Amara tried her best to calm her nerves as her gaze trailed to the tall arched window.

The view from her chambers overlooked the eastern gardens, their neat lines dotted with frost from the early morning chill. She watched as a few leaves danced on the wind, they were fragile and bore no weight, unlike the heaviness that rested on her shoulders.

She almost wished she could return to her past life—where there was only quiet, hidden beneath layers and layers of royal silk, fake smiles and silence. A life where her words meant nothing, where she was just another pawn in the court, tucked behind her mother’s overbearing presence.

Even if she had been stifling, it had been safe. She didn’t have to think about political ripples or noble alliances or the weight of representing someone else’s cause.

But now… the moment she stepped through that door, everything would change.

A new life awaited her—one where she would stand not just as a princess, but as a voice for a faction that could shift the very structure of the kingdom. One tied to Count Arzan. One she believed might do good, might bring balance… but whose consequences she couldn’t fully foresee.

Being healthy again, truly healthy, came with its own cost. She had prayed for strength, and now that it had come, so had responsibility. Arzan had asked this of her, and she had accepted without hesitation.

But acceptance didn't mean she would be at ease. Still, she had made her choice and she would see it through, without complaint.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft, familiar voice of Anya. “Princess, you’ll do well.”

Amara turned from the window, offering a small smile. “I hope so,” she said just above a whisper. “But it won’t be as simple as looking nice and smiling while making small talk. I’ll have to be persuasive. At least half of the nobles inside need to shift their support to Count Arzan. And nobles… nobles are fickle.”

Anya chuckled softly, stepping towards her. She ran a hand over her dress. “It will be okay, Princess. You have the list the Watchers handed over two days ago.”

Amara nodded.

“I read through it,” she said. “It was beyond helpful. Most of the confidence I have—if I have any at all—comes from that list.”

She didn’t say it aloud, but the truth amazed her. The level of detail Count Arzan’s Watchers had managed to gather in such a short time was frightening.

Information networks weren’t uncommon in Lancephil. The thief guilds, merchant rings, and even a few royal intelligence branches all had their own channels. But none of them came close to this. None were as thorough… or as quietly precise.

The list she had received was a map. A breakdown of each noble expected to attend the gathering—old families with deep ties to the beginning of the kingdom itself, tangled in politics and tradition, and newer ones, born from coin or blood spilled in war. Some had only gained their titles in the last two decades, still finding their footing within the aristocracy.

The older ones were unlikely to be swayed. Many of them had long-standing connections to one of the three princely factions, and those ties ran deep—through marriage, mentorship, or shared enemies. Shaking their loyalty would take more than clever words. It would take a shift in the very balance of power.

But the newer nobles? The ones still scrambling for favor, recognition, and stable land? They were her true targets. Yet even they wouldn’t fall into her arms easily. Backing the wrong person—especially someone like Count Arzan—was a gamble. A wrong step here could freeze their family’s rise for generations. Amara knew that. And it made her role even more important. She had to make them believe they weren’t gambling at all. That they were choosing wisely. That they were backing the future.

She had already convinced one. Baron Renlod, once a merchant, now land-holding noble with growing influence. A few hints about trade routes being planned by the crown, promises about future infrastructure projects—just enough to catch his interest. She hadn’t promised anything, of course. But the man had bitten down on the bait, and now, he was hers.

Even now, she stood in his mansion.

Beyond the tall doors of the drawing hall, she could hear the vibration of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. The sound of nobility mingling, of wine being poured and alliances being tested. Knights, heirs and and daughters of noble houses—many of whom had accepted her invitation out of curiosity alone.

There was a mercantile saying she had once overheard in the market as a child, listening from the back of her carriage, If you can sell one product, you can sell a hundred.

Amara straightened her shoulders, knowing she had to embody that saying today.

“I’m ready,” she said softly.

Anya gave her a quick nod and stepped forward to go ahead. Amara remained still, listening to the muffled sounds beyond the door until a moment later, the steward’s voice rang clearly through the chamber.

“Her Highness, Princess Amara Lancephil, enters now.”

With that, the heavy doors swung open.

Light spilled across her face, the warmth of the chandelier bathing her as dozens of eyes turned to greet her.

And with her next step, the campaign began.

She walked in with grace—measured, elegant, exactly as she had been taught since childhood. Her smile was calm, not too cheerful but not distant either. Just enough to seem warm. Just enough to seem confident.

