In Arcadion, within the grand halls of the Aurithéa Palace, Alice walked with measured grace, trailed by a procession of attendants who seemed to guard not just her presence, but the integrity of every inch around her. Resting in her arms, carefully balanced, was a large, timeworn book bearing the title — Allythéon: An Introduction to the Noble Bloodlines – Volume 5.
Each attendant carried a curious item: one held ancient maps tucked under his arm, another cradled a globe that shimmered with strange colors, while others bore meticulously rolled scrolls or displayed exotic artifacts that looked as though they had traveled through countless realms.
'Servants really are a blessing,' Alice mused, a blend of admiration and pragmatism sharpening her expression. Her steps were firm, filled with anticipation, as she made her way toward her chambers. She had just left the library, where walls brimming with secrets and histories had fueled her insatiable curiosity. That thirst for the unknown — a trait deeply embedded in the spirit of Asgardia — now drove her to uncover every mystery within her reach.
As she passed through one of the palace's grandest corridors, with mosaics and tapestries recounting the triumphs of noble lineages, she came to a fork. That was when a sudden movement snapped her out of her thoughts — someone was about to crash into her. Time seemed to slow for a heartbeat, but nothing collided. Whoever it was had swerved with surprising agility.
"Who…?" The attendants, poised to reprimand the intruder, fell silent as soon as they caught sight of him.
"Sir Oswald," Alice murmured, eyes widening as she recognized the man rushing past. A rare sight indeed — the royal advisor, or more properly, the Voice of the Crown, barreling through the palace halls. His pale, weary figure moved with unexpected urgency, a striking contrast to the glittering opulence of his surroundings.
"I beg your pardon, Princess, but…" Oswald started, his voice fractured by fear — but something within held him back from finishing. He didn't stop. He kept running, his hunched frame and stocky build betraying his age, yet his concern clearly outweighed any exhaustion.
'What could possibly trouble him so deeply?' Alice wondered, watching as he disappeared down the distant corridor.
Oswald pushed himself on, his breath labored, sweat tracing the edges of his neatly trimmed mustache. As he neared the entrance of a vast chamber, the stationed guards greeted him with the reverence his station demanded — but he paid them no mind, storming past them with relentless determination.
"Royal Advisor Oswald," one of them called out, but the man ignored him, throwing open the heavy door himself, only to halt and mutter with a weighted voice:
"Damnation," as his eyes fell on the empty throne — his thoughts scrambling to make sense of the void that now pulsed at the heart of the kingdom.
✦ ✦ ✦
After several minutes of breathless urgency, Oswald finally passed under the last marble arch and entered the Royal Gardens — one of the few places in the palace where the world seemed to breathe differently. The air here was fresher, laced with jasmine and lavender. Trees swayed gently in the breeze, and the sound of water flowing through the central fountain merged harmoniously with the song of birds. A fleeting moment of peace within the storm.
At the heart of the garden, atop a white marble platform entwined with golden vines, stood the fountain. A veiled woman, sculpted with almost divine precision, held a vessel from which water poured, as if spilling eternal blessings upon the earth.
There, standing with his back to him, silently gazing at the statue, lost in contemplation, was Augustus XIII Van Allytharion — King of Allythéon. His posture was faultless, hands clasped behind his back, the royal mantle gently stirred by the wind. His golden hair caught the sunlight like threads of noble silk. There was a softness to his features — tinged with a subtle sorrow.
Oswald, now drenched in sweat, mustache darkened with moisture, came to a stop just a few steps away. He gathered what little breath he had left and spoke, voice low and reverent:
"My king…"
Augustus turned slowly, his golden eyes fixing on Oswald with quiet intensity. There was no rush in his movements, only the composed grace of someone who had long since learned that true answers seldom arrive in haste.
"What has happened?" he asked, his voice deep and steady, not loud — but carrying the full weight of command.
