CHAPTER 17 The Mender

CHAPTER 17 The Mender

The Royal Infirmary, first light of dawn.

In the Royal Infirmary—where cries and groans once echoed in clockwork—there was now a hush, as if the building itself had exhaled. The grimness that had long pooled in the hallways had lifted, replaced by the warm, golden glow of noon light spilling through stained-glass windows.

Most of the patients had either healed or been transferred back to their homes or barracks. Only a few wandered the corridors now, and even their footsteps seemed careful, as though unwilling to disturb the newfound peace.

Among them strolled a cheerful figure, her steps light and spirited. Healer Vyset, of the Crescent Cleric Clinic, wore her white coat with pride. A basket brimming with warm bread and sweets swung gently in her arms, and her smile shone as brightly as the morning sun.

Today, she had every reason to be happy.

Her name had danced through the lips of colleagues, spoken with reverence—for she had stood beside the Grand Elder of the Crescent Order during what many whispered was nothing short of a miracle.

It was Grand Elder Raimund who performed the procedure, but it was Vyset who had maintained the patients vitals throughout. A child named Kimberly Mae Gustmill—a girl whose magical alignment closely matched her own, thought the child had little amount of magic in her body.

Because of this, Vyset had been able to use her healing magic on the child without resistance, making her role critical during the surgery.

By all accounts, the girl should have died. Her nerves were so damaged she could no longer feel pain. Her bones were shattered in multiple places. She had lost so much blood that few believed any still remained in her veins. Her heartbeat was faint, barely there. Some had already marked her time of death, even after staring her eyes blinking.

And yet—during the surgery—the child endured.

Blood had gushed from her wounds like a river. Vyset had to use water magic to create floating bubbles, trapping the blood midair like crimson marbles. Carefully, she guided each orb back into a steel cylinder, which fed through a thin pipe reconnected to the childs veins, reintroducing the blood and minimizing the loss.

Through it all, Kimberly had neither screamed nor cried. Instead, she watched—wide-eyed and mesmerized—as if the entire ordeal were a performance crafted just for her. Even when her flesh was peeled open to reveal broken bone, she seemed to be entertained.

It unsettled Vyset.

The child asked strange questions—curious, almost playful. She wondered aloud about the colour of her blood, why it changed shade, or whether the cutting blade had different taste depending on its sharpness. She marvelled at the flicker of lantern light and whispered to the glow of her own white flame.

To Vyset surprise, Raimund indulged her. He claimed it distracted Kimberly from the harsh reality of her condition. Or perhaps, he mused, the childs will to live was simply too stubborn—or her ignorance too blissful—to let her slip away.

At first, Vyset had thought the girl was teetering on the edge of madness. Kimberly often giggled to herself, muttering under her breath, sometimes even arguing with voices no one else could hear. Vyset had feared she was possessed—by devil or demon.

But Raimund saw it differently.

He said Kimberly was no ordinary child. She was something else—something special.

But that was all in the past. Now, in the present, Vyset basked in the attention she was receiving, visibly delighted by it all.

Vyset opened the creaky door to Room Seven with a light hum on her lips and a basket of bread and sweet in hand. Inside scent of herbs and old plaster lingered. One bed sat empty, freshly made. The other, however, was a disaster of ropes and crumbling brown cast, where a small patient hung and hang like a display with rope to the metal frame.

As she strolled in and dropped onto the empty bed, a muffled voice rose from the cocoon of plaster beside her.

"You sound smiley today, Viivii... Did something fun happen?" a childish voice deep within the plaster.

Vyset glanced at the plaster cast, a patient Kimberly Mae Gustmill. “How would you know? You can barely see anything under that cast…”

“Oh, I can see it!” the voice replied, far too smug for someone wrapped in casted plaster.

Vyset leaned in, squinting—and there it was. A tiny crack near the shoulder plaster, just big enough for one mischievous green eye to peek through.

Her smile twitched.

“Kimberly…” she said, voice tightening like a bowstring. “What did I say about MOVING?”

“It wasn’t moving exactly,” Kimmi chirped. “I was just EXPENDING MY TERRITORIES.”

Kimmi did not care anymore. She had been promised freedom—release from the suffocating prison of plaster that wrapped her from head to toe. Healer Vyset had told her that her bones were fully healed, that the cast was no longer needed.

But hours had passed since that promise.

Still no freedom.

So, Kimmi took matters into her own hands—or rather, into her wiggling elbows and twitching toes. She squirmed and twisted, slowly forcing the plaster to loosen. Bit by bit, she widened the inner space, just enough to move more freely inside her crumbling shell.

“Oh gods—no. No, no, no. How did this happen…” Vyset rushed forward, eyes wide with panic. She darted to the ropes just as the plaster creaked ominously, quickly untying the one supporting Kimmi leg to keep her from falling—a precaution, at least.

“Stop moving!” she snapped. “You’re going to split that cast wide open!”

She slipped a pillow under Kimmi crooked limb, fussing and muttering, “Oh gods, oh goddess Lioris, this child will be the end of me…”

“I’m freeeee!” Kimmi squealed as her leg finally rested.

“Stop celebrating!” Vyset snapped. “Your bones might still fragile!”

“But you said the cast was coming off today!” Kimmi complains.

Vyset collapsed back onto the bed and pulled a sweet roll from her basket. She took a stressed bite, muttering prayers under her breath.

She had been tasked with monitoring Kimmi condition in preparation for the removal of her cast.