The room quieted as her presence settled in, and every eye turned to her.

She caught a few whispers at the edge of her hearing, light murmurs passed between fans and flutes of wine. Some nobles tilted their heads, examining her with faint curiosity, as if trying to confirm with their own eyes the whispers about her recovery. After all, the sickly princess had rarely stepped foot into social gatherings.

But she didn’t react. She didn’t let her gaze flick toward them or falter. Instead, she kept walking toward the center table, where the hosts and the main guest were gathered—heads of noble houses, and wives draped in finery.

She gave a graceful nod to the bowing nobles and knights as she passed, the murmurs growing quiet under her calm presence, before finally stopping at the main table.

Her eyes met the gaze of a wide man with thick fingers and a jewel-studded chain of office across his chest—Baron Renlod, the merchant-turned-noble who had opened his doors to her cause.

“Thank you for inviting me tonight, Baron Renlod,” Amara said with a polite smile. “This ball is quite splendid.”

Baron Renlod puffed his chest and gave a quick bow. “The pleasure is ours, Princess. That you have graced our hall tonight... many didn’t believe me when I said it would happen.”

He cast a pointed glance around the table, where three men and two women stood, all finely dressed and clearly measuring her with cautious eyes.

One of the men leaned forward. He was younger than the rest, with a curled mustache that seemed too large for his face and an easy smile that he wore like armor.

“Ah, Renlod, don’t be like that,” the man said with a chuckle. “For once, I believed you and came just to see the Princess. You’re harder to catch a glimpse of than the princes themselves.” He raised his glass slightly. “But I’ll say this—the rumours of your beauty are well spoken.”

Amara smiled, unbothered. She knew full well there had never been such rumours. That was pure flattery. But flattery was a tool—one she had learned to accept with a mask of grace.

She let her eyes linger on the man thoughtfully, recalling the information she had memorized. Then, with a polite dip of her head, she spoke.

“You must be Lord Marcellin of House Faenlor. I’ve heard your family’s sons are becoming exemplary royal knights. They've been doing well—consistently among the top ranks in the evaluations.”

The man blinked, visibly surprised. “The Princess knows my name… and my family?” He straightened, pride blooming on his face. “It’s truly an honour.”

Amara’s smile held steady. “I keep track of every man I believe could become a pillar of the kingdom’s future.”

His smile grew wider, and Baron Renlod gave her a small, approving nod from the side. She had done well.

Since the moment she stepped into the hall, negotiations had already begun—even if her guests didn’t know it.

They might have guessed she wasn’t just here for idle conversation, but most probably assumed she was gathering support for her brother. That she was here to gently bolster the first prince’s presence through charm and grace.

They were wrong. Utterly.

She wasn’t here for her brother. She was here for Count Arzan—and no one had noticed yet.

After a few more carefully guided exchanges at the main table, Amara rose with poise, followed closely by Baron Renlod and Anya. She moved through the crowd with purpose, ensuring to greet every noble who had accepted her invitation.

They should’ve come to her. That was tradition. Nobles greeted royalty, not the other way around. But Amara walked—calmly, deliberately—to each knot of conversation, offering a greeting first, a nod, a small smile. Not forced. Not overly polished. Just enough to show they were seen.

And they didn’t know what to do with it.

Men who had barely been acknowledged at court blinked at her approach, stumbling over their own names in surprise. A few of the women stiffened at first, caught off guard by her presence at their side, only to relax the moment Amara gently praised a daughter’s flute recital or mentioned a nephew’s recent promotion.

She didn’t need to look down at a scroll. She already knew. Names, estates, old feuds, small wins. It was all etched into her memory, given to her by the Watchers and polished through repetition.

“You must be Baron Halric,” she said at one point to a thin man with a sharp nose. “I’ve heard the irrigation plans you funded near the Greystone fields helped reduce the seasonal flooding. Practical work. Nobles like you are very needed in the kingdom.”

The man stared at her, caught between awe and suspicion, then finally muttered, “Didn’t think anyone outside the village even noticed.”

“I did,” she said simply, and moved on.

Another, a grizzled matriarch in a dress too big for her, raised an eyebrow when Amara complimented her family's hunting buisness. “They say you were ill,” the woman said. “I almost didn’t come.”

“I was,” Amara answered. “But I’m not anymore. And I’m glad you did.”

That softened her. Just a little. And slowly, it spread.

