Leon couldn’t quite place it, but there was something about the air here. A presence that felt dense and watchful. The more he tried to focus on it, the more it seemed to deepen, like the lingering tension of a held breath stretched too long.

The architecture and markings carved into the stone walls were undeniably Zuverian. That much he recognised. Which meant he was likely inside Beld Thylelion. But where, exactly, was the question.

And how he’d gotten here.

When he was first assigned to the contingent deployed to Beld Thylelion, he’d known little beyond the mage towers’ insistence that the ruins could prove vital to the empire’s safety. But when the ancient site emerged from Lake Rellaria, revealing the massive platform—followed closely by the ominous appearance of the Undead Council’s floating citadel—Leon had grasped the true gravity of the situation. The attacks that began soon after only reinforced it.

Still, he couldn’t say he understood the full scope of what was happening, or what specifically was at stake. Some had mentioned a relic known as the Tribute of Dominion. Others whispered about ancient Zuverian techniques and long-lost artifacts that could tip the balance of power in the empire’s favour against the Rising Isle. Leon wasn’t sure how much stock to place in the latter. Even if there were such secrets, the empire wouldn’t be the only ones seeking them, considering the Isle itself was involved.

Ultimately, though, speculations like those weren’t his concern. As a knight sworn to His Majesty and as vice-captain of the Imperial Solar Knights, Leon’s duties were clear. He was to follow orders and protect the empire from harm. And if those more versed in Beld Thylelion warned that something inside could become catastrophic in the wrong hands, then his mission was just as clear — make sure it didn’t.

He had prepared for the expedition. Consulted with the accompanying wizards, reviewed formations, ensured his knights were sharp. Half the Solar Knights marched under his command, and they were working with high-ranked Shielders, three arch wizards and their mages, and even a Quorum deacon with priests and acolytes in tow. A formidable force, by any measure.

So what had gone wrong?

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to sort through the frayed threads of memory. The last few days had blurred into a single mesh of chaos. One of his final clear recollections was being called to counter another of the Council’s feints. An attack that turned out to be largely irrelevant in hindsight.

And after that…

Something had happened. He remembered a…tremor, maybe? Had Beld Thylelion reacted? He seemed to recall the Undead Council’s citadel acting in response to something.

His thoughts broke off as a faint glimmer caught his eye. Delicate, almost ephemeral threads of golden light flickered in the air, weaving in and out of view before he could track them. They weren’t part of his aura or the steady illumination of the Mantle of the Egis that cloaked him. And they had no discernible source. Strangely, they seemed to bend the light around them, warping it.

The longer he tried to focus, the more elusive they became, until they vanished entirely. He found himself wondering if they’d been real at all.

What in Ittar’s name was this place?

Another memory surged up — of the ground lighting up beneath him, as though Beld Thylelion itself had awakened.

Had it opened? Had some form of formation drawn him in? Why? And why was he alone? Where were the others? Scattered across the ruins?

He looked down the corridor. Just cold stone and silence. Only that odd, all-encompassing weight pressing in from all sides.

He exhaled slowly, the sound loud in the stillness.

There were too many questions, and too few answers. He was worried—for his men, and for everyone else who’d been here—but alarm wouldn’t help anyone. For now, he had two options. He could either try to find his way out and regroup, or press deeper into these ruins and complete the mission. Hopefully prevent whatever disaster they’d feared.

There was no telling where the corridor led, or what choice it would force upon him. All he could do now was move forward, and pray it was the right way.

With Arnaud’s help, traversing the many terraces and bridgeways scattered across the vast chamber proved relatively effortless for Scarlett and the others. His S-rank Shielder status wasn’t for show — he dismantled every guardian they met with near-unnerving ease.

Even the warden they crossed paths with at one point barely slowed him down. Its defences might’ve troubled most others, but Arnaud apparently wasn’t too different from the equivalent of a walking siege weapon. Watching him work, Scarlett gained a new appreciation for how wide the gulf was between even the upper echelons of strength.

In the game, maybe this must’ve been what it felt like walking around as a level 70 character with a level 80 companion. Not that she was sure she counted as 70 herself, but she certainly wasn’t lacking in firepower.

The terraces varied wildly in design and apparent function. Some looked like functional installations, while others appeared more like fragments — disjointed pieces of something never completed. They didn’t seem like full environments so much as testbeds or experimental displays of differing magical disciplines, preserved without purpose or context.

The first terrace had held what looked like a half-finished Kilnstone. The second terrace had resembled a makeshift alchemy lab — with about half of the key instruments missing, according to Allyssa. It also had incomplete arrays etched across the floor, which Scarlett was fairly certain wouldn’t work unless someone added at least six or more stabilising runes and channels. Another terrace resembled an abandoned garden, overgrown and inert.

Scarlett could only describe the place as a series of frozen moments. Snapshots of something meaningful, taken at the wrong time. She remembered it being the same in the game, though she’d never thought to question it then. Now, she couldn’t help but wonder why Thainninth had built it like this. It wasn’t as if the terraces served a practical function for someone like him. And she didn’t think anyone else had actually ever lived here.

