Gaspar’s eyes widened as the Baroness vanished in a brilliant burst of light, illuminating the chamber with a momentary blaze. The sudden radiance left afterimages dancing before his eyes, and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision.

“Scarlett!” Rosa, the bard, cried out. Gaspar had barely registered her exclamation before a blur streaked past him. Fynn, the white-haired youth always at the Baroness’ side, dashed across the chamber with preternatural speed to the spot where the noblewoman had been standing mere seconds before.

“W-What just happened?” one of the Shielder children whispered, her wide eyes darting around the room. Beside her, her armored companion gripped his sword tightly, a deep frown etching lines on his young face.

Fynn scanned the floor where the Baroness had disappeared, his gaze searching every little detail. Finding nothing, he turned abruptly and bolted towards the entrance, leaving only a swirling of wind and dust.

Rosa’s violet eyes narrowed, locking onto Gaspar with a steely intensity he had yet to see from her previously. “You, Grand Wizard Hartford or whatever,” she demanded. “Where did Scarlett go? What was that just now? And what are those stone slabs?”

Gaspar’s brow furrowed as he tuned out the murmurs of his junior wizards nearby. “I don’t know,” he said through slightly gritted teeth, feeling his scowl deepen. “Those ‘slabs’, as you call them, are recollection steles. Ancient artifacts erected by the Zuver to hold memories and knowledge of past wizards.”

“Then what did it do to Scarlett? Why did it take her away?” Allyssa—the Shielder girl—pressed, her voice tinged with worry.

Gaspar’s gaze shifted to the stele where the Baroness had stood. That light he’d seen, emanating from her head… It couldn’t possibly be…

He turned and gestured sharply to two Principal Wizards from the Mistral Observatory, both clad in emerald robes. “Quickly, examine the area,” he ordered, then returned his focus to Rosa, gruffly adding, “I can’t answer your questions. The steles are supposed to store specific memories and insights for modern wizards, but they shouldn’t include any sort of translocational spell. Their effect is purely mental, accessing the mind, not the body. And while it appeared the Baroness might have activated the stele, even that should not be possible without a paired relic.”

As he spoke, Gaspar’s mind raced through the implications. What could have caused this? And why had it happened? He couldn’t say, and that fact irked him immensely. Had the Baroness anticipated this? Was that why she had asked him to identify the stele belonging to Delmont? But if so, why did her companions react with such genuine shock? And why did she herself seem caught off guard?

Perhaps more pressingly, had she truly been transported somewhere else? He had detected no spell resembling any spatial translocation magic he knew, not even among Zuverian techniques. Yet it seemed equally improbable that the Baroness had simply ceased to exist or perished.

Gaspar’s thoughts were interrupted as Rosa pulled out her instrument from whatever spatial fold her cape hid, and he noticed a subtle shift in the air around her, as if it were coalescing with power. He narrowed his eyes, unsure if he’d imagined it, but set the thought aside as she fixed him with a grave expression, fingers resting on the neck of her instrument.

“That ‘recollection stele’,” the woman said, voice low, “it was related to that ancient wizard Scarlett was investigating — Delmon, or something like that. What does this mean? Is she in danger?”

Gaspar’s jaw tightened. “…I don’t know,” he replied once more. He glanced at his fellow council members, but both Magister Penney and Grand Wizard Clemons shook their heads, equally uncertain.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Magister Penney said, his usually jovial face now marked by deep concern. “Perhaps it’s connected to the other strange occurrences here in the Hall?”

A powerful gust of wind blew over the group, heralding the return of the Baroness’ guard dog. Fynn came skidding to a halt before them, his face set in a grim mask. Gaspar noted the fresh scorch marks on the youth’s clothes.

“I couldn’t sense Scarlett anywhere in the earlier chambers,” he reported.

Rosa’s grave expression appeared momentarily clouded by worry, but Allyssa quickly spoke up, her tone steadier now. “Hold on, before we draw any conclusions, this is Scarlett we’re talking about. She… I don’t think she would be taken down easily.”