Amara noticed it not in applause or cheers, but in the shift of body language—nobles leaning in closer as she passed, glancing at each other when she left. Murmured thanks. A few of them even followed her to the next conversation, eager to stay in her light.

It wasn’t just the names she knew. It was the listening.

Every time someone mentioned a concern—a poor harvest, a delayed title confirmation, a tax they couldn’t argue—she never cut in. She let them speak. Then, once the problem lay open, she placed a hand lightly on their arm, nodded, and said the same quiet phrase.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Not a solution. Not a guarantee. Just a word of hope wrapped in royal silk. And it worked.

It worked so well that halfway through the evening, while smiling at a young knight and praising his sword form, Amara caught her reflection in a polished wine pitcher—and didn’t quite recognize the woman she saw.

She was negotiating. Persuading. Making calculated promises she might never fulfill. Not lies—no, she would try—but not truths either. And they were eating it up.

I feel like a politician,

 she thought suddenly, and the realization almost made her laugh. She, who once couldn’t hold a conversation without retreating to her books, was now charming half a hall into loyalty they hadn’t planned to give.

She straightened her shoulders and reminded herself: this wasn’t about her. This was for Arzan.

If she failed to build his support, he would be vulnerable. Even with the rumors of her father’s favor toward the count, she couldn’t afford to trust them. The King had not been present in her life—or in the kingdom’s—for a long time. She had no one else to rely on.

By the time the dancing began and strings filled the hall with warm, sweeping music, Amara had already counted six nobles who had quietly leaned toward Baron Renlod and whispered that they’d like to “discuss future possibilities.” Four more had left her side smiling, with eyes brighter than when they arrived.

There would be more work. More events. A few more balls, quiet meetings, and veiled conversations before any open support could be gathered. But the foundation had been laid.

As she stood near the edge of the ballroom, watching the dancers twirl beneath the glow of chandeliers, a thought crept in. What will his face look like… when he finds out I did this for him?

Would he smile? Thank her?

Would he finally see her not just as a sheltered princess… but as something more?

A friend, she thought. And then, before she could stop herself, Maybe something more than that.

She felt her cheeks warm. And she hoped—truly hoped—that when that day came, he would see her clearly. The way no one else ever had.

***

The conversation with Elias had gone on far longer than Kai had expected.

What began as a quiet discussion beneath the cold stars had stretched deep into the night, turning from cautious probing to grim revelations.

It turned out the old Magus hadn’t been entirely blind. He had known of the prophecy—at least parts of it. Whispers passed down through broken records and ancient families. But like many scholars of his age, Elias had never taken it seriously. To him, it had always seemed like a myth, a cautionary tale to spice up dusty history scrolls.

As for Maleficia—he had heard the name. A threat, perhaps, but never one that warranted true concern. That changed after the conversation.

Kai told him enough to paint the shape of what was coming—not in full detail, but enough for Elias to understand that what lay ahead wouldn’t just threaten their kingdoms. It would engulf the entire world.

And by the end of it, Elias was no longer skeptical. The oath, however, was another beast entirely. It took hours.

Kai had to make sure every word was in place, every clause ironclad. It was a shield for Amyra’s existence. He layered the oath with intent, with language that bound Elias not just to silence, but to protection. The old Magus couldn’t reveal her, nor allow others to discover her by neglect. He couldn’t act in ways that endangered her, even indirectly.

On top of that, Elias had to agree to a fifth-circle spell—[Sandstorm]—to be cast across the land when they began their reclamation efforts.

The spell would blanket the area in obscuring grit, saturating the air with mana particles that would scramble divinations and blind scouts. No spy would get close. And even if they tried, Elias would be there, stationed nearby with the authority and power to intercept.

When Kai had first insisted on this level of caution, Elias had looked at him like he was mad. Until Kai told him why.

He didn’t name Amyra. Didn’t reveal her form or her origin. But he spoke of a Mage—a singular existence—who could absorb and purify dead mana. That alone had been enough to drain the color from Elias’s face.

Then came the second revelation. Kai had Elder Tree stumps. Elias had gone still for nearly a full minute before whispering, “Can I study one?”

“No,” Kai had said without hesitation.

But he knew that Elias would try.

He would watch the planting sites, examine the reactions of the land, make quiet notes and sketches when he thought Kai wasn't there. It was inevitable. But as long as he didn’t uncover her, that was acceptable.