However, the procedure had been delayed—much to Kimmi dismay. The girl had grown increasingly restless and impossible to manage, her moods swinging between mischief and mayhem. Normally, Vyset did not think much of her patients beyond their charts and symptoms. But Kimmi was not just any patient—she was under the direct care of Grand Elder Raimund Warmheart himself.

Kimmi poked her head out through a hole in the plaster—right where her head should have been. Her emerald eye locking onto the sweet roll like a hawk eyeing prey.

Her voice came soft, hopeful, and utterly pitiful. “Oh kind merciful, Viivii… Could I have just a tiny bits of bite of that sweet… Sweeeeet bread?”

A delicate string of drool clung to her chin like a sinner to repentance, and as she opened her mouth, her buckteeth emerged—meek, yet hopeful—as if awaiting divine pardon.

Vyset raised an eyebrow, holding the roll up between two fingers. “This one?”

Kimmi nodded rapidly. Her head poked a little further from the plaster like a turtle sensing its breakfast.

Vyset smirked.

And ate the whole thing.

Kimmi gasped in horror, then slowly retreated into her cast like a turtle returning to its shell.

“That’s what you get for not listening,” Vyset said, licking crumbs off her thumb. “Actions. Consequences. Learn them.”

But just as peace settled in again, Kimmi plastered arm twitched.

Then Swung!

And—SNAP!—the whole arm cast came loose and clattered dramatically to the floor like a chunk of bark peeling from a tree.

“Ta-daaa! My hand is FREEEEE!” Kimmi crowed, waving her bare arm with glee.

Vyset screamed. “KIMBERLY!”

The Vyset froze. Kimmi arm, now exposed, was mottled with blackened skin and puckered stitch scars—ugly proof of her sad condition.

The door burst open. Coire entered first, followed by Grand Elder Raimund.

Vyset stood at once, flustered and on the verge of tears. “I—I’m so sorry! Grand Elder, I—I tried! She broke her cast, I swear—”

“It’s not your fault, Healer Vyset,” Raimund said calmly, already moving toward Kimmi. “Let’s see…”

He examined the arm gently. “Magnificent. The skin has healed. But… the pulse is still weak.”

Then—suddenly.

Raimund fell silent, his expression unreadable. Gently, he reached out Kimmi small palm in his own, his thumb tracing lightly across her scarred skin.

He leaned in slightly. “Child, can you hear me?” he gave a slight pat at Kimmi plaster.

Thunk—Thunk—Thunk

“Yesss… Mister Grampa…” Kimmi said, grinning from inside the cast shell.

Raimund nodded. “And do you know why your pulse remains faint?”

Coire and Vyset exchanged confused glances—why was the Grand Elder asking a question far too unreasonable for any child to answer.

Kimmi blinked. “Hmmm,” deep in thought. “Well, yesterday my heart was beating very fast… and now it’s still kinda fluttery. But if my pulse is weak, that means… maybe my heart’s pumping harder but with less blood? So either I’m low on volume or—ooo! Maybe there’s a hole in my heart!” she replied playfully.

Just as Kimmi finished speaking, she tilted her head from side to side—a small, habitual motion. It happened often, but deep down, she suspected it was not truly her doing. It was the Urge, quietly making itself known again.

Coire and Vyset just stared. It was actually a decent medical theory.

He raised a brow, then slowly opened a small, worn notebook bound in white leather, its pages filled with meticulous notes.

“Tell me, child,” Raimund said in a measured tone, “what stirs your heart to race so fiercely, yesterdays?”

“Anxiety…” Kimmi murmured, glancing away.

Raimund gave a gentle nod, his voice laced with quiet understanding.

“I see. It must be a heavy burden to carry.” Raimund smiled gently, jotting something down. The pen scratched quietly. Then he looked up again. “And your bones—how did they heal so quickly?”

Kimmi tilted her head. “Are you interrogating me, Mister Grampa?”

Kimmi found the Grand Elder Raimund question oddly unsettling.

“It’s just a question, child.” Raimund assure her.

“Then I dunno.” She tilts her head slightly.

“Understandable,” Raimund said softly, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at his lips. “Now then… tell me, child—have you ever heard a voice within? One that speaks not aloud, but through thought? Guiding you… whispering what you ought to do?”

Kimmi eye narrowed slightly. She poked her full head out of the cast to look him in the eye.

Inside her mind, a quiet debate stirred. Should she tell him about the eerie voices or was it safer to keep them secret, locked away where no one could judge or fear her.

“…Noooo…” she said, voice sticky-sweet and very suspicious.

“Ah, I see,” Raimund murmured, folding his arms beneath his robes, a faint smile gracing his lips. “It is not so rare, child. The faithful often hear whispers—some divine, some less so. The discernment lies in knowing which is which.”

“Is it?” Kimmi asked, suddenly curious. “And what happens to someone who doesn’t listen to those voices?”

Raimund leaned in, his crimson eyes aglow with an eerie gleam. His smile curved slowly, as if peeling back the veil of whatever secret Kimmi thought she had hidden

“Then it would be… most fascinating to observe,” he murmured, a quiet chuckle rolling off his tongue.

Kimmi stiffened.

She had seen that smile before—the one he wore when he sliced through patients with clinical joy, humming hymns under his breath and that same smile had graced his face when he cut her open.

Her throat tightened. Then, quickly, she forced a wide, innocent smile.