Rosa glanced at the girl, her gaze lingering. “…True, but even she seemed surprised by whatever happened. That means this was outside her expectations.”

“Even so,” Shin—the only somewhat normal one of the group, in Gaspar’s opinion—interjected. “Scarlett is more than capable of protecting herself.”

The bard fell silent for a moment, then nodded, her expression relaxing slightly. “You’re right. It’d be stranger if something bad actually happened to her. We’re more liable to reach the heart of this place only to find she’d already cleared it by herself, really.”

Gaspar observed their exchange with his own dose of skepticism and interest. Their concern aside, they also appeared to have strong faith in the Baroness’ abilities. He had yet to see anything particularly impressive about her magic that would warrant such confidence, however. True, she had demonstrated some skill in applying both pyrokinesis and hydrokinesis—which was certainly impressive for an imperial noble—and he couldn’t deny that she possessed a commendable arsenal of magical artifacts and the like. But raw power and expensive tools didn’t necessarily make a formidable mage.

Still, he had to ponder the possibility that he was underestimating her. He disliked the notion, but she had surpassed his expectations before.

“Regardless of Scarlett’s safety,” Allyssa said, “what should we do now?”

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Shin was the one to respond, maintaining an admirably analytical character. “If what happened to her is related to the disturbances here, we’re more likely to find answers if we uncover the source. That’s probably what Scarlett would have us do. It’s our best option.” He turned to Gaspar, his scarred gaze unflinching. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Gaspar regarded him for a couple of seconds, then nodded. “I do.” He called out to the two wizards examining the recollection stele. “Asheton, Sherman, any findings?”

One of the wizards looked up under the glow of several diagnostic spells, shaking his head. “There are no traces whatsoever, Grand Wizard.”

Gaspar’s frown returned. So he hadn’t been mistaken. Whatever had happened to the Baroness wasn’t the result of an ordinary translocation spell, at the very least. And the steles would usually leave some residual energy if activated, so it was unlikely that the Baroness had merely triggered some hidden function they were unaware of.

He grumbled to himself. This would have been easier if Senior Wizard Ward had bothered to be present.

Turning to Magister Penney and Grand Wizard Clemons, he spoke firmly. “The Baroness has already opened the path ahead for us. We will investigate her disappearance further once we’ve unraveled what is happening here. Until then, there’s little we can do with our current resources.”

Even if their group found nothing, the Isle had enough capable wizards who could investigate the woman’s disappearance once the Hall had been secured.

“Don’t worry,” Magister Penney reassured the Baroness’ companions. “The Rising Isle will do all it can to ensure Baroness Hartford returns safely.”

Shin was the one to nod in reply. “We believe you.”

As one, the Baroness’ party steeled themselves to press forward, any trace of fatigue from their previous battles seemingly forgotten. Gaspar glowered as he noted his own wizards’ hesitation, and he barked at them. “This is no time for idleness. You are wizards, not frightened children! Asheton, Sherman, join us.”

Though lagging slightly, the wizards soon gathered themselves, and together they followed the Baroness’ party, venturing deeper into the uncharted recesses of the Hall of Echoes. Gaspar cast one last look at the stele where the Baroness had vanished, his eyes lingering.

While he couldn’t be certain of what exactly had transpired, if that light did indicate what he suspected… It defied what he thought he knew and made little sense, but if it did… He wondered what, precisely, the Baroness was experiencing now, and what she might make of it.

The thought did not amuse him.

image [https://i.imgur.com/PqbLpOW.png]

Scarlett blinked, finding herself in an unfamiliar forest glade, surrounded by a sea of green trees. Their leaves rustled gently in the gentle summer breeze, tousling her dark-red hair and sending loose strands tumbling over her shoulder. She slowly turned in place, taking in her surroundings while trying to make sense of what had just happened.

