Walking down the dimly lit corridor, Morgan couldn’t help but sense Burn’s earlier unease. This man—who had once stormed the heavens and swept the earth clean—now seemed completely unmoored.

Earlier that day, he’d boldly declared, “God loves me too,” as he ‘manifested’ his Vision. His excitement had been palpable, almost childlike—right up until reality smacked him in the face with the grim reminder that the past wasn’t just complicated; it was a labyrinth of unresolved chaos.

“In a few days, Yvain’s classmates will be over,” Morgan said, steering him away from his spiraling thoughts. “Ready to dust off your role as the ‘cool dad’ again?”

“Hm,” he murmured, managing a faint smile. “Yvain can handle the political chatter. I’ll back him up. Meanwhile, you’ll be scoping out that girl he’s interested in?”

Morgan chuckled, “Interested in? You mean Princess Blair?”

“He mentioned something about her showing signs of an emerging specialty,” Burn replied, almost casually.

“Ah, yes. Like you,” Morgan quipped as she leaned on his arm.

Silence.

“What did you just say?” Burn stopped in his tracks, blinking like he’d been hit by lightning.

Morgan giggled. “I said, like you, silly.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, his voice a mix of disbelief and budding curiosity. Gripping her shoulders, and shaking it, he asked, “Are you saying I have a sign of an emerging specialty? Me? But I just—manifested whatever this... thing is!”

“You do,” Morgan said, her laughter bubbling up again. “Your eyes even changed a little. Didn’t you notice? Dark, silvery... like stars.”

Burn stared at her, utterly floored. For a moment, he looked like a kid who’d just been told he was a wizard.

“Wait. Your eyes change when you find your specialty?” His tone suggested he was half-joking, though his wide-eyed expression said otherwise.

Morgan snorted.

Seeing his dumbfounded face, Morgan softened. She leaned into him, letting the weight of her affection melt his tension. “Happy?”

“Damn right I’m happy,” Burn muttered, still stunned. “Am I really that loved?”

“You are,” Morgan assured him, amused as ever.

After a moment of mutual silence—and some spontaneous squeezing, spinning, and what could only be described as her barely-contained squeal—Burn exhaled deeply, his disbelief still lingering.

“You’re not just trying to cheer me up, right?” he asked, squinting suspiciously.

Morgan rolled her eyes. “I don’t joke about Vision, Burn. For instance, during that brief moment at the entrance ceremony buffet, I noticed Princess Blair has a serious problem controlling hers.”

Burn raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess—like me?”

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She shook her head. “The opposite. You know no fear, while all she knows is fear.”

***

The grotesque, oversized hands hovered in the air, bound by a crown of light. Yvain shifted into a defensive stance, every muscle primed to fight whatever twisted monstrosity had turned Blair into a puppet on red strings.

At first, it had only been eyes—eerie and unblinking facing Yvolt and Tristan. Now, as if things weren’t horrific enough, a pair of monstrous hands, brimming with even more eyes, had emerged.

It wasn’t entirely shocking. Of course, an Inkian royal would have some revolting, parasitic link to the demon lord. The sickening part? She had no clue that a curse had burrowed into her soul.

When Yvain severed the strings controlling her, things went from bad to catastrophic. The red threads, once neatly managed by those vile, eye-infested hands, now took on a will of their own. They spread, multiplied, and constricted her body with terrifying precision.

No longer bound only by her neck, wrists, and ankles, Blair was now ensnared entirely. Every inch of her frame suffocated under those impossibly sharp, crimson threads.

Then came the laugh—a wet, rumbling, and nauseating sound—emanating from the direction of the grotesque hands.

“It’s too late, Original Saint,” the voice sneered, thick with malice. “You think you can save her? That you can undo my greatest invention? Pathetic.”

Blair’s scream tore through the air, raw and primal. Her pain was almost unbearable to witness.

“I can’t!” she cried, her voice breaking with desperation. “I can’t expel them! These strings—they’re binding my—my heart—COUGH!”

Blood poured from her mouth, staining her lips as she gasped for air. She clawed at the threads, her movements frenzied but futile. The red strings tore her apart, strand by strand. They bit into her skin, her flesh, and burrowed deeper, wrapping around her heart.

Yvain’s grip on his sword tightened as he glared at the abomination before him. Time was slipping away, but giving up wasn’t an option. Not for him. Not for her.

The Original Saint herself stepped forward, calm and unyielding, as though the storm of chaos around her was no more than an evening breeze. Her hand extended, weaving effortlessly through the suffocating red strings binding Blair. Without hesitation, she touched Blair’s cheeks, grounding her with the simplest of gestures.

“Be not afraid.”

Her voice steady, like the toll of a bell. And just like that, the corruption—the curse—was gone.

Now, all that remained was the real battle: Blair taking control of her Vision. She had to face her fear, wrestle it down, and reclaim herself from its grip.

Blair could feel it—her heart constricted, sliced, tied up in countless red threads. Thin, sharp, invasive. That grotesque creature, whatever it was, had granted her this power. The same power she had clung to in desperation. The power she thought could make her worthy.

This was her ticket out of that gilded cage—the palace. But what had it actually earned her? Her brother, Locan’s favor? Queen Celia’s cold toleration? Her father, the king’s half-hearted, fleeting interest?

Was it possible that all of it—all of it—was just this creature’s doing? That she wasn’t some extraordinary anomaly, but a hand-crafted puppet? His so-called masterpiece?

“Blair.” Morgan’s voice sliced cleanly through the turmoil of mana, calm and unwavering. Even as reality fractured around them, her words landed like stones in a pond. “Be not afraid. All of this power is yours.”

Fight!

Fight it!

Pull yourself together—!

Blair’s once-purple eyes flared an unsettling crimson.

.

.

.

White.

The world shifted. The ground beneath her feet was cool, soothing. Water, crystal clear, lapped at her ankles.

The red threads, once a strangling, suffocating prison, now hung loose, draped over her body like a fragile dress. They stretched on forever, miles upon miles of crimson silk. But when she moved—when she tugged a finger, an arm, her neck—they didn’t fight her. They didn’t tighten.

She spun once, tentatively. The threads followed her like obedient ribbons. She ran, and they flew behind her, fluttering like tendrils of some spectral gown. When she collapsed into the shallow water, they simply settled around her, no longer binding—no longer cutting.

This was hers. All of it. Her power.

.

.

.

“HAAAAAAAAA!!!”

Blair screamed as she wrenched herself free. The red strands clawed at her, resisting with ferocious determination. Her delicate frame bent over the force, her body dragged mercilessly back toward their grasp.

But she rose.

Trembling, gasping, half-torn over their weight—she rose.

“You are mine!” Blair roared. “You are my soul!”

Blair Inkor found her specialty. “My own—fate!”

Red thread of fate.