Nahwu and Shorof had been escorted out, while Morgan, on the other hand, retained the human boy in attendance with the queen and the elders.

“He dared bring in the contraption of outsiders into the sacred precincts of the Great Forest. This transgression is intolerable,” the Dark Elf chief declared.

“What if our words be overheard?” inquired the Moon Elf chief.

"Fear not, for in the forthcoming loop shall I rectify this matter," said Morgan. "The lad comprehendeth not our discourse sans this artifice; hence, let him don it."

“Thy Holiness…” began the High Elf chief, though then he fell silent, perceiving Morgan's plan.

"Dost thou comprehend our words?" Morgan asked after she let the boy wear the translation device again.

Locan raised his face, his countenance pale but his eyes determined, “Yes, Your Holiness.”

It was his debut in uncovering the existence of a holy entity within the realm of myths—a divine figure capable of even humbling the esteemed elves' queen and elders.

"I have heard thou art the premier prince of Inkia, Prince Locan Inkor?" inquired Morgan once more.

"Yes," replied Locan.

Morgan fixed her gaze upon him. "What art thou doing amidst the turmoil of the Inkia war?"

Locan paled. He was here because of the war...

"Thou didst flee from thy troubles, didst thou?" Morgan remarked. "Whilst thine faction clashed with the prime minister's, whilst thy people's army battled against Soulnaught's attack, thou didst frolic with thy companion and seek solace in the tranquil Elven enclave."

Locan found himself in a rather peculiar predicament. Despite being associated with the "first prince faction," he couldn't muster up any claim to power within it.

It was more like his dear mother was playing a game of thrones using his name as a pawn, while he sat idly by with no say in the matter—a prince stripped of authority over his own title.

A prince with no power over his own name.

"Art thou aware of the toll thy actions hast wrought in lives lost?" inquired Morgan.

Morgan then delved into the juicy details extracted from Burn's memories of the war's fateful day. Finn Wilderwood had his family snatched and held hostage by the kingdom, leading him to allow a massacre at the hands of Soulnaught.

The chaos unfolded in the blink of an eye, though the repercussions still lingered fresh in their minds, poised to reach Inkia soon with impending doom awaiting Wintersin's forces.

Inkia’s army slaughter was still yesterday. And now, Wintersin’s army would soon be slaughtered under Burn’s hands.

Ah, the classic case of underestimating the threat. But it was understandable. Inkia's forte lay not in its military might but in the intricate dance of politics. Leveraging their king's vast network of connections, some might be less substantial than they appeared, yet Inkia had successfully manipulated the mythical community to their advantage, at least in previous loops.

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Still, that wouldn’t be the end of it. What befell Finn Wilderwood could very well befall another unsuspecting soul, all while they puppeteered individuals like him with callous indifference—using them as mere tools in their grand machinations.

And in this grand charade, poor Locan found himself reduced to a mere bystander, complicit in allowing his name to be wielded as a weapon by unseen forces. Oh, the tangled webs we weave in the game of power and manipulation.

“I just… want to save my sister…” Locan whispered.

It was the Inkia Kingdom, after all, where princes and princesses sprouted faster than weeds in a garden. Old daddy dearest, Rafaye Inkor, seemed to have a penchant for siring offspring left, right, and center, whether they were legitimate, illegitimate, or downright bastards.

And naturally, most of them were swept under the royal rug without a second thought.

But lo and behold, in waltzes Locan, lucky chap that he is. His mother happened to be one of the favored queens, and he even had the audacity to be the firstborn among all the other royal progeny.

What a stroke of luck! Yet, despite swimming in a sea of royal drama, he couldn't quite shake off that pesky thing called a conscience.

Enter the princess from a less prestigious line. Locan's newfound sibling project.

"My dear mother has a rather peculiar hobby: plotting the demise of every child fathered by the king, with the exception of yours truly, of course," Locan whispered. “At least now, with her attention elsewhere, I can ensure my dear sister's safety."

All of this politics and power struggle, he didn’t care about any of it. One of the reasons he was close with Nahwu was because they had one thing in common: their love for their sibling.

"Hmm," Morgan sighed. "Though this world be consumed by corruption, and riddled with war and destruction, whilst the outsiders do reap what they sow, thou wilt simply permit thy name to be thus used?"

Locan cried out, “What can I do? I don’t have any power and I’m not smart! I’m barely fifteen—”

"What if thou dost possess the power to enact change?" Morgan inquired.

In the next loop, she would find a way.

"Mine husband hath designs to unite this realm. None shall impede his path. Neither thou, nor Inkia, nor the outsiders. Forsooth, there exists no superior means to establish order than through might," Morgan declared.

She turned to the queen and the elders. "I had not purposed to embroil thee in the affairs of humankind, my dearest companions. Yet, witnessing the entanglement of thy youth, I am left with no choice but to give warning."

"Unlike me, my lord husband doth eschew speech. He doth not explain his intentions. Instead, he conquers. For as he deems it, that path doth prove the simplest, indeed."

***

Junior Fleet Admiral Rudolf.

In that desolate expanse between the Soulnaught and Wintersin empires, where the cold wind whispered of impending conflict, the Junior Fleet Admiral of the Outsiders stood with a brash demeanor that barely concealed his curiosity.

His youthful features were marred by a haughty air, a face of confidence in the presence of the infamous Emperor Burn of Soulnaught.

Emperor Burn, a figure of legend and dread, stood before him with an aura of power that made the very air thrum with tension.

Tales of his singlehanded defiance of the Outsider's first wave of attack upon Nethermere three years past painted him as a force of nature, crushing starships with but a flick of his fingers and a sneer upon his lips.

The semi-open space crackled with an undercurrent of hostility, the clash of two opposing forces ready to collide like titans in the midst of a storm.

As their eyes met across the makeshift tent that marked the boundary between their domains, the Junior Fleet Admiral felt an exciting chill run down his spine.

Emperor Burn's gaze was a cold flame that seemed to pierce through his very soul, sizing him up with a mix of disdain and curiosity.

Ahh, Apex Two.

They finally met.