The celebratory feast at the Northern Wall had been a grand success. Anwan had consumed his promised share of roasted boar—nearly three full legs—before sleeping for fourteen straight hours in the fortress barracks.
By the time he and Sir Rodas set out on the five-day walk back to the capital of Fontaniska, the autumn air had grown noticeably crisp.
As they reached the outer crest of the valley overlooking the capital city, however, neither of them reached for their travel rations.
"Master," Anwan said, halting his quiet stride. His dark eyes narrowed slightly as he looked toward the distant skyline. "The smoke looks wrong."
Sir Rodas leaned heavily on his iron-capped wooden staff, squinting through the afternoon haze.
Rising above the grand marble spires of Fontaniska were four distinct plumes of dense, violet-tinted black smoke. The massive blue protective barrier that usually shimmered above the Royal Citadel was completely dark, replaced by a eerie, pulsing curtain of crimson magic.
"Miasma," Rodas muttered, his gruff voice laced with cold anger. "That bastard didn't waste a single day."
Anwan’s absolute vision stretched across the miles separating them from the city walls.
The main gates of Fontaniska were closed shut. He could see royal guards clad in white armor standing on the battlements, but their posture was unnatural—their centers of gravity were tilted two inches too far forward, and their shoulders moved with the stiff, mechanical rhythm of controlled puppets.
"The guards at the gate are being manipulated," Anwan reported, adjusting the straps of his iron broadsword. "Their bodies are moving, but their mana flow is completely severed. Something is pulling their strings from inside."
"Eos-4," Rodas spat. "Minister Vane has thrown off his mask. Come on, boy. We aren't taking the front door."
Two hours later, deep within the subterranean aqueducts beneath the city, the air smelled of damp moss and old stone.
Rodas led the way through a forgotten maintenance tunnel, his staff tapping lightly against the cobblestones. Anwan walked half a step behind, his eyes constantly scanning the ceiling arches and water channels.
"This tunnel leads directly into the lower garden of the Inner Citadel," Rodas explained quietly. "Feodia showed me this path when she was seven years old after she got caught sneaking out to buy sweet rolls."
"She likes sweet rolls," Anwan noted solemnly. "She promised me meat when we came back."
"If we don't hurry, there won't be any cooks left to roast it," Rodas grunted.
They reached a heavy iron grate reinforced with old brass locks. Rodas raised his fist to shatter the mechanism, but Anwan stepped past him.
"It's already broken," Anwan said.
He pointed to the heavy iron deadbolt. Through his vision, he saw that the interior tumblers had been shattered from the inside by a precise, high-pressure force.
Anwan placed his hand against the door and pushed gently. The heavy grate swung open with a dry, rusting screech.
Stepping out into the Citadel garden, they were met with total silence.
The manicured hedges and vibrant rose bushes were coated in a thin layer of dark, crystalline frost. The marble fountains ran dry, their stone basins stained with black residue.
In the center of the courtyard lay six royal knights, stripped of their weapons and bound in heavy mana-suppression chains.
Standing over them, her silver dress torn at the hem and her face smudged with soot, was Princess Feodia. Her hands were bound behind her back with glowing purple cords, but her head was held high, her blue eyes blazing with defiant fury.
In front of her stood Minister Vane—Eos-4—wearing the ceremonial robes of the High Chancellor, flanked by twelve elite shadow-infiltrators.
"You are wasting your breath, Your Highness," Vane sneered softly, his eyes glowing with sickly violet light. "Your father, the King, has already signed the abdication decree. By sunset, Lord Araw Candias will be declared the Regent of Fontaniska, and the Four Dragon Seals beneath the Citadel will be unsealed."
"My father would never sign that!" Feodia spat, her voice trembling with rage. "You used a mind-controlling catalyst on him!"
"Semantics," Vane laughed smoothly. "A signature in ink is a signature nonetheless. And as for you, my dear Princess... Lord Araw has requested your presence at the unsealing ceremony. Your royal blood is the final key required to dissolve the ancient barrier."