“I-I’m going home tomorrow… right?” she asked, voice high and hopeful.

Raimund put his small notebook back into his pocket.

“Coire,” Raimund said without turning. “It’s time to release this child from her prison.”

“As you wish, Grand Elder.” Coire turned to Vyset with a knowing look. “Healer Vyset, please retrieve the pry tool and a cutter.”

Vyset bowed, eyes wide and worried.

“Yes, High Infirmaries!”

“Wait!” Kimmi called out, her voice muffled slightly as she poked her head out of the cast like a curious turtle.

Raimund turned back with a raised brow. “What is it, child?”

“I want that!” Kimmi said, her eyes hungrily locked on the basket of sweet rolls and bread that Vyset had brought into the room.

Raimund followed her gaze, then shifted his eyes to the basket then to Vyset—who looked both startled and unamused—and finally to Coire, whose expression twisted with irritation.

“Healer Vyset,” Raimund said with calm authority, “would you be so kind as to spare the child one of your sweet rolls?”

“At your will, Grand Elder,” Vyset replied, bowing with formal grace to Raimund. But as she turned toward Kimmi, her eyes narrowed into a glare, meeting Kimmi wide, mischievous grin with silent vengeance.

Before anything more could be said, Coire stepped in sharply. “Now that this matter is resolved, return to your duties, Healer Vyset.”

With a swirl of white robes and a groan in her breath, Vyset hurried out of the room—already praying that by the time she returned, Kimmi had not managed to liberate the rest of her limbs too.

She smiles the same, but something is new, a mirror within her grew and grew.

Grand House Hall, past noon.

The Grand House Hall, once a beacon of splendour and ceremony—where nobles, lords, and even honoured lowborn guests once gathered in gilded grace—now stood as a husk of its former glory. Only the highest and most prestigious of the nobility were permitted to remain, bearing witness to the ruinous shame that had overtaken its grand halls.

The air was thick with the mingled scent of molten sand, blood, and a lingering sweetness that clung like perfume to decay. The bitter tang of shattered bottles hung beneath it, subtle and sharp. Broken glass glittered in scattered shards, catching sunlight that streamed through fractured windows and crumbling, hollow walls, casting light across the grand hall and revealing its ruin with clear clarity.

Scattered remnants of once-grand feasts lay wasted upon the marble floor, ground into the veins of the stone where crimson stains had long since dried. Yet some morsels remained untouched—bizarrely pristine, as if spared by the chaos or left behind as a silent jest, a mockery of abundance turned waste.

At the heart of this ruin, servants moved in hushed urgency. They swept the floors with ritual-like care, polished the marble until it glimmered, and unfurled a crimson fur carpet that stretched from the entrance to the throne. Yet they left a swath of the hall conspicuously untouched—not from lack of time, but by deliberate order.

No explanation was offered. None was needed. It was to be a stage.

There, amid the untouched wreckage, stood a solitary figure.

Princess Lucia—the Moon Maiden herself.

She had attempted to aid in the cleaning, quietly offering her hands as any servant might. But she had been gently denied. Instead, she was asked to stand precisely there, upon the filth-stained marble, where glass still glittered and the air still dusted with debris.

She stood still, solemn, and calm. Her face unreadable. She knew why she had been placed there. This was no mere assembly—it was a performance.

A spectacle to shame her. To break her.

Three new seats had been added beside the wooden metal throne that had been in the Grand House Hall long before the chaos. Each one grand, distinct—etched bear the resemble of the four great houses that held sway beside the crown.

And every pair of eyes turned to her.

She felt the weight of noble gazes—heavy with judgment. She sensed the suspicion in the eyes of guards and battle-weary knights, uncertain of her place among them. And then, at last, her gaze met that of her uncle—Knight Commander Russel, still clad in his full suit of armour.

Beneath his hood, his goated beard framed a warm, steady smile.

Then, with quiet dignity, he tapped his armoured chest plate three times. A signal. A code.

Stand ready. Stand proud.

Lucia straightened. Her doubts dissolved like frost beneath a rising sun. Nobility cloaked her shoulders like a mantle stitched from night skies. Her silence, sharper than the blade she carried, held firm.

Though she said nothing, all felt it—her quiet gravity, her veiled defiance, the chill of divine resolve that clung to her like winters breath.

She needed no defence, no applause.

She was the chosen of Lioris—the Moon Goddess, grace of the cold light, The God of the Lands of Curse. And in that ruined hall and amid judgment, she stood unprovoked—silent as the cold night, marked as a true gods chosen of the Moon Goddess.

A hush began to settle over the Grand House Hall as a man in a deep crimson tabard stepped forward from the shadowed entrance. With practiced grace, he raised a small brass handbell and rang it once—clear, sharp, and commanding. The metallic chime sliced through the din like a blade, bouncing off fractured marble columns and crumbling stone walls.

The nobles murmurs faltered. Silence swept through the hall like a passing storm.

“All rise for His Majesty, King Lux Julia Sheen—Sovereign of the Cursed Lands, and Crowned King of the Limelight Kingdom!”

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

“And with him, the Pillars of the Realm—Lords and Ladies of the Three Great Houses!”

The heralds voice echoed across the broken chamber, dignified and solemn, filling the cold air with ceremonial weight. The golden crest of Limelight gleamed on his chest as all eyes turned toward the grand entrance. A current of tension, expectation, and duty swept through the remaining nobles. Heads bowed—not only in reverence, but in recognition of the burden borne by those who led the cursed kingdom.

