Pierre stood at the heart of the royal meeting hall of Magnolia Palace, the revered administrative seat of the Queendom of Rosmayne. Once a child of humble beginnings, he had spent countless nights dreaming of walking these hallowed halls, of standing before the monarchs whose names echoed through history. Now that the dream was no longer a fantasy but a reality, his heart swelled with an intoxicating mixture of awe and pride. Yet, despite the elation bubbling within him, he fought to keep his composure, forcing his gaze downward onto the gold-decorated violet carpet beneath his feet, as though the opulence beneath him could ground his racing thoughts.
"Your Majesty," Pierre intoned, kneeling and closing his eyes, as custom demanded, the weight of the moment pressing heavily upon him.
"Rise, Pierre Juraine."
The queen's voice, soft yet powerful, washed over him like a spring breeze, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine. When he dared lift his gaze, his breath caught in his throat. Before him stood a woman so radiant, so impossibly beautiful, that even the sun seemed to pale in comparison. Catalina Rosalia, the Queen of Rosmayne, a vision of divine elegance. Her emerald eyes, deep as the forest and just as mysterious, held his gaze with an intensity that made his heart stammer. Her skin glowed like the moonlight caressing the sea, and her hair—braided and glowing with the warmth of a summer's day—seemed to ripple like the delicate hues of a peach in bloom. She was a living embodiment of Aine's grace, a celestial being whose beauty seemed to defy all logic and reason.
Pierre’s cheeks flushed crimson, and he quickly turned his gaze away, fearful that even a single glance might betray the awe and reverence he felt. He was a knight of Rosmayne now, but in the presence of such majesty, he felt like an unworthy subject in a storybook.
"I trust that you have an important matter to present, Pierre," the queen's voice cut through his thoughts, bringing him back to the present with a sudden clarity.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he responded, his voice steady, though his heart still raced. "I bring to you the memory of the strange storm that ravaged the land three nights ago."
At these words, the queen's gaze flickered to her page, a silent command passing between them. The royal page, with practiced grace, nodded and approached Pierre, flanked by two assistants. They bore a regal circlet, its centerpiece a flawless, pure white diamond, placed reverently on a velvet cushion. Pierre’s breath caught as they approached, but he remained silent, knowing his place.
The royal page delicately placed the circlet atop Pierre’s head, and with a whispered incantation, the spell was cast. Pierre inhaled sharply as the sharp stings of the Alna magic shot through his skull—pain unlike anything he had ever known. It was as though his mind was being pulled in a thousand directions at once, his thoughts threatened with unraveling. He gritted his teeth and steadied himself, fighting the urge to collapse. The magic seared through him, leaving an overwhelming pressure in its wake. He had never felt such intensity before, but he refused to show weakness. His pride held him up, forcing his hands to stay pressed firmly at his sides, even as the pain threatened to push him to his knees.
The minutes stretched into eternity, but at last, the procedure was completed. The diamond on the circlet blinked once, releasing a faint hum before bouncing off his head and into the hands of one of the assistants. The other carefully removed the circlet, and Pierre, though still shaken, let out a relieved breath.
The royal page took the diamond and inserted it into a slot on her wand, where it fit perfectly, as though it were always meant to be there.
"Visomnia Manifesti."
The light that erupted from the diamond was pure and blinding, swirling in delicate arcs as it projected Pierre's memories onto the grand hall. The once quiet room filled with the thunderous sounds of Pierre's recollections. The steady pounding of hooves, the heavy rain smashing against his helmet, the shouts of his men riding through the storm—everything came to life in a swirling dance of light.
The audience, a gathering of the most powerful individuals in the realm, watched with rapt attention as the memory unfurled before them. Whispers rippled through the crowd, their murmurs a blend of intrigue and apprehension. Some of the councilors' eyes flicked nervously between the projections and Pierre, but he kept his gaze lowered, humbly accepting their scrutiny without flinching.
As the memory reached the moment when Pierre cast his illusion spell upon the wall, the room grew quiet. The scene was cut abruptly, leaving only the shimmering illusion in its wake. The audience’s collective disappointment was palpable—they had seen nothing beyond the wall, and many exchanged puzzled glances. The murmurs grew louder, building into a frustrated cacophony, until the queen raised her hand, her presence alone silencing the hall.