It was a mystery. One she couldn’t quite solve, even as they continued on.

Eventually, they reached a broad platform, quiet and open. A grove of colourful trees stood in the centre with a quiet clearing nestled in it, untouched and unguarded. Arched structures marked the perimeter, and at the heart of it stood several squat, irregular stone buildings. Their rough, functional design was a far cry from the usual symmetry of Zuverian craftsmanship.

They reminded Scarlett of barracks.

Driven mostly by curiosity, she stepped into one, Fynn close behind. He swept the room with a single glance, posture easing only when he confirmed no threats were present.

The interior was mostly bare. Stone beds. A table. A chair. And a stone tablet atop it. That was all.

Scarlett approached the table, eyes narrowing. The symbols on the tablet weren’t Zuverian. In fact, they weren’t anything she recognised. The language was entirely foreign, composed of disjointed glyphs and looping strokes. Was it some cypher? The script of some long-dead civilisation that predated the Zuver? Was this terrace meant to be a reconstruction of a historical site?

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

She didn’t know why there would be one here, but it wasn’t entirely impossible.

As she reached for the tablet, a flicker caught the edge of her vision.

Her head snapped to the side just as a ghostly limb—faint and shimmering with golden light—reached for the same tablet. The arm was translucent, the suggestion of a body behind it barely perceptible.

Fynn moved in an instant, stepping between her and the apparition, ethereal claws raised.

The spectral hand lifted as if it had taken hold of the tablet, though the object never moved.

The spectral arm lifted as if grasping the tablet, though the object itself remained where it was. For a brief moment, Scarlett thought she saw the remnants of a figure clad in armour, a cerulean cape flowing behind it. Then it was gone, vanished as if it had never been there.

She stared at the space it had occupied.

Then came shouts from outside.

Her eyes darted toward the exit. Without waiting for Fynn, she hurried out.

Outside, Rosa and the others stood frozen, watching as golden silhouettes shimmered across the clearing. Dozens of them. They flickered in and out like mirages — some clearly humanoid, others no more than half-formed shadows.

Scarlett didn’t know what they were. But something about them felt…familiar.

“Scarlett…” Rosa’s voice came from beside her, quiet and uncertain. The bard stared at one of the figures — a half-formed projection, paused mid-gesture, as if deep in conversation with a ghost that wasn’t there. “Do you know what these are?”

Scarlett’s eyes locked on the figure. Through its wavering glow, she caught a glimpse of curled hair and a long-necked instrument slung at its side, similar to a lute.

A short distance away stood another silhouette. Pale strands of white hair drifted through its shimmering form. Beside it, a smaller, hooded figure cloaked in shadow. Beyond them, a tall figure with rigid stillness, a sword at its side, and what might have been a helm shaped like a bird.

“…I do not know what they are,” Scarlett said slowly, “but I have some suspicion of who they are meant to represent.”

Rosa looked at her, then back at the figure with the instrument. Scarlett thought she saw a brief flicker of darkness pass through Rosa’s eyes. Then the bard gave a slow, thoughtful nod. “Yeah. I think I do too.”

Without warning, all the figures vanished. The golden light bathing the platform blinked out, leaving only silence behind.

Scarlett lifted her gaze towards the ceiling, where distant arrays still glinted with faint golden threads.

“…What was that?” Allyssa eventually asked.

Scarlett looked to her, then turned to Fynn. He was tense, brow furrowed, scanning the area.

“Fynn,” she said, “am I correct in assuming this phenomenon resembles what you sensed earlier?”

He met her gaze. He seemed to consider it for a moment before giving a single nod. “I think so.”

Her eyes drifted upward again, back to the glinting patterns above. “…Rosa. Other than Fynn, I believe you are the one most likely to identify what we just witnessed.” She looked down at the bard. “Tell me — what do you think it was?”

Rosa was silent for a bit. Her eyes remained fixed on the space where the projection—if that was what it had been—once stood. Eventually, she turned. “I can’t say anything for sure about the rest of those…things. But that one?” She gestured faintly. “If I wasn’t standing here being very much alive, I’d have bet a crown and a half that it was me. Or my ghost.”

Scarlett looked at Fynn. “Would you agree with that assessment?”

“…I would,” he said, frown deepening. “But there was more than one that felt like her. And more than one that felt like me.”

“Did any feel like someone else among us?”

He shook his head. “No. Just us two.”

“I see…”

Kat studied Scarlett. “…What does that mean?”

Scarlett didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes drifted to the crude stone building behind them.

She had a theory. One that now felt at least partially confirmed.

If both Fynn and Rosa felt a connection to the projections, it was possible they were echoes of sorts. Similar to the manifestations they’d encountered on the Rising Isle. If so, then this wasn’t entirely unfamiliar. It was something they had faced before. Something they could, to some degree, understand.

“Scarlett,” Rosa asked quietly. “Why only me and Fynn?”

Still, Scarlett remained quiet. It was a fair question. If these were echoes like those on the Isle, why only those two? Why not Allyssa? Or Arnaud? Or even Scarlett herself?