From the far end of the hall, the royal entourage began its procession, their steps steady and sure, untouched by the ruin surrounding them.

First came the aged Archmage, Lord Lammert Eigner—his flowing blond hair gleaming under the fractured light, emerald-green silk robes sweeping behind him like trailing enchantments. He bore a white staff and a matching greenish circlet upon his brow. He took his seat on the far left—upon a throne crafted with twisting motifs of silver green leaves, echoing the emblem of House Eigner. He was the overseers of magical knowledge and Master Whisper in Kingdom Court.

Beside him moved a woman of striking contrast—her silver hair cascading like moonlight, her skin pale and luminous even within the shadowed hall. She was Lady Phobe of House Selene, High Cleric of the Bright Lord Lirion, the Sun God and spiritual guide of the kingdom.

Her gown shimmered with silver threads and gold trim, trailing behind her like flowing water. Her throne, forged entirely from radiant moonsteel, glowed with a soft cerulean hue, casting her as a divine figure as she took her place.

To the far right strode a man of war—his sharp blue eyes and storm-laced hair evoking the fury of tempests. Though dressed in deceptively modest attire, a dark steel crown crowned with jagged points marked his station. He was Lord Windham Breaker Squall, the Grand Master of Limelight, famed for his unmatched skill in Sword Art of the Moon Knight.

As Master of Warfare in the royal court and head of House Squall, his presence alone demanded respect. His throne, darker and heavier than the rest, was forged of blackened metal, with a massive blue greatsword embedded as its backrest—an unspoken testament to the enduring might of House Squall.

And at the heart of them all, walking with steady, measured grace, came the final figure—Lux Julia Sheen, Lord and King of Limelight City and bearer of the Moon Goddess Mandate. Clad in gold-embroidered robes adorned with the sigil of the waxing moon.

His throne, crafted of wood and metal, stood seemly humbler than the rest—yet it was the one that mattered most. For it was older than all others, a seat worn by the weight of history and sealed by the will of the people.

Only after King Lux Julia Sheen seated himself did the other lords follow, the thrones of the Four Great Houses forming a solemn crescent around him, bearing witness beneath the decaying grandeur of the Grand House Hall. Silence swept through the chamber like a creeping wind, and it was the king who finally broke it.

“Lucia,” he said, resting his chin lazily upon three fingers, his voice half-bored, half-authoritative. “For your incompetence, I hereby strip you of all duties—save for one. You, Lucia, the so-called Moon Maiden, will serve as a Night Ranger. Not as a commander. Not as nobility. But as a volunteer on the front lines—a blade against the Shadows, fodder against the coming doom. Will you accept this task, dear sister?”

Lucia stood unmoving, the wreckage of the hall framing her like a painted icon. Her voice was calm, almost too calm. “A Night Ranger is no mere fodder, brother. They stand at the edge of sorrow, facing death so others may live. Their sacrifice deserves respect, not mockery.”

“In legend, perhaps,” Lux mused, eyes flicking to the ceiling as though searching for forgotten truths in the rafters. “But now? They’re a waste of coin. Idle guards growing fat off ration bread and watered ale. They sleep more than they serve—much like you, Lucia.” He smirked at her as if delivering a jest, but there was venom in it.

Lucia’s composure faltered. “You—!”

Lux pressed further. “Go on, tell me I’m wrong. Tell me that as long as the intent is noble, the result doesn’t matter. That’s always been your tune, hasn’t it?” He closed his eyes, lost in memories of his sister.

Then, Lucia lifted her gaze—not with anger, but with the distant clarity of someone who had already glimpsed something beyond. “The mist has shifted,” she said, voice low but resonant. “I’ve seen it—in dreams. The towers light dims. The walls will vanish in mist. Lioris has shown me—warned me. The time to prepare is now, not when it is too late.”

A murmur rippled through the noble court like wind through dry reeds. Even the lords of the Great Houses exchanged silent, wary glances.

“Well then,” Lux said, clapping his hands once in mock applause. “Perhaps your vision will stir those Night Rangers from their naps. Let it be known—Lucia shall serve. Not just serve, but lead. You will be their example, show them the oath of Night Ranger is worth something.”

Lucia looked up at her brother, her expression unreadable. “Do you not believe me, Lux?”

He paused, then leaned back in his throne, folding his arms. “What I hear is prophecy and doom—not solutions, not answered. Tell me, sister… which matters more to you? The kingdom? Or its people?”

Lucia answered without hesitation. “The people.”

“Good,” Lux replied, his voice suddenly warm and almost fatherly. “Then see to them. I’ll handle the kingdom. Just as it should be.” His smile returned, curved wide like a drawn bow. “I’m sure your noble spirit will inspire those half-sleeping Night Rangers. I truly believe it.”

“Then why strip me of all else?” Lucia asked, her tone calm again, not pleading—merely curious. “Would it not be more better if I held rank? Authority?”

Lux sighed as if weary from repeating himself. “You misunderstand. You never held duty from me. The only title you ever truly had was the one granted by our goddess. And even that—” he waved a hand dismissively “—was not mine to give or take.

He leaned back, his voice turning almost amused. “I did offer you a seat once—Advisor to the Crown, wasn’t it? A courtesy more than anything. Even now, technically, you still hold it.” His eyes narrowed, lips curling faintly. “But if we’re being honest, it was never advice I sought from you. It always seemed to work the other way around—I’d speak, and you’d pretend not to hear.”