"As much as it pains me to admit it," she began, her voice calm but carrying the weight of authority, "I lack the knowledge necessary to fully understand the significance of these events." Her gaze swept over the room, ensuring her words held the gravity they deserved. "Thus, I will turn to those who may hold the wisdom we require. Lady Setra of Aqua Regia, will you enlighten us?"
The assembled nobles parted as an ancient figure rose from her chair. Lady Setra was an exceptionally old woman, her hair long and silver, flowing like a cascade of starlight, yet her posture remained upright and strong. Her age did not betray her health; every inch of her presence radiated vitality that belied her years. Her hands, though wrinkled with age, trembled not in weakness but in the power she had long wielded. Despite the visible traces of tears she had long since tried to erase, the intensity in her gaze was as sharp as a blade, and she stood tall, each breath steady as she composed herself.
It took her several moments to collect her thoughts and to calm the faint tremor in her voice before she was ready to speak.
"Thank you, Your Majesty. If you would permit me, I shall share a story—one I rarely speak of, especially in the presence of so many. However, given the gravity of the situation, I find myself compelled to make an exception."
A moment of silence fell over the hall as Lady Setra took a breath, her hands resting on the arms of her chair. The nobles, their gazes fixed on her, seemed to wait in anticipation.
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"Long ago, Aristes, the god of craft, shared his creations with the living beings of Ersia, so they might protect themselves and fight for their beliefs. These creations came to be known as ‘Opus.’ To possess even one is considered a rare honor, granting a status rivaling that of royalty."
She paused, her eyes flickering momentarily to the farthest reaches of the room, where the nobles sat in rapt attention.
"Yet, not all Opus are created equal. Among them, there are those that surpass the rest. They are known as the ‘Magnum Opus’—the greatest of the greats."
A soft murmur swept through the hall, some noble heads turning to one another, intrigued by her words.
"Although the exact number of Magnum Opus is unknown, there are two that are recorded in our archives," Lady Setra continued, her voice steady and full of ancient wisdom. "The first is the Flute of Hulun-Buir, said to be in the possession of a wandering sage. The power it holds is a mystery, but it is rumored to rival the very might of nature itself."
"The second one is the Staff of Tubataha, the water shaper . . . which I gave to Yumna many years ago."
A sharp gasp echoed from one of the nobles. Lord Bartra, his face turning an unhealthy shade of crimson, slammed his fist onto the armrest of his chair. His veins pulsing visibly on the side of his neck, expressing his strong dissatisfaction.
"I just can't bring myself to understand the reasoning of your action, no matter how much I try to! Your decision is greatly questionable, Lady Setra! It could even be considered an act of treason had you been someone else!"
A tense silence settled over the room, the air thick with unease.
"Lord Bartra!" The queen’s voice rang out, cold and commanding, her staff striking the marble floor with authority. The room fell into an immediate hush.
"The staff is Lady's Setra personal possession. It is her right to do whatever she wants with it. Though I understand your vexation very well, I have vowed by my crown to make sure that individual right will not be violated, just as my mother did."
Bartra’s eyes flared with indignation, but the queen's words held him at bay. He could only seethe in silence, his lips pressed into a thin line.
"Your Majesty," Lord Bartra's voice trembled with barely-contained rage. "You know as well as I do how critical the staff is for the prosperity of our realm. How much longer must we endure the floods that ravage Avintes every year? The gold that leaves our coffers to handle them—and the lives we lost! Lives! Your Majesty! Is more than just a number on your paper!"
"I grieve for the pain the flood has brought to Avintes, Lord Bartra." the queen replied solemnly, her gaze softening. "I promise you, we are working towards a lasting solution. I will not rest until this crisis is resolved."
The air was thick with the tension of the moment, but before it could escalate further, another voice cut in—a voice smooth as silk and sharp as a blade.
"Lord Bartra, if you may pardon me."
Another nobleman cuts into the conversation just in time. He is a bald man with a pointy and curvy nose, not to mention a rough complexion on his face. Nevertheless, the way he dresses, and his demeanor exude the air of a true man of class. A man with excellent etiquette and a sharp sense of words of gestures.
"Lord Crozette."
Lord Crozette's gaze flicked to Lord Bartra, then to the queen, his words deliberate.