More concerning had been Elias’s next request.

“I want to come with you,” the old Magus had said. “To see this Mage with my own eyes.”

Kai had refused. Flatly. There was no way to bring him close without risking more political rumours.

Elias hadn’t pushed. Not after that. He understood there were lines even an ally couldn’t cross. Besides, he had duties of his own—he had to return to the royal family of Vanderfall, to report on the treant’s death and the cost of its defeat.

So they parted ways under the pale light of a breaking dawn. Elias left with more knowledge than he had ever expected to gain that night.

And Kai… Kai was left with the same weight he always carried. But at least now, he didn’t carry it alone.

With only his soldiers and the church’s people accompanying him now, the air around the force lightened. Tension still lingered—ghosts of the plague lands clung to them like dust—but without Elias, the unease faded.

But they marched on, fast and purposeful.

The journey passed quickly, and before long, the towering walls of Fort Aegis rose in the distance.

Kai narrowed his eyes. Soldiers lined the top ramparts, waving down toward them. Word had clearly arrived before they did—his message must have been taking well. The men on the wall had already begun celebrating.

This is good, he thought to himself as they drew closer, the iron gates creaking open. But nothing could have prepared him for what was inside.

The courtyard wasn’t just filled with guards waiting to report or servants rushing to serve. Hundreds of people had gathered—men, women, children. And at the heart of the crowd stood Viscount Redmont, dressed in ceremonial armor, flanked by what Kai assumed was his family: a dignified woman, likely the Viscountess, and two sons and daughter.

Rows of tables stretched across the edges of the courtyard, stacked with steaming dishes and decorated with colored cloths. Sizzling meats, sweet pastries, and fruit arrangements lined them, enough to feed a small town. Bards stood off to the side, instruments in hand, strumming lively tunes that floated across the cobblestones.

Everywhere, there were smiles.

Even Kai, hardened as he was, found himself blinking at the sight. Behind him, his soldiers began to slow, taken aback by the arrangement that none of them had expected. And then the Viscount raised his hand.

“Everyone,” he called, voice booming with pride, “the heroes of Lancephil have returned—after purging the plague that devastated Vanderfall!” He stepped forward, sweeping his hand toward the weary warriors. “Let’s welcome them home with a cheer they’ll never forget!”

The crowd erupted.

Claps, cheers, cries of joy—so loud it felt as if the very castle walls vibrated. It crashed over them like a wave. The soldiers froze for a moment, stunned by the force of it. Some blinked back tears. Others stood taller.

Kai glanced to his side and saw Killian removing his helmet, running a hand through his sweat-matted hair, a crooked smile on his face. The others followed suit, their expressions ranging from confusion to cautious pride.

All their eyes turned to him.

Kai met their gazes.

He smiled. Just a little. Just enough.

“Go,” he said quietly, but they heard it. “Enjoy yourselves. You’ve earned it. You survived hell.”

And like a dam breaking, the men exhaled. His own men broke into cheers—louder, freer than before

They dispersed into the crowd, greeted with handshakes, warm food, and the kind of welcome only home could give. Kai stood still for a moment longer, watching them disappear into the joy he hadn’t known they needed so badly.

Some of them were already scanning the faces around, searching for family—brothers, sons, wives waiting with teary eyes and open arms. Others, like Knight Cais, kept their discipline a bit longer, heading straight for the Viscount to report. But most… most made a beeline for the food.

And Kai couldn’t blame them.

After days of hard marching, half-rations, and chewing through dried jerky like leather, the smell of roasted meat, fresh bread, and honey-glazed pastries was enough to make anyone pause.

He caught the scent of peppered steak—thick, seared perfectly, juices sizzling as they were flipped on an open grill just a few stalls away. The warmth drifted on the breeze, and his stomach grumbled in response.

For a moment, he considered heading toward the keep, maybe freshening up, maybe talking to the Viscount privately first. But then… He had returned victorious.

The treant was dead. The plague fields behind him. The oath with Elias sealed. And his people—his men—were safe. So Kai let himself breathe.

He took a step forward, then another, until he stood in front of the stall, the flames licking under thick slabs of steak. A wide-eyed cook bowed hastily before holding one out to him on a plate, trembling slightly from the weight of the moment.

Kai took it with a quiet nod, letting the warmth seep into his hands. He tore off the first bite before he could even sit down.

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, he let himself enjoy the simple act of being alive

***

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