The fact that only those two had been reflected was strange.

If that were the only oddity, Scarlett might have dismissed it.

However, there were other projections. And Scarlett was almost certain she had recognised them. Blurred and indistinct as they were, she was confident they had been the others — the companions from the game.

She couldn’t be entirely sure. The details were vague, easy to second-guess. But it had felt too similar to be a coincidence.

Something within this place was drawing out manifestations of the game’s companions. And not just the ones currently with her. She thought she’d seen Gaven Ridley among them.

Gaven Ridley, who was very much dead right now.

Was it related to Fate somehow? Were they just…reflections shaped by how the companions appeared in the game and the narrative that governed this world?

…Were they a threat?

Just now, none of the projections had seemed aware of them. None had acted with hostility. But this terrace had been quiet and devoid of guardians. Earlier, during the battle with the warden, Fynn had said he sensed something familiar — something hostile. If that had been a reflection of his Fate counterpart, and if Fynn had reacted to it on instinct…

Then yes. The danger might be real.

Some of them could be threats.

“Baroness,” Arnaud said, breaking her thoughts.

Scarlett turned. His gaze was fixed on her.

“It seems,” he said, “that you have some idea of what is happening.”

Her lips thinned into a line.

There were many things she didn’t mind sharing about Beld Thylelion. But this…? This was different.

Even without referencing the game directly, any explanation would eventually circle back to Fate. And that was something she didn’t want to discuss.

It wasn’t that it was difficult. It just felt…wrong.

She didn’t want the others thinking about it. Didn’t want them questioning whether their choices were truly their own. It was the kind of knowledge that, once known, could never be put away. And Scarlett had already decided that those questions, those doubts, were better left unexplored.

Maybe that was foolish. Maybe even naive.

But especially after her final meeting with Arlene—who had accepted the workings of Fate with such calm certainty—Scarlett had come to believe that whatever truth this world ran on, some of it was better left unsaid. It made her angry, in a quiet, cold way, that anyone around her would ever have to accept something like that with peace in their eyes.

Her gaze drifted to Rosa, lingering on the bard.

She regretted asking for clarification. Even if she’d suspected what those figures represented, she hadn’t known what to do with the answer. Now she had left Rosa with a difficult question.

So then…how to approach it?

At last, she let out a breath. “I will leave my suspicions on the matter unspoken,” she said simply. “I hope you will all understand.”

Even if she’d tried to lie, Fynn would have seen through it. And what would she say, anyway? ‘I don’t know’? Or the truth?

Sometimes silence was simply the better answer.

Arnaud studied her with a slight frown. Allyssa and Kat exchanged uncertain glances. Shin remained expressionless, and Fynn said nothing. Rosa, on the other hand, just looked at her with quiet understanding.

A few seconds passed in silence, then the bard let out a laugh. “Well, that just about confirms it. Must be some tenebrous, ancient, otherworldly knowledge that’d sizzle our poor brain-goo into soup, huh?” She flashed a grin. “Can’t say I’m too eager for that to happen, so fair enough. All’s well that ends with my mind intact, as the saying goes.”

She shot Scarlett a wink. “And here I was starting to think Red didn’t care about me at all after all the disparaging remarks, but look at that — preemptively shielding my fragile little head from unspeakable horrors. I’ve always said there’s more to me than just a charming smile, a bodaciously brilliant face, impeccable talent with the klert, a sultry singing voice, and constellation-worthy freckles, but I’m glad you’re finally beginning to see it as well.”

Scarlett gave her a flat look. The bard only beamed wider.

“…I am not so sure there is much to be sizzled in your particular case,” Scarlett found herself replying — for reasons entirely beyond her.

That earned another laugh from Rosa, though this time it was something more like a delighted snort. “Yeah? Are you accusing me of being a nincompoop? A nitwit? A ninnyhammer? Or maybe another of the various dunce-related insults starting with n?”

Scarlett paused. “…Perhaps.”

“Now that’s just very uncalled for.”

She considered her for another moment, then turned toward the terrace ahead. A narrow stone walkway linked it to theirs.

“I will not be answering any further questions,” she said. “There is still much I do not understand about this place. For now, I suggest you all stay alert.”

And with that, she started walking.

She heard the others hesitate, then follow. Kat’s voice rose behind her, drifting up beside Rosa.

“Just for reference — how many insults starting with ‘n’ do you actually know? I’d never even heard two of those.”

Scarlett didn’t look back, but she could picture the pleased grin on Rosa’s face.

“Oh, you’ve no idea. Saddle up, because there’s a trove. Let’s see — there’s nutcase, obviously, and just plain nut, which is great for light teasing but loses its bite in more serious insult combat. Then we’ve got noodle and noddy, which are perfect for dimwits with flair, though you risk puzzled stares from half a tavern’s drunks and raised brows from the other half. If we’re aiming for simplicity, there’s always numbskull—”

Scarlett tuned her out after that, letting the bard’s cheerful nonsense fade into the background as they crossed into whatever the next terrace held.