Morgan, with her characteristic efficiency, opened a dimensional portal straight back to Wilderwood’s capital mansion. It was a clean cut between realms, the kind of thing that could only be accomplished by someone with absolute control over Vision—and a lot on her plate.
She had made sure, of course, that the civilians nearby weren’t left too implicated in what had just unfolded.
A soothing spell was already at work, blanketing the area with a subtle calm and blurring the memories of those who had wandered too close to the chaos.
It wasn’t mind control—not exactly. Just a gentle nudge to ensure that nobody woke up screaming about eldritch horrors and gods blasting each other above their roofs.
The district itself wasn’t a slum, though its humble charm wouldn’t win it any noble visitors. It was packed with poorer commoners, families scraping by but still maintaining a quiet sense of dignity.
These were people who knew how to endure life’s hardships, but this? This wasn’t your usual tough day of fetching water or haggling over stale bread.
Initially, for Tristan and Yvolt, the operation had been straightforward: sneak in, grab some seemingly insignificant information, and sneak out. A simple job. But, unexpectedly, things spiraled out of control, landing them in yet another near-apocalyptic showdown.
The commoners had, of course, realized something was wrong. They’d left their homes, stepping cautiously into the streets to investigate. But the action had taken place on the rooftops, well out of view for most of them. All they’d likely seen were flashes of light and strange sounds—enough to send their imaginations running wild.
And while it felt like a lifetime for those involved, the entire ordeal hadn’t stretched for more than an hour. Just long enough to almost destroy the neighborhood’s roof and leave Morgan cleaning up the mess, as usual.
Yvain greeted the returning group with a sigh that couldn’t decide whether it was from relief or exhaustion, his smile stretched thin but genuine. Beside him, Finn looked like he’d just narrowly avoided a heart attack, his shoulders shaking as he tried to pull himself together.
“Sir, with this, we don’t even need to report further,” Tristan said, his voice heavy with fatigue as he handed over the documents he and Yvolt had risked their lives to protect.
Yvain took the papers with a solemn nod. “Then go recover. Thank you for your service.”
Morgan wasted no time, opening another dimensional portal with a graceful flick of her hand. “This one leads to the World Tree,” she said calmly. “There’s a team of purification specialists waiting there. You two should head over and recover.”
Tristan and Yvolt exchanged a weary glance, their expressions mirroring the helplessness they felt.
“We’re sorry we could only be used this far, Your Majesties,” Yvolt said, her voice tinged with regret.
Burn didn’t even pause as he brushed past them, his tone as cold and cutting as ever. “What are you talking about? Recover quickly so I can use you again later.” He didn’t spare them a second glance, striding further into the mansion without so much as a backward look.
Morgan, however, offered the pair a warm smile. “Excellent work,” she said gently.
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Tristan and Yvolt straightened, holding their smiles with every ounce of strength they had left. They were ants, they knew that—tiny, insignificant compared to the legendary figures standing before them. Yet, to witness even a fraction of the apocalyptic stakes these two Majesties shouldered was enough to make their hearts swell with pride.
The world spun because of Burn and Morgan. The abyss was held back because of their strength. And to serve them—even as tools, even as small players in the grand scheme—felt like the highest honor Tristan and Yvolt could ever hope to achieve.
Heroes against the darkness, defenders of the world’s fragile balance. If history remembered them for even a single moment in this grand battle, then perhaps it was all worth it.
Still, both Tristan and Yvolt knew that if word of this spread, the aftermath would be catastrophic. The air felt heavy with the shadow of history repeating itself, something akin to the calamity five hundred years ago looming closer by the second.
“So… it is… the demon lord…?” Tristan’s voice was shaky, his legs barely holding him upright as he reeled from the weight of the revelation.
Morgan nodded, her expression calm but grave. “We’ve been debating how best to handle this situation. The mythical community has already been alerted, and we have united in preparation for the Second Holy War.”
The words hit like a hammer, and the two knights visibly shuddered.
The Second Holy War.
Their minds spun with the implications. Just as Apostle Romeuf had led the heroes on a crusade to vanquish the darkness five centuries ago, it was now their time. History was calling again, and they would bear witness to its making.
Unconsciously, their eyes drifted to the back of the man striding deeper into the mansion. Burn—their Emperor. Steadfast, reliable, and undefeated. His presence was unshakable, his very steps a promise of battle. The man who would lead this crusade, the one whose back would carry the weight of an entire world.
“We will find a good time to announce this matter to the Round Table soon,” Morgan said softly, her voice gentle but firm. “For now, focus on your recovery.”
Tristan and Yvolt were not Galahad, but in that moment, it took everything they had not to drop to their knees and pledge their lives entirely to their Majesties.
The sheer magnitude of the task ahead left them breathless, but seeing Yvain’s worried expression and the still-open portal waiting for them, they forced themselves to bow instead. Without another word, they stepped through to the Great Forest.
Morgan watched them leave, her serene expression giving way to something sharper, something heavier. She turned to Yvain and gestured for him to follow. “Come. We need to catch up with your Papa.”
This was going to be a long night. One of many to come.
***
Blair’s eyes snapped open, her breath hitching as she jolted awake from yet another nightmare. Or was it a memory? At this point, it hardly mattered. The sharp pain in her wrists, ankles, and neck pulled her attention back to reality—a reality that wasn’t much kinder.
The red thread binding her body wasn’t just metaphorical. It tugged at her from the darkness, controlling her like some grotesque marionette. It reminded her of the so-called red thread of fate, except there was nothing romantic about being yanked around like a puppet in someone else’s grand cosmic plan.
What purpose did she even serve in all of this? Who held the other end of the string? And, more importantly, why was she the one tangled in this mess?
Blair leaned back against the bedframe, staring blankly toward the bedroom window. The giant crack in the sky loomed outside, a jagged scar splitting the heavens. It shimmered faintly, like it was mocking her with its ominous beauty.
The world was breaking apart, and she was over here wondering if she was fate’s favorite chew toy.
She closed her eyes, slowly, with the kind of painstaking effort one reserves for things like holding in a sneeze or pretending everything’s fine when it clearly isn’t. Sleep didn’t come easily—of course, it never did—but tonight she forced it. Tomorrow, after all, was a big day.
Tomorrow marked the weekend, the much-anticipated reprieve from the grind, and with it, a visit to the Wilderwood Capital Mansion. Not just any visit, though—she’d be going with her friends. Her friends. The word still felt strange, like wearing a new pair of boots that hadn’t quite been broken in yet.
A small smile crept onto her face, a rare warmth melting the usual cold reserve. Evan… and her very first friends. It was almost enough to feel normal. Almost.
The thought wrapped around her like a soft blanket, soothing her into a hesitant, fragile sleep. She didn’t notice the shadowed corners of the room or the glint of something watching—unblinking, unwavering—from the darkness.