A dry chuckle escaped from Lux. “Typical family, I suppose.”

His voice dropped, not in volume, but in weight. “The rank you claimed… it was illusion. A mask the people gave you, not a sword I placed in your hand. They needed hope. You gave it. But I never asked you to become what they wanted.”

Lucia said nothing. Whether her brothers words cut deep or barely grazed her spirit was impossible to tell. In that moment of charged stillness, she simply closed her eyes—slowly, reverently—as though listening to something far beyond the walls of the ruined hall. When they opened again, her gaze had sharpened, not with anger, but with sacred resolve.

To answer would have been to dignify her brothers irreverence, to meet mockery with mortal logic. But Lioris had spoken. And to deny a gods calling—even in silence—was to commit quiet blasphemy. So she held her tongue, not out of submission, but as an offering. Let her actions answer in ways words never could.

“I will go,” she said softly. “I will serve. I will lead the Night Rangers—and through me, Limelight shall endure what is to come. With the wisdom of Lioris as my guide, I will not fail.”

Lux grinned, as if everything had unfolded just as he planned. “As you should. Now go. The castle is no longer your home. Learn the feel of stone beneath your feet, and the cold of the barracks. Perhaps it will teach you something the Shrine and the Temple never did.”

Then, with a snap of his fingers, he turned to his commander. “Russel.”

Knight Commander Russel gave a single nod—cold, precise, and unmistakable. The message was clear.

Without a word, he strode toward Princess Lucia, flanked by two knights clad in ceremonial steel. The three stopped before her, their presence solemn but not hostile. Then, with a silent gesture, they turned and guided her toward the towering doors of the Grand House Hall. She followed, her footsteps echoing softly behind theirs.

The moment they passed beyond the threshold, a quiet shift stirred the chamber. One by one, the high nobles rose from their seats and left the hall—leaving behind only the three lords of the great houses and the ever-watchful servants.

Lux remained seated on his throne, hands resting like a crown upon his lap. Then, with a slight raise of his hand, he signalled the head maid and the Royal House Guard. The remaining servants bowed low and slipped away in silence.

Only the Royal Guard remained, stationed in solemn watch over the three great lords and the King of the Limelight Kingdom.

From beneath his iron-toned voice, Lord Windham growled, “Why are we wasting time on sentiment? We’ve bigger wounds to stitch. Like why the beasts charged our walls.” His brow furrowed. “This ain't the time for family drama.”

“I concur,” Lammert said smoothly, fingers steepled as if in thought. “Delays make shadows longer. Let’s not give them a place to hide.”

“You are not wrong, Lord Squall, Lord Lammert” Lux replied calmly, “but I had to settle matters with my sister first. Her future role affects our defence as much as any walls, shields, and wards.”

Lady Phobe, her voice as gentle as a breeze at dawn, tilted her head thoughtfully. “Still... I must confess, I found it humbling. One of Lioris chosen, judged and humbled before us—such things are rare. I would like to hear more of her transgressions, if only to understand how a path of cold light can falter.” Her tone held no venom, only a soft, almost devotional curiosity.

Lux gaze narrowed, but before he could speak, Windham cut in with a scowl. “That’s enough, Cleric.”

Lux raised a hand, silencing any further comment.

Windham grunted. “That’s dealt with. Let’s move on.”

“Very well,” Lux said, exhaling. “The mist… it’s shifted and on the move.”

The hall fell quiet, the three lords leaning in with measured anticipation.

“It’s not confirmed yet,” Lux continued, “but scouts report the mist creeping closer into our border… inching in slowly, silently, persistently—day by day.”

Lady Phobe voice broke the silence, soft and melodic, like a wind through flowery garden. “If the mist has stirred, might it not also reveal new paths? Perhaps even cursed lands unshrouded?”

“Possibly,” Lux said. “But no confirmed sightings. Lord Eigner, do your reports say otherwise?”

Lammert offered a coy smile, eyes glinting like a fox who already knew the answer. “Two reports of note, Your Majesty. First—the attack was indeed provoked by the shifting mist. Second… the Thalric Kingdom stirs. There’s movement along their border. Blockades. Quiet conscription. They’re mustering strength in secret. As we speak.”

“Hmph,” Windham muttered, narrowing his eyes. “Thalric’s licking its wounds. Still got salt in their veins from the last war. Fools, every one of them.”

“They may be fools,” Lammert said, tapping a finger to his chin, “but they are not unaided. This reek of sponsorship… a sponsor invasion… possibly from the Imperial House.”

“They’ve lost too many of their gifted to act boldly,” Lady Selene noted, each word laced with elegance and measured concern. “It would be unwise to provoke war when their wound have yet to healed.”

“Exactly,” Windham rumbled. “Which is why this movement smells off. It ain’t just lost pride—it’s dubious scheme.”

“Indeed,” Lammert said, his voice velvet over razors. “Perhaps the Empire never meant for Thalric to win. Just to bleed. A slow weakening for future acquisition.”

Lux sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Regardless of what Thalric plots, our greater threat is the mist.” Lux tried to lead the conversation.

“Naturally, Your Majesty,” Lady Phobe replied with a composed nod, her voice flowing like a hymn—gentle, measured, yet imbued with unwavering clarity.

The other lords offered nods of agreement.

