and dried blood. The guardsmen behind him appeared equally exhausted, their faces etched with fatigue, and their armor, like Sir Francis's, was battered and worn down seemingly from battle. Frode's eyes shifted to Sylvia, who offered a small, cheerful smile despite her disheveled appearance. Her clothes were dirt-stained, her face bore a few scratches, and her usually neat hair was tousled.

"Master Frode, nice to see you again," Sylvia said warmly, her voice betraying none of the exhaustion her appearance revealed.

Sometimes later at Master Frode's meeting room.....

Illuminated by the soft glow of candlelight, the atmosphere was thick with anticipation. The room itself was a grand chamber, lined with dark wooden bookshelves filled with ancient tomes. Ornate carvings decorated the walls and bookshelves, and a large stained glass window behind Master Frode's desk allowed the moonlight to filter through, casting colorful patterns across the floor. A richly woven rug lay beneath the heavy wooden desk, which now held the mother crystal in the center, glowing faintly in the dim room. Master Frode stood in front of the crystal, his eyes keenly observing it.

Opposite the table stood Sir Francis and Sylvia, eager for any sign of confirmation from the master mage. The young mage apprentice, who had awakened Master Frode, stood quietly behind them. The silence was palpable, the weight of the moment resting on everyone in the room.

Finally, breaking the silence, Master Frode spoke, his voice calm but filled with curiosity. "Very well," he said while still gazing at the crystal, "I'll see what I can do. I never imagined I would see a mother crystal firsthand. This one, in particular, is in perfect shape."

He shifted his gaze from the crystal to Sir Francis, raising a curious eyebrow. "You said it was found in the royal treasury?""

Sir Francis nodded. "Yes, it was Sir Gedeon and Angus who stumbled upon it, thanks to information they obtained from a servant who had been charmed by the witches."

"Hm…" Master Frode made a thoughtful sound, both hands now resting on his hips as he frowned slightly. "So, it was the same witch that charmed the servant who attacked your group?"

"Indeed," Sir Francis confirmed without hesitation. "I'm certain they were the same ones."

Master Frode accepted the answer without further question, his sharp mind already moving on to the next point of intrigue. His gaze shifted to Sylvia. "And the burst of magic energy that stopped the vortex? Do you have any idea what that was?"

Sylvia lowered her head slightly, crossing her arms as she shook her head. "Honestly, I don't know. Its origin, or how it formed—it was unlike anything I've ever seen. The intensity was overwhelming," she admitted, her voice tinged with frustration. "Maybe it was the goddess doing, because I can't imagine anyone ever producing such enormous magical energy."

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Master Frode's expression remained serious and intrigued, though he didn't press for more answers. What mattered now was studying the mother crystal that lay before him. "I see," he said after a brief pause. "I will secure the mother crystal and continue to research it in the morning."

He glanced at Sir Francis and Sylvia. "In the meantime, you both need to rest. The research facility has already prepared rooms for you and your guardsmen for the night." His tone softened slightly as he offered them a rare moment of respite after their harrowing journey.

...

Early sunrise bathed the town of Westdel in a soft, golden light. Birds chirped, welcoming the morning as the town slowly came to life. A few residents could be seen walking about, shop owners opening their stores for the day. The weather was chilly, signaling the beginning of winter, though patches of greenery still lingered.

Westdel was not a small village, but it couldn't compare to the grandeur of Rothrosia's main city. There were no towering stone walls to guard it, but the town was secured by several guard posts, each manned by two to four guards. The main guard post stood at the town's entrance, overseeing who came and went.

The only large structure in Westdel was the magic research facility, an imposing medieval castle-like building. It was big enough to house resident mages, servants, and had an extension for visitors, including Sir Francis, Sylvia, and the rest of their company. It also had a horse stable and a decent guardhouse, which housed a few guards. The area surrounding the research facility was lined with houses and shops.

