Antina drew her right hand skyward. A puddle of shadow manifested. A pair of chairs, made of blackened vines, rose along with a tea table. She hurried to arrange a seat for her mistress, who gestured for the uninvited but welcomed guest to make herself comfortable.

Although Antina restrained herself under her mistress’s command, she still couldn’t resist examining Elanor. That face, that temperament, they doubtlessly resembled her mistress’s.

Elanor’s knight rigidly followed her mistress. She peeped at Antina, whose pupils terrified her, before she glimpsed at her mistress’s opponent. She too couldn’t say anything, entranced by this mystique.

“Allow my maid to pour you this rosemary mint tea,” Iris said. “I presumed you do not dislike herbal tea.”

Elanor gave a formal smile. “I’m under no circumstance to refuse, Miss.”

“My name is Iris, a humble scholar.” Iris took a sip of the fragrant tea. “Have a taste, Elanor. It will diffuse your fatigue.”

Elanor’s knight shivered. She stared at her mistress, who glanced at her to stop her from her recklessness. She wanted to check the tea first, but her body wouldn’t listen to her, not when she stood in the presence of that terrifying maid.

“You’re in the presence of The Court’s senior member.” Antina pressed her left hand on her chest. “Any sign of disrespect is not to be tolerated.”

“Does she not remind you of someone?” Iris said. “Don’t bully her, Antina. You’ll only incite her rebellious nature. Isn’t that right, Elanor?”

Elanor nodded. She touched her knight’s arm, stroking the smooth armlet. “I told you to take off these armours, yet you never listened. I wanted to see your beauty, Ardrial.”

Ardrial quivered. She suppressed her smile. “They aren’t heavy at all. I must prepare myself for any and all emergencies.”

“I want to see your figure, Ardrial. Can’t you do it for your . . . mistress?” Another word almost slipped out. “It no longer matters anyway.”

Unable to argue against reality, Ardrial reluctantly tapped her chest plate. A series of hexagons manifested on its surface. Flames set the armour ablaze but harmed not Ardrial. They gradually ate away the metal covering her silhouette until her figure became visible.

Although dressed politely, she still felt uncomfortable. Many eyes stared at her petite body, comparing her against her mistress, whose appearance eclipsed her. But she wasn’t jealous. Being by Mistress’s side was enough.

“She . . . indeed looks similar,” Antina said. “This is no coincidence. How could—”

“The world is watching, Antina. Any mention of taboos will only bring unwanted attention.” Iris tapped the table. An invisible ripple bloomed forth. “Elanor, we not only share the same appearance but also the same disposition. Even your taste . . . coincides with mine.”

Iris’s voice persisted in the air, heating this nightly atmosphere. The cold breezes clashed with the warm temperature, which circled the tea table. Ardrial resisted the urge to cover her body with her arms, to hide behind her mistress, to rid her sensitivity to that mysterious, unreadable gaze. She couldn’t bring shame to her knightly code, not when it would tarnish her mistress’s character.

“Unfortunately, it seems she’s not here.” Elanor shook her head. “To be a copy of someone else, what strange Destiny is this?”

“You’re no mere clone, Mistress!” Ardrial perked up. “Your aspirations and achievements aren’t something anyone can imitate. Even if someone else resembles you in appearance, they won’t ever resemble you in experience.”

“Couldn’t I have been the copy?” Iris said.

“How could a copy be the focus of the world itself?” Elanor chuckled. “Compared to your experience, mine is a mere ripple in the thundering ocean.”

Iris tilted her head. “What a curious talent.”

“A blessing upon my soul, a curse upon my family.”

Ardrial wished to object, but a heavy presence suppressed her. She couldn’t dishonour her mistress the second time, not when the others might not be so lenient.

“My influences fail to uncover your existence, as well as those like you.” Iris glanced at Ardrial. “Your power alone cannot deceive my eyes.”

“I may be weak, but my legacy makes up for that shortcoming.” Elanor tapped the staff on her lap. Her eyes glistened, wondrous dreams replaying in her heart. “This heirloom of mine, the last symbol of my Valerian Family, is a True Artefact named Drifting Fantasia.”

Antina shuddered. She moved through shadow, appearing behind Elanor, and reached for the staff. Countless shadowy limbs manifested toward the same object. An icy wind enveloped Elanor and Ardrial, too swift for them to react.

Iris cleared her throat. Her maid froze in her place, though her body remained quivering.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Ardrial blinked. She unsheathed her sword, imbued Fire Element onto the blade, and swung at her mistress’s enemy. A fair palm pushed forth a bed of misty flowers. It exploded as a torrent of rain unto Ardrial, extinguishing her flames and binding her motion. She instinctively struggled before she recognised this power.

“Don’t be rash, Ardrial. You might get hurt.” Elanor retracted her hand. “You’re invading my personal space, Miss Antina.”

Antina eyed her silent mistress and separated herself from her target. “I’ve committed a terrible mistake, Lady Elanor. Please punish me.”

“Who would dare punish you?” Elanor stroked Drifting Fantasia. “A loyal maid ought to be praised.”

“A loyal knight, too.” Iris smiled at Elanor. “Forgive her. She’s too anxious about my safety, through no fault of her own.”

“Then we are truly similar.”

Antina and Ardrial sighed. They then looked at each other, failing to hide their knowing smiles. Stuffy tension dissipated, the chills replaced by the temperate air.

“Since our partners have made themselves friends, shouldn’t we follow suit?” Iris drank the tea. “You’ve given me a valuable gift. Please give me a chance to compensate.”