“What solution do you propose, then, to meet this encroaching doom?” Lux asked, scanning their faces. “Allow me to remind you all—whenever the mist shifts, it signals the return of the Black Party. And in our history, only one land bears its full burden… Ours. The Lands of Sheen... or the Lands of Cursed, depending on who you ask.” He leaned forward, hands steepled. “I propose we reestablish the Night Rangers. Not as they are now—but as a disciplined force. Trained. Ready.”

There was a pause. Confusion flickered across the faces of the great lord.

Lammert, Lord of House Eigner, arched a brow. “Curious… Your Majesty. Just moments ago, you seemed eager to disowned them. And now you speak of reestablish?”

Lux shrugged slightly. “Yes… it may sound like contradiction, but my intent was never to tarnish them. I want them reform. The current state of the Night Rangers is... lacking.”

“They’re only paid once their duty is done,” Lord Windham grunted, arms crossed like a weathered shield. “And there hasn’t been a Black Party in over two decades—yet the Night Rangers still linger todays.” He narrowed his eyes at Lux. “Tell me, Your Majesty... is this your doing? Have you been feeding coin into their outfit?” His voice sharpened, suspicion flaring like a drawn blade. “Are you turning them into a new army division?”

“You’re not wrong,” Lux said, his voice level, deliberate. “I do intend to reform the Night Rangers—bring them to military standard, instil discipline, turn them into something worthy of the title.” He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “But you are mistaken on one point—they’re not soldiers of the kingdom, but a militia at best.”

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “Our coffers haven’t funded them in years. Their survival? It comes from the people—donations, goodwill.” His voice dropped lower, firmer. “And that kindness has been repaid with complacency.”

Lux sighed, his gaze distant as he muttered, “Our coffers are needed elsewhere now…”

Lady Phobe tilted her head gracefully. “Is that why you placed Princess Lucia among them?”

“She was already halfway to becoming one. I simply ensured she took the final step,” Lux replied, chuckling faintly as he recalled a distant memory—his sister, Princess Lucia, proudly reciting the Night Ranger oath as a child. A youthful act of defiance, perhaps, but one that now bound her to a sudden death march against the Shadows.

“But all that ceremony… was that even punishment?” Windham asked, tone sceptical.

“She’s still the chosen of Lioris, god of this land,” Lux said, spreading his hands. “Who am I to punish a divine emissary? I never said it was punishment. It’s a task—one she was made for. She’s what I need to reform the Night Rangers.”

“So this was all to set an example?” Lammert asked, voice smooth as silk. “Make her a symbol to rally the strays?”

“In tradition,” Lux said, “the Night Rangers held no true leader. Only the oath binds them. Each is to lead themselves. Each to survive death alone. But knowing Lucia… she’ll unite them, or break them trying.”

Windham scoffed, “Unite them?” he echoed. “What good is a line of Night Rangers holding hands in the dark? We draw Shadow with light, and we draw them far…”

Lammert tilted his head, intrigued. “Could it be that you plan to engage the Shadow?” A slight smirk touched his lips. “Fascinating. I always assumed survival was the goal, not glory. We've spent years developing tools to redirect the Shadow away from the cities—and anything else was considered a fool’s errand.”

Lux smile was cold and unsettling. “As you may already heard… My sister spoke of a vision… that the tower will dim. A prophecy. I wonder why...” He paused, letting the silence grow heavy. “Could be the Black Party will indeed return, and the Limelight tower fail. And maybe—on the same cursed night—the mist will shroud the walls of cities itself.”

Lux chuckled, hollow and bitter. “Madness, I know. But what if it’s true?”

Phobe voice broke the tension like sunlight through clouds—soft, measured, serene. “Then perhaps we build another tower… a new beacon, high above the cliffs, atop the Royal Castle itself.” Her silver gaze lingered on Lux. “A light that may reach the heavens, and call upon the mercy of Lirion, The Bright Lord.”

Windham growled, shaking his head. “And what then? Light a torch in our own cradle? We’ll be calling the Shadow straight into the heart of the Limelight kingdom. That’s not salvation—that’s suicide.”

Lux leaned back, fatigue settling over his features. “Then perhaps you'll have interest in something more pragmatic. Another plan of mine. One that may ensure our peoples survival.”

The hall quieted to a breathless still.

“What is it, my lord?” Phobe asked softly, hands folded at her lap.

“A great migration,” Lux said, voice low, almost mournful. “A journey to a new land… the founding of a new county. One far from Limelight. Far from the Lands of Curse.”

The silence that followed struck harder than any proclamation.

Lammert’s eyes narrowed, calculating. “So, the king would abandon his throne?”

Lux let out a dry chuckle, though no humour reached his eyes. “I would never abandon the throne—especially not one so carefully chained to my back by all of you my dear great lord...” His tone hardened. “But I will not wager every soul in Limelight on pride and wishful thinking.”

Lady Phobe serene composure wavered, her eyes narrowing. “Hope, my king, is the last thing to die or have you so quickly forgotten the words of your own goddess, Lioris?”

Lux leaned back, lost in thought, and muttered under his breath, "Hope is no different than illusions and lies..." The words slipped past his lips, too soft and silent for the great lords to hear.

The oath unspoken, yet still bound, hope walks where none are ever found.

Royal Infirmary, Room Seven. Hours passed.

Kimmi stood in silence, cloaked in a blanket far too large for her small frame. It trailed behind her like a tail, sweeping the floor as she drifted toward the only window in the room.