This…definitely wasn’t the Rising Isle. Not only was the landscape entirely different, but the very air itself was dense with the earthy scent of pine and wildflowers — a stark contrast to the controlled, crisp atmosphere of the Isle. Somewhere in the distance, she caught the faint trill of birdsong, punctuated by indistinct murmurs that might have been voices carried on the wind. Her gaze drifted to the horizon, where a mountain range loomed beyond the treetops, its peaks cloaked in a thin, hazy mist that seemed familiar.

This was the mainland. Likely somewhere within the empire, if her suspicion that those were the Whitstone Mountains was correct. But it was summer here, rather than winter, as it should be.

She hadn’t somehow entered Freymeadow, had she? If so, this glade was new. Besides, she was pretty sure Freymeadow should be closer to the mountains than this.

So, where was she?

A soft rustling at her feet drew her attention downward, and she paused slightly at the sight of the Emberling standing by her boots, the small fiery fox looking up at her with its bright, curious-looking eyes. Scarlett hadn’t summoned the pseudo-spirit, yet here it was, somehow having materialised on its own. The question was how? The Emberling shouldn’t possess the awareness to act independently.

With a furrowed brow, Scarlett reached up and removed the circlet from her head, noting how its earlier glow had faded. Now, it was just an ordinary piece of dull white metal. She turned it over in her hands, scrutinising it closely.

What had caused that glow earlier? Had the artifact somehow interacted with the stele back in the Hall of Echoes? That seemed impossible. There was no logical reason for the two to be connected—

She stopped in her thoughts, eyes drifting back to the Emberling.

…Before it had been bound to the [Crown of Flame’s Benediction], the pseudo-spirit had been linked to the [Foxfire Charm], a gift from Arlene shortly before she tasked Scarlett with finding out what happened to Delmont, her brother. Could the Emberling perhaps somehow be connected to Delmont then — enough, perhaps, to trigger the stele’s activation?

But even if that were the case, it didn’t explain her current situation. The steles weren’t supposed to work like this, were they? Or were things simply different in this world compared to the game?

Distant voices reached her ears again, pulling her out of her contemplations. She turned towards the sound.

…Standing around wouldn’t yield any answers. Where there were voices, there were people, and people might provide at least some insight into what was going on.

Decision made, Scarlett donned her circlet once more but dismissed the Emberling, which disappeared without ceremony. She set off in the direction of those voices, slipping through the trees and carefully picking her way through the underbrush. As she drew closer, the voices grew clearer, and she began to make out distinct tones.

Eventually, she stepped into a small clearing bisected by a well-worn dirt trail that cut through the forest. In the distance, she could just make out the silhouette of what appeared to be a keep or a small manor on a distant hill. Closer, however, her attention was drawn to a group of four near the clearing’s edge.

Three of the figures sat with their backs to her, perched on wooden stools surrounded by an assortment of equipment — books, water jugs, and what looked like practice targets, similar to those Scarlett used in her own training. They faced a fourth figure, clad in the deep red robes so common among the Followers of Ittar. A priest?

The robed figure appeared to be giving a lesson, conjuring delicate flames above his hands as glowing red runes hovered in the air. He didn’t seem to be an outright threat, so Scarlett approached. As she did, the priest paused, his gaze shifting to her. “It appears we have a guest,” he said in a slow, measured voice that carried traces of surprise. “And who might you be, young lass?”

Scarlett studied him carefully. The man was old, with deep-set wrinkles marking his face, and white hair fell in neat waves, framing a stern yet kind expression. His robes were of fine quality, suggesting a high-ranking position among the Followers.

Before she could respond, the three students turned to face her, and Scarlett froze, voice catching in her throat.

They were young, likely in their mid-to-late teens, with similar features that hinted at a familial connection. The two on either side were noteworthy in their own ways, but it was the one seated in the center who captured Scarlett’s attention, rooting her to the spot.

The girl had straight, raven-black hair that draped over her shoulders, and her pale green eyes—keen, confident—met Scarlett’s gaze head-on. Beneath her right eye were two small beauty marks, and she wore a light, flowing black tunic with understated decorations at the edges. Even youthful as she appeared here, Scarlett recognised her instantly.

Arlene.