"I believe that it would be most wise of us to see this whole premise of tracking and bringing back the hero as a great opportunity to gain ourselves a great edge in future diplomacy. If we are to succeed in the said matter, think of what the other country would be willing to give for even a scratch of the lost memoir of The Silent Twilight."
"I sincerely wish you understand that the concern about the flood is not yours alone. I myself, am aware that Underpoint has been really difficult to cooperate for our canal project. That being said, I know that I have no right to ask you to remain patient nor be more forbearing."
Lord Crozette pauses and takes a glance at the queen. Albeit it's very subtle, one who observed carefully can see that the queen is reacting as if she was being provoked. She slightly sharpened her gaze for a moment before acting normally again.
"But I highly advise you to welcome this opportunity with open arms. After all, the one we are seeking might worth more than a castle of gold."
Knowing that Lord Crozette has saved him from potential trouble had he said something out of line, Lord Bartra sits back down.
". . . You have a point. Perhaps I spoke too much."
"That much is understandable, Lord Bartra. You speak on behalf of your subjects, and that is a noble cause," Lord Crozette responded, his voice a velvet thread of diplomacy.
Then, the queen nodded to Lady Setra to continue where she left off.
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.
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"However, there were also times when other gods made contact with Aristes to create an artifact with their essence of divinity within. We simply called them 'Relic'. They hold immense power, such as-"
"Solus," the queen interrupted, her voice like a quiet storm.
Lady Setra met the queen's gaze, her eyes sharp with recognition. "Exactly, Your Majesty. But there is more."
A palpable hush fell over the auditorium. The nobles leaned forward, breath held, eager for Lady Setra’s next words. She, however, seemed lost in thought, her mind wandering to a time long past, as though she were reaching into the very depths of her memory. The look in her eyes was distant, searching through the mists of time, reliving the echoes of forgotten moments.
"I was there," she began slowly, her voice now a soft murmur, "when the heroes were first bestowed with their divine blessings. The Relic that was given to Asmar is the absolute sword, Solus, made from the essence of the divinity of the five prominent gods and goddesses."
She paused, her gaze growing heavier, like an ancient weight settling on her shoulders.
"Yet, Randia," she continued, "he received no relic. Instead, he was given a Magnum Opus—an artifact that even Aristes himself held as his most cherished creation."
Lady Setra’s voice became tinged with wonder, as if the weight of the tale still pressed upon her. "The Magnum Opus given to Randia is no mere artifact. It is the greatest creation of Aristes, one He considered a 'daughter'. The circumstances surrounding her are beyond my understanding, but I know this: she is called Lyudra."
A silence spread throughout the hall. The name echoed in the minds of those gathered, and even the most hardened of hearts could not suppress the shiver that crept down their spines.
"For reasons unknown to us, Aristes bestowed His blessing upon Randia by marrying this... 'living creation'. Since that day, Aristes’ followers have called him Valdrin, The Spouse of Lightning."
The weight of the name sank into the hearts of those present. A surge of awe and trepidation flooded the room. It was a name that carried with it the unshakable sense of power and destiny, and even the queen’s usual composed demeanor seemed to shift under its weight.
A murmur of questions spread like wildfire across the room, but the queen silenced them with a single, commanding glance.
"In summary," she said, her voice firm but edged with curiosity, "the storm that ravaged the night was indeed the harbinger of Randia’s power?"
Lady Setra turned her gaze toward Pierre, who had been silent for much of the conversation, his eyes sharp and attentive. She studied him for a moment before answering the queen’s question.
"It is difficult to say with certainty," Lady Setra replied slowly, her eyes narrowing as she considered the situation. "There are still many pieces of the puzzle that need to be confirmed. Captain Pierre, is it not? One of the prisoners mentioned something about looking for a child—a little girl, I believe."
"Yes, Your Grace."
Lady Setra’s brow furrowed in thought. "That doesn't fit with what I know of Randia’s story. As far as I am aware, I have never heard of him having any children. That child... is the only lead we have." Her gaze shifted, locking with the queen’s. Her tone was stern, almost urging the queen to take swift action.
The queen’s eyes hardened, her jaw set with determination. Without a word, she rose from her throne. The nobles followed suit, bowing their heads in reverence, acknowledging her command.
"Then it is decided," the queen said, her voice unwavering. "I hereby order a full investigation, effective immediately. I expect nothing less than the best results."