But the window sat far too high—cruelly just above her brow. Even on tiptoes, she only managed to meet its lower edge with her chin. Barely enough.

She glanced around the room, scanning for anything that might offer leverage.

Room Seven had been cleaned and cleared, its silence almost sterile. Only two beds remained, stationed against opposite walls, each flanked by a dust-covered bedside table. On the table beside Kimmi bed sat a half-eaten sweet roll, its edges stiff with time—a forgotten indulgence from earlier. The only real intrigue in the room came from a wooden trolley, neatly arranged with ceramic bottles in strange hues, sticky rolls of bandages, and cold, glinting tools—scissors, needles, even hooks.

Kimmi eyed the trolley with interest but refrained from touching it. It looked fragile—and she knew it would cause her plenty of trouble if anything were to happen to it. Knowing how restless the Urges could be, she was not willing to take that chance.

Instead, she padded over to her bed and tugged at the frame, half expecting it to resist. But to her surprise, it moved. For a moment, she wondered if it was her own strength—then quickly remembered she was just a child. The bed frame must have been made of light wood. With that thought, she pulled it all the way to the window.

She climbed onto the bed and placed her hands on the windowsill, spreading her arms wide as if to embrace the world beyond. A gust of wind slipped through the cracked window, tugging the blanket from her shoulders and sending it fluttering to the floor like a fallen banner.

She stood in a simple cotton chemise, the fabric clinging to her small body. Beneath it, her skin bore the map of her survival against the terror—splotches of blackened, dying skin and scars that traced her ribs, her back, her limbs.

Gruesome remnants of what she had endured.

And yet not a flicker of sadness, fear, or shame crossed her face.

She smiled.

Bright, proud, and utterly free.

“Finally… a great view,” she declared with a hand on her hip, as if she were an adventure ready for their next journey.

But her smile faded as the window revealed nothing but an alleyway. Though wide and distant, it was still just an alley—empty, lined with cobblestone paths and cold stone walls. A quiet disappointment settled over her.

Kimmi sighed softly. “At least it reminds me of home... my alleyway,” she murmured, a wistful smile touching her lips as memories of her wondrous bedroom filled with wooden statues danced in her mind.

Her gaze drifted to the windowpane, catching the shadowy reflection of her face—blurred, but unmistakably marked by a burning scar on her cheek.

She reached up, fingers tracing the uneven surface, confirming the scar harsh reality. Her eyes roamed over her arm, her fingers, her knees, her feet, and her belly—each bearing the dark marks of pain.

“Oh, my… what will Cane think of me now? Oh mother, spare your tears—they’re wasted on me… for this is the path I’ve been drawn, curse to obey,” Kimmi whispered weirdly, her voice layered with quiet mystery and sorrow deep in her eyes.

Suddenly, something snapped within her—as if another person had taken hold.

“Oh no! This is bad… Mother’s going to be furious! But it’s not my fault…” She glared fiercely at the shadowed reflection. “It’s your fault,” she growled through gritted teeth, the anger surging with no clear cause.

“Listen, Kimmi! Calm yourself… there’s nothing to fear,” she told herself, curling up on the bed with her knees and feet drawn together, arms wrapped tight as she began to sway gently from side to side, eyes squeezed shut.

Her mind churned with desperate thoughts—flashes of images she could not fully understand, yet some were familiar.

The Limelight Garden, the wooden statues in her room, the basement of her home.

“Do you want to go there, Kimmi…? To the basement? The blue hue star—the wondrous night sky of our own… One more day… one more… and we will venture together.” she whispered repeatedly, a small smile breaking through her face.

The restless urges softened, the madness began to ease.

With that question, her mind settled, and her body no longer twitched.

Kimmi slowly uncurled from her self-embrace, letting go of her legs before shifting into a cross-legged position on the bed. Her gaze grew distant, lost in silent contemplation, as if she were still listening to echoes no one else could hear.

“I almost lost myself…” she murmured with a weary sigh.

Critical

The word echoed in her skull—sharp, eerie, and far too familiar.

“Oh, not you again,” she groaned, addressing the disembodied voice only she could hear. “Voices in my head, always so cryptic. Yesterday, you spoke in riddles—nearly gave me a heart attack with that poetic nonsense. What is it you’re trying to tell me?”

She paused, puffing out her cheeks and resting her chin in her hand, trying to push away her frustration.

“You helped me, I know that. And I’m grateful, truly. But don’t expect me to go diving any deeper into madness.”

With that, she flopped backward onto the bed, arms and legs stretched wide. Then, with little though, she began to slide her limbs across the sheets, brushing the fabric up and down in a deliberate pattern—leaving behind the imprint of an angel.

Unbeknownst to her, the thoughtless act had aggravated her healing wounds. The movement reopened the fragile scabs on her back and arms. Though not life-threatening, crimson threads began to stain the white sheets, proof that even silly tendency came with a price.

And yet, she remained unaware.

Kimmi whispered to the ceiling, “Could I ask you a favour…?”

She waited. Nothing.

“Could you… maybe heal me? Just enough to make me look a bit more presentable when I see Cane again… my mother?”

Silence.

She huffed. “I mean, glowing eyes and sand tricks are great and all, but I’d rather not let her see me like this… I don’t want to terrify her.” A slight sadness crossed her eyes.

Still nothing.

“Fine, be that way,” she grumbled.