Vane reached out a gloved hand to grab Feodia’s hair.
WHOOSH!
A heavy, iron-capped wooden staff came whistling through the air with the speed of a falling meteor, smashing straight through the forearm of the shadow guard standing to Vane’s left.
CRACK!
The guard flew twenty feet backward, crashing into the stone fountain.
Vane spun around, his eyes widening in shock. "Who—?!"
Before the infiltrators could raise their weapons, a small shadow blurred through their ranks.
Anwan didn't draw his broadsword. He moved with pure, devastating hand-to-hand precision.
He stepped inside the reach of the nearest guard, driving a open-palm strike directly into the man’s sternum. The kinetic shockwave disrupted the shadow-mana animating the guard's body, causing the infiltrator to collapse instantly like a puppet with cut strings.
Anwan pivoted on his heel, ducked under a dark spear-thrust, and delivered a low, sweeping kick to the ankles of two more guards, shattering their balance.
In less than three seconds, four shadow guards were down.
"Anwan!" Feodia gasped, her eyes filling with sudden tears of relief. "Sir Rodas!"
Sir Rodas walked out from the garden arches, his eyes cold as ice as he rested his heavy staff over his broad shoulder.
"You're making a mess of my favorite garden, Vane," Rodas said, his deep voice carrying the weight of a seasoned war general.
Vane snarled, backing away three steps as his shadow guards formed a defensive ring around him.
"Sir Rodas... and the boy," Vane hissed, his face contorting into a reptilian mask as dark scales erupted across his jawline. "You were supposed to perish at the Northern Line!"
"The beasts up north were noisy, but they had better manners than you," Anwan said flatly. He reached Feodia's side, raised his broadsword, and brought the spine of the blade down onto her purple bindings.
SNAP!
The mana-cords shattered instantly, freeing Feodia's hands.
"Are you okay?" Anwan asked, looking her up and down to check her center of gravity. "Your posture is slightly crooked."
"I'm fine!" Feodia said, brushing soot from her cheek and letting out a shaky laugh. "Just... very glad to see you. Did you bring the scale?"
Anwan patted his coat pocket. "It's safe."
Vane gritted his sharp teeth, realization dawning on his face. He knew he could not defeat both the former Grand Knight Commander and the anomaly child at the same time in open combat.
"It does not matter!" Vane shrieked, backing toward the grand double doors leading to the Royal Vaults beneath the palace. "You are too late! Lord Araw is already inside the Sanctum of the Dragon Seals! The realm belongs to the Eos Clan now!"
Vane slammed his hands against the heavy oak doors, unleashing a blast of purple smoke that blinded the courtyard before diving backward into the dark stairwell below.
"He's running!" Feodia shouted.
"Let him run," Sir Rodas said grimly, stepping up to the top of the stairwell, looking down into the deep, echoing darkness where the thrumming of ancient, forbidden magic vibrated through the foundation of the palace.
"Araw is down there," Rodas murmured, his hand tightening on his staff. "He's trying to break the primary node that holds the Five Kingdoms together."
Anwan stood at the threshold of the dark stairwell. Through his absolute vision, he could see deep into the earth beneath the Citadel.
Two hundred feet below, a massive sphere of ancient, blinding golden mana—the Seal of the Dragon Kin—was being consumed by a black, octopus-like mass of pure demonic corruption. Sitting at the center of that corruption was a single man in dark noble robes, holding an ancient black blade.
Araw Candias.
Anwan looked at Sir Rodas, then back at Princess Feodia.
"Master," Anwan said softly. "The air down there is very heavy."
"Aye," Sir Rodas grinned, a fierce, warlike glint returning to his old eyes. "It's the kind of air where a good blade makes all the difference."
Anwan adjusted the leather wraps around his broadsword hilt, took a steady breath, and began his descent into the dark depths of the Royal Vault.
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