Inside the grand hall, as Morgan's raw wrath unfurled like a storm, the air grew thick with a tension so palpable it could choke an ogre.

Princess Nahwu, usually the epitome of valor and poise, found her composure slipping faster than a greased gnome on a banana peel. Her fiery facade cracked like a cheap potion vial, revealing a mask of sheer horror.

The assembly was rendered speechless, their mouths hanging open like rusty portcullises. Some whispered prayers to God, hoping for salvation from the tempestuous figure before them.

Tashr now resembled a stuttering squirrel caught in a dragon's gaze. Her attempts at a calm voice amidst the storm reduced to stammering syllables lost in the howling winds of Morgan's fury.

As the chaos unfolded, the Hall's tapestries seemed to pale in comparison to the vivid hues of fear painted across every face present. Oh, how quickly the facades of civilization crumbled in the wake of raw, unbridled wrath.

Morgan was the one who built this assembly. Morgan was the one who built this civilization. All privileges they enjoyed today were due to her millennia of hard work.

So when they heard her prayer, “O God, forgive me. This mortal hath been complacent,” they caught a glimpse of legends and stories told by their parents, of a figure so holy the Apostle was forced to call her his equal in God’s favor, the Original Saint.

“I will correct this stray lamb back to her humble path, the path thou blessed for every creature with souls thou whispered into.”

It was done. They had no more say in it.

Blood will spill.

“Morgan, I did kill my father. Can you listen to me?”

In the grand assembly hall of mythical creatures, Burn's confession hung in the air like a dark cloud. The assembled elfs, dwarfs, unicorn, beastkin, merfolk, dragon, vampires, centaur, and werewolf were observing in confusion.

Morgan and Burn stood at the center of attention, locked in a tense exchange that seemed to ripple through the gathered creatures.

Morgan's eyes, filled with unknown emotion, bore into Burn, a hint of vulnerability softening her features. It was a stark contrast to the stoic facade many expected and knew from the powerful witch.

“You asked me once to explain myself. You asked me to defend my perspective. I’ll do it now,” Burn's voice cut through the charged silence, drawing the focus back to him.

The creatures exchanged knowing glances, not daring to raise a single word. They were privy to secrets that transcended time, and yet the unfolding truth before them held a certain…

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"I killed my father to stop his suffering," Burn's admission echoed off the ornate walls, each word heavy with a truth that resonated with some and clashed with others.

"He might have looked like a mighty knight on the surface... but something was corrupting his soul." The gravity of his words was not lost on the assembly, for they too understood the weight of sacrifice and the complexities of fate.

“The symptoms were the same as Princess Shorof's, the current first elf princess's, illness.” Burn continued.

Slowly approaching Morgan, Burn offered his hand.

“I believe you. No need for me to read your mind,” Morgan responded, her eyes misty yet steely.

“No need for you to read his mind, I already did,” Vlad interjected. Unlike Morgan, his Vision specialty was mind spells. Over time, he could effortlessly pluck secrets from people's minds without even toggling his ability on and off.

The others turned to Vlad, and the old vampire said, “He’s telling the truth. The whole time, even before this topic surfaced.”

“Believe it or not, folks. The truth was there for the taking, long before this discussion even began,” Vlad shook his head.

For the first time ever, Morgan didn’t reach her hand out to him, standing still in front of him. Seemingly after the previous experience, she was even more careful about using her spells on him. And just like the previous experience, Burn only wanted to smile.

He knew in his bones that she would be even more upset if he did smile, though.

"Don’t want to touch me because I did kill my father, Madam—?” Burn quipped, but before he could even finish, Morgan had already enveloped him in a hug.

“Well, that only leaves one burning question,” he mused as he peered down at Nahwu. “Why the sudden urge to declutter Princess Shorof’s room of her precious gifts? It couldn’t possibly only have to do with concerns about bugs or leaks, could it?”

Morgan shook her head, as he expected.

“These days, people wouldn’t recognize it, but the symptoms Princess Shorof had indicate a certain type of mana allergy caused by excessive exposure to corrupted mana. In the past, this illness was called mana poisoning,” Morgan explained.

“I suspected that the items had been contaminated to a certain degree with corrupted mana trapped inside,” Morgan remarked.

At this, every face darkened, even Nahwu’s.

“Impossible! M-mana poisoning? You mean... that illness that killed 60% of the world population?” Nahwu was visibly shaken. The items she had brought home and gifted to her sister were tainted.

She turned to her mother, who coldly turned her face away. Nahwu went pale, then dashed out of the hall in search of her sister. As she found her sister coughing blood in front of her room, she realized the numerous gifts she had given her over the years—each one cherished and displayed in her room.

In a flurry of desperation, Nahwu rudely halted the working servants, plunging into her sister’s room's chests and objects in a frantic search. Digging deep, she sought out anything with fragile encasings.

With a surge of her Force, she shattered the first couple of objects she laid hands on, only to be met with a repulsive sight. A vile, black ink-like mud substance seeped out of them, mocking her efforts and drowning her in a pool of despair.

“Naha? What’s wrong?” from behind her, Shorof approached Nahwu, her sickly frame wavering. The sight of the revolting substance coating Nahwu's hands caused her to gasp in terror.

With a panicked lunge, she grabbed her sister, attempting to rid her of the foul mess.

"What in the world is that, Naha?! Get rid of it!" Shorof's frantic swatting was met with a forceful push from Nahwu, sending her stumbling backwards.

"Don't touch me!"

Nahwu's voice cracked as tears streamed down her face, her expression a fractured mask of disbelief. Her shattered words pierced the air, "It's all my fault... I'm... I'm killing you, Shorof..."

As Nahwu crumbled before her, her once vibrant features drained of color, Shorof stood frozen in shock, grappling with the weight of her sister's anguish.

Shorof could only watch when Nahwu suddenly ran away—