“That gift isn’t my doing. I deserved no such compensation, but a transaction is possible.” Elanor too enjoyed the tea. “Drifting Fantasia is the reason I trailed you, Lady Iris. You . . . are our last hope.”

“The Court of Indulgence welcomes all who’ve lost their way.”

“Not The Court, but you. We’ve come for you, you who possess the key to our heaven.”

“What inspires you to such confidence? After all, your prescience failed to account for this outcome.”

“Drifting Fantasia led me to you, Lady Iris. Although my power may not divine your Destiny, I believe in the True Artefact created by a Legendary Dream Weaver.”

Iris turned to Antina, who contemplated the surname Valerian. Despite her best efforts, she could not find any relevant information. The Court of Indulgence knew nothing about this elusive bloodline, about this fleeting Legendary.

Elanor wryly smiled. “Our family fell during the Third Demonic Invasion. Since then, the world itself no longer remembers us. Our history, our fames, they vanished into the depth of lost time.”

“A legacy of a Legendary wouldn’t disappear so completely.”

“They’ve been hunting us since then.” Elanor sighed. “I am the last of our kind, and you are the last of our hope. Please lend us your hands. I’m . . . willing to pay the price.”

“Against a force that can erase all traces of a Legendary, you cannot survive this long.” A familiar subtlety hung around Elanor. “What other secrets haven’t you told me?”

“I . . . am the last of the Dream Weavers. Our powers originate from The Dreamscape itself. We’ve thus far evaded the pursuits with our connections with the farther world.”

“Your vitality looks fleeting, as if you’re going to dissipate by a mere gush.” Iris closed her eyes. “Have the rest of your kind too perish in this way?”

“What is she talking about?” Ardrial forced herself to speak despite the mountainous pressure crushing her. She fixated on her mistress, disregarding all other presences. “Since when . . . have you been hiding your condition?”

“My diminishing Soul Power will return once I reach the Grandmaster Tier. Your worry is unfounded.” Elanor held her knight’s hands. “As long as I don’t overexert myself, there will be no lasting impact.”

“You cannot lie to me, Mistress. Your late mother too was a Grandmaster, yet she still succumbed in the end. We thought it was because of the ambushes . . .”

“You should be glad, Dear Ardrial,” Iris said. “Your mistress understands her condition well.”

Iris flicked her wrist. A circular plate appeared in her palm. Countless dimmed stars flowed within its face, all eclipsed by three brilliant suns. These suns appeared motionless against the moving background, monumental against the changing of time.

Ardrial couldn’t take her eyes off of it. The brilliance burned itself into her eyes, into her mind. The weights atop her shoulders lessened until they transformed, becoming feathery wings that no longer oppressed her. She wanted to excitedly congratulate her mistress but had to keep her joy to herself.

Her mistress did not share her feelings. She contemplatively examined the circular plate, giving no clues to her profound emotions. Her dormant bloodline whispered to her the connection between this artefact and The Dreamscape.

“Lady Iris, how did you . . . find this artefact?”

“An ancient ruin in another dimension. Only those fated with it may find its entrance.”

“How . . . was it?”

“I have yet to set foot into that land. Maybe I never will.”

“You certainly will. My bloodline has never once failed me.” Elanor smiled. “The day I receive my progenitor’s legacy will be the day we divine the ruin’s location.”

“At the heart of this chaos?”

“The most dangerous land holds the most precious treasures.”

“Is the treasure the reason or the consequence?”

“Will the answer mean anything?”

“Even if I open The Court’s treasury for you, we lack the resources to achieve your ambition.”

“The ambition is mine and no one else. What I need from you is an opportunity, an opportunity to reach for the sky, an opportunity to end this game.”

“Tell us, Elanor, the name of your enemies.” Iris swiped her palm across the tea table. A yellowish, dull parchment appeared with a scarlet-tipped quill. “I’d like to celebrate our friendship this way.”

Ardrial swallowed a puff of cold air, which pieced her throat as if trying to force itself out. The parchment squirmed with vein-like lines wiggling, waving at her, inviting her lips to part and reveal the name she hated the most, despised the most.

She could shout the accursed title, and her wish would come to pass. A single whisper, a single stroke of the quill, would suffice.

She couldn’t be so presumptuous. Her sword raised and fell for her mistress; this battle was not hers. The one worthy of putting an end to this war could only be the one who endured at the centre of it all.

Iris popped her head up with her arm and waited, waited peacefully for her new friend to make her careful decision. She needed not wait long before her friend picked up the quill and pinched its tip.

She pressed the feather on the parchment, pushing it as if aiming to puncture a hole. Her fingernails cut her fingertips, and her blood traced, along the motion of the quill, an exquisite handwriting spelling a name unknown to most.

This one continuous line broke into countless worms that leapt off the page and dispersed toward the horizon. They left no sound nor remnant of their existence, except for the memory imprinted in their onlookers.

“Broken Mirror Amidst the Storm,” Iris said. “An extravagant name, fitting for a watchdog of the grand schemes.”

“Watchdog?” Elanor frowned. “What could—”

Elanor quietened. In the moment when the name manifested, a faint thread, too imperceptible for naked eyes, wound around it like a collar attached to a long, unbreakable string. The invisible master flickered into existence before plunging back into the mist where the curse broke apart the name.

Although Elanor could not see what lay beyond the broken mirror, Iris could glimpse at a silhouette of a hand looming above the land and all that be.

The Guiding Hand revealed itself dimly, its vague profile illuminated, caught, by The Lantern.