Oswald took a deep breath, straightening himself as much as the fatigue allowed. His voice, though shaky at first, settled into its formal rhythm:
"Your Majesty… allow me to report the latest developments from Vinland. As Your Highness may recall, the Kronos Empire had summoned an assembly of the Southern realms in Vinland."
Augustus merely nodded, his chin dipping ever so slightly.
"We discussed the envoys just yesterday," he remarked, recalling the lengthy deliberation that had led to the selection of the diplomats.
"Well… there's been an incident. The delegates from StormHaven clashed directly with those of Emberhold, right in Golden Port… at the heart of Cromwell."
For a moment, one of the king's eyebrows arched—nothing more. The small gesture hinted at surprise, but not alarm. On the contrary, his mind was already weighing the potential diplomatic leverage the incident might offer: pressure points, subtle demands, veiled favors. A conveniently timed disruption, after all.
But then, Oswald continued—and the tension in his voice made it clear that the real blow had yet to be delivered.
"However… Your Majesty, I fear the situation is worse than anticipated. The envoys from Ragnar, while crossing our lands en route to the assembly… were murdered. Brutally. Their bodies… left in pieces."
Augustus said nothing. Even the breeze seemed to pause, the garden holding its breath with him. His eyes narrowed. The calm dissolved.
Shoulders that moments ago had been relaxed grew rigid. The contemplative gaze now burned with a quiet, controlled fury—the kind that doesn't erupt, but smolders, scorching everything beneath its surface.
He didn't need to say much. His voice dropped to a murmur, yet each word carried the weight of a kingdom:
"This… yes. Now we have a problem."
✦ ✦ ✦
Elsewhere, within the Demonic Mirror of Erebus, I sat—not from physical fatigue, but from mental exhaustion.
The darkness around me was complete, so thick it seemed to breathe, and yet… familiar, as if it watched in silence.
My eyes remained open, alert, but they weren't searching. It was my mind that wandered, restless, longing for the numbness of forgetfulness.
"Where did I lose them?" I muttered.
I thought of the wolf pup. The sword. Both gone. And the pup… the pup had left no clear memory after the fall. Only now did I truly register the silence he left behind. As if, for some strange reason, my mind hadn't allowed me to think about him until now.
Guilt gnawed at me, slow and precise like small, sharp teeth.
"He must be okay…" I whispered, lacking conviction. "Or… at least, that's what I hope."
I started listing possibilities, trying to reason my way out of despair. Maybe he was still falling, stuck in some suspended realm between worlds—a terrifying thought. Maybe he'd stayed behind in the mausoleum, curled up and waiting, as he always had. Or perhaps he had been thrown out… into the Threshold… or even the Black Forest. None of these thoughts brought peace.
But one possibility unsettled me more than all the others.
"What if he… came in here with me?" I said softly, staring into the void, my chest tightening under the weight of dread.
No. That would be too cruel, even for this world.
"No," I whispered, trying to seal the thought away, bury it. "There must be a reason I didn't think of him until now… maybe Galdrick found him. Yes. Galdrick has him… and when this cursed trial ends… I'll see him again."
It was a lie. A sweet lie. But I needed it. I needed to believe I hadn't failed the White Wolf. That her trust in me hadn't been misplaced. That somewhere, out there, a small wolf was still waiting for me.
And that I hadn't abandoned him.
That thought, however fragile, took root in me like a necessary comfort.
"Back to the sword…" I murmured, letting the lie settle just enough to keep me sane—or at least, grounded.
The memory of the sword struck like a spark in the shadows: the moment the spirit lunged at me, ravenous, and the sheath had shone with a light that didn't belong in this place—repelling the mirror's own essence.
"When it attacked… the sword lit up… and somehow drove it away…" I continued, eyes fixed on nothing, my mind working to reassemble the scattered fragments of memory.
The sword. Maybe it was my only way out of here. My anchor. The only shred of the real world left in this suffocating void.