Inside one of the rooms in the magic research facility, Sylvia was standing at the side of the bed, her gaze briefly drifting toward the small arched window as the soft morning light filtered in. The room was simple but spacious enough for two, though she had it to herself. The bed beside her, though modest, had been enough for a restful night. In front of the bed was a small wooden cabinet, its surface mostly bare except for a single candle that had long since burned out.

She was already dressed in a fresh mage's outfit: a sleek black robe that fit her perfectly, paired with a medium, slightly pointy hat in the same color. The attire, provided by the facility, gave her a sense of renewed energy, and a satisfied smile spread across her face. "Right," she muttered to herself as she adjusted her hat, ready to start her day. With a quick motion, she rushed out of the room.

Meanwhile, in a small clearing outside the magic facility, surrounded by bushes and a few small trees, a figure was diligently practicing his sword technique. Sir Francis stood firm, swinging his sword with precision, both hands gripping the hilt tightly. He wore a light, sleeveless brown shirt and simple linen trousers tucked into his boots. His stance was grounded, one foot in front of the other, as he executed each swing with measured focus. Sweat dotted his forehead, and his breathing was steady, his morning exercise well underway. Every motion he made was deliberate, his gaze focused as he perfected each strike.

Unbeknownst to him, Sylvia had been quietly observing him nearby. With a friendly tone, she called out, "Morning, Sir Francis."

Sir Francis paused, lowering his sword and relaxing his posture. He returned her greeting, "Morning. I'm glad you're alright."

Sylvia smiled warmly. "I'm stronger than I look," she replied, her voice light and reassuring.

"Feeling better already?" Sir Francis asked, his concern evident.

"For now, yes," Sylvia nodded, "but my magic energy still needs time to recover." She sighed softly as a light breeze swept through the clearing. Hugging herself for warmth, Sylvia glanced at sir Francis and remarked, "Winter is coming. You don't feel the cold?"

Sir Francis shook his head with a faint grin. "Nope, once you get used to it, you hardly notice," though the faint chill in the air did nip at his skin, something he wasn't about to admit.

He then ask, "you seem to know master Forde quite well."

Sylvia eyes brightened with nostalgia. "I was stationed here at the facility about five years ago, if I'm not mistaken," she said, tapping her chin as if trying to recall. "And besides," she continued with a smile, "my village is not far from Westdel. It's just a day's ride south."

Before Sir Francis could respond, a servant appeared from behind. "Ah, Sir Francis and Miss Sylvia, your breakfast is ready," he announced politely.

Sylvia's expression brightened with delight, and she thanked the servant warmly. "We'll be right there," she said with a pleasant nod.

Just as the servant turned to leave, Sir Francis called out, "One moment—are there any taverns around here?"

The servant paused and answered, "There is one near the edge of town, on the north side."

Sir Francis nodded in acknowledgment as the servant headed back inside.

"Heading to the tavern already?" Sylvia asked with a playful smile.

Sir Francis shrugged, wiping a bit of sweat from his brow. "Probably later," he replied with a casual tone, his eyes still reflecting the focus of his earlier practice.

With that, they both turned and walked together toward the magic research facility, the early morning sun casting long shadows behind them as they made their way inside for breakfast.

Deep within the magic facility, in an oval-shaped chamber with arched openings surrounding it, the atmosphere was thick with an eerie silence. The room was dark, save for the faint glow of magical crystals hanging from the vertical support beams, casting a dim, flickering light over the stone walls. In the center of the room stood a raised round altar, from which a magic circle, etched with intricate and ancient writing, radiated outward. Upon the altar sat the mother crystal, its surface gleaming with shifting colors—brilliant yet unsettling.

Master Frode stood beside the altar, his wand held firmly in one hand. His face was etched with deep concentration, sweat trickling down his temple. The glow of the magical crystal reflected off his glasses, but his eyes remained locked, unwavering, on the mother crystal itself. His expression was grim, a look of both curiosity and fear as he strained to comprehend the phenomenon unfolding before him.

There was a faint, almost inaudible voice coming from within the crystal itself.