"And I let it go," I said aloud, frustration swelling inside. Yes, I'd had it with me when I entered the first illusion. But the coffin's impact—sudden and brutal—had knocked it from my grasp. And after that… everything dissolved into fog and visions.
"The strangest part… is that when the illusion ended, it was gone." My voice dropped to a hush, afraid even the silence might hear.
Could it have vanished with the illusion? Or was it hiding, as if it too were part of this twisted trial? One thing, however, I was sure of: the sword was still here. Somewhere within this mirror. Waiting.
"Truly… I was never made to be a swordsman. Barely got the thing and already lost my faithful companion," I sighed, trying to laugh, but the sound came hollow.
Still, I couldn't let go of the thread. My mind kept rebuilding the sword's form, its weight in my hand, the strange glow it emitted. It was more than just a weapon. It was something alive. Something that listened.
"Swords… always answer the will of their wielders," I murmured into the dark.
I remembered Galdrick's words, how he spoke of blades like old friends, and all the stories I'd read or heard—both back on Earth and here in Asgardia. Tales of swords that chose their bearers, that whispered advice in battle, that forged bonds through blood and resolve. Some had personalities, spirits, even tempers… some bore names. Some even spoke. Others remained silent forever, but even then… they felt.
"If that's true… then she would hear me. Even if I don't know her name yet…" My voice was barely a breath, more like a prayer lost to the void.
Another long exhale escaped me, and I realized just how often I'd been sighing lately. It was becoming a habit—my body's way of saying what I couldn't put into words.
"The difference between reality and fiction… is like sky and earth…" I whispered again.
Then my eyes widened.
'Reality and fiction,' I repeated in my head. Of course… on Earth, all of this was myth, legend, fantasy. But in Asgardia? A world where elves walked among men, dragons swallowed whole battalions, and mirrors trapped souls inside living prisons… anything was possible. The very existence of this dark realm defied every concept of "real."
"Truly…" I sighed again, almost laughing at the irony. Ridiculous, yes… but comforting. Maybe the stories weren't lies—just memories of things we forgot were once real. I wasn't on Earth anymore. There was no reason to think like an Earthling. I had to think like an Asgardian.
I closed my eyes. And for the first time since I fell into this world of shadows, I didn't think about escaping. Or surviving. Only about finding her.
The sword.
I focused on her shape, as if simply remembering could summon her back into my arms.
I saw her clearly: sheathed, the darkened leather of the scabbard aged but unyielding. The grip, stained in a deep red—almost wine-colored—so dark it nearly vanished into black. Hard to say whether it was just the dye… or the weight of years imprinted on it.
The crossguard was a tapestry of golden filigree, so intricate it looked hand-embroidered rather than forged. And at the pommel… the final touch. A stylized flower—or perhaps a crown. There was something restrained in its design… something waiting to break free. Like a smothered flame, pulsing quietly, ready to ignite the world.
And so I sat, silently immersed in the act of remembering. One by one, my senses awakened—sharp, alert, alive.
I began to feel her. The texture of the worn leather against my fingers. The chill of metal trailing across my palm. The weight of the blade—so heavy, yet unmistakably familiar. Its size was immense; seated, it rose well past my head. Yet somehow, it fit within my embrace as if it had been forged for me.
The scent—a blend of faint rust, aged leather, and latent magic. Subtle… but unmistakable.
I remained in that position for seconds, maybe minutes… perhaps even hours. Clutching nothing. Yet in my mind, I was wrapped around the sheathed blade.
'You're here,' I thought, heart aching. 'You always were.'
I opened my eyes. And for an instant—just a flicker—something shifted in the space before me. The air seemed to ripple. The darkness bowed slightly, as if something had appeared… or was about to.
And there, in my embrace, she was again.
My heart pounded, but I didn't move. Didn't speak. My head leaned forward, resting gently against her—instinctively.
"I don't know why… but welcome back."