She sat up, squinting at her fingers as she tried to recall the magical command from the courtyard.

“Sand prinkle?” she muttered, pointing aimlessly. “No, that’s not it… oh, right—the Art thing.”

This time, with theatrical flair, she lifted her arm toward the open window and declared, “Art of Trickery—Sand Dust!”

No dust was conjured, not even a tiny mote of dust.

She blinked, then shrugged. “Huh. Guess that was a one-time thing…” she muttered, half to herself.

Kimmi chuckled to herself and collapsed back onto the bed, arms splayed. The ceiling stared back at her, indifferent.

“Maybe the divine only comes during life-or-death moments,” she murmured. “Fair enough. I guess I’m not that special after all.”

A mock sniffle escaped her lips. “I’m not cool anymore… uhuhuhu,” she fake-cried dramatically.

With a soft breath, she raised her right arm and examined it closely—her fingers dry and rough, skin flaking in crooked patches, and a thin line of red blood trickling down from her hand to her forearm.

Then, a voice echoed in Kimmi mind.

Flair of Mender—First Aid.

Her eyes snapped wide open, startled awake by the mysterious words.

“Uuuuh, what?” Kimmi barely registered the voice at first, but the phrase First Aid caught her full attention.

She climbed atop her bed, determination flickering in her eyes.

“Ffflaair of Menndee… er… First Aid?” she repeated hesitantly, hoping to get it right.

Unavailable

The voice replied coldly.

“Unavailable?!” Kimmi exclaimed, shocked.

“Then why even tell me that?” she muttered, confused and disappointed.

But she refused to give up.

“Flair of Mender—First Aid!” she tried again, this time with perfect pronunciation.

Unavailable.

“Oh, sure,” she scoffed. “How about now! Flair of Mender—First Aid!” she shouted.

Suddenly, her hand moved on its own. In one swift motion, she tore the sleeve of her chemise and wrapped the cotton fabric tightly around her wounded hand.

“No! These aren’t our clothes, Kimmi! They belong to the Infirmary…” she muttered, scolding the sudden, uncontrollable movement of her arm.

Just as Kimmi was about to unwrap the torn fabric from her hand, she noticed the cloth had already darkened with red.

“Did the wound open again?” Kimmi glanced anxiously at her hand. Then her eyes caught the smudge of blood on the bedsheet—faint, but undeniable.

“So this is why you tore our clothes?” she muttered, staring at her ruined chemise. “Couldn’t you have just redirected me to the problem first… so I could assess it properly?”

With a sigh, Kimmi climbed down from the bed and shuffled over to the trolley nearby. She rifled through it, searching for something to replace the torn cloth and cover the new wound.

Her fingers closed around a sticky roll of bandage.

Pulling it free, she began wrapping her hand carefully. When she finished, she realized the roll was still too long—and she had nothing to cut it with. There might have been tools in the trolley, but instead of searching, Kimmi simply kept rolling the bandage up her arm and over her shoulder.

She stepped back, eyeing her handiwork with a satisfied grin.

“Not bad... I think I’m pretty good at this,” Kimmi said proudly.

After a long pause staring at the makeshift bandage, she whispered softly, “Flair of Mender—First Aid.”

Suddenly, warmth blossomed in her hand. A thin black smoke began to seep out from beneath the bandage, curling in the stale air. The room was quickly filled with a foul, acrid smell that made Kimmi wrinkle her nose.

Kimmi mind raced as she quickly yanked the bandage away, heart pounding with fear. What if she had wrapped her arm in something that only looked like bandages but was actually corrosive. Maybe some fabric soaked in acid—causing her flesh to burn and smoke.

As the bandage fell away, she stared in horror at her entire right arm, now charcoal black.

Panic surged through her.

“I need to hide this… or Viivii will go berserk,” she muttered anxiously.

Just as she was about to cover the darkened arm with her blanket on the floor, her eyes caught something—a crack in the charred surface. She froze, afraid the fissure might spread if she moved her arm. But leaning closer, she saw beneath the cracked shell a patch of white skin.

At first, Kimmi thought it might be fat—but it was not moist, fluffy, or painful. It was soft, unnervingly soft.

Tentatively, she brushed at the crack, and slowly, piece by piece, the charcoal shell flaked away from her arm.

“Oh, great Divine… your gift is wondrous, so artful, so alluring,” Kimmi whispered, voice tinged with melancholy, almost without realizing the meaning of her words. “And mine… mine was just an imitation of your greatest ingenuity.”

There, revealed beneath the fallen shell, was her arm—soft, pale, and flawless, as if she had just been born anew. No scars, no burns, no stitches—only the miraculous work of a The Great Mender.

Kimmi raised an eyebrow, bewildered. “What did I just say?”

But her attention quickly snapped back to her right arm.

In the end, it did not matter what she said. What mattered was that her arm—burned, battered, and broken—was now completely, miraculously healed.

Kimmi lips trembled as a soft sob escaped her, fragile and uncertain. Then another followed, and another—until the sobs swelled into a flood of quiet weeping. Relief washed over her, so overwhelming it left her trembling. She could go home. She could face her mother without shame, without fear, without wounds and proved of her madness.

And then it hit her all at once.

A wild, breathless laugh burst from her throat, unbidden. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle it—but it kept coming. Manic, hiccupping giggles spilled through her fingers, too powerful to contain. Her shoulders shook. Her eyes stung. The joy was too raw, too absurd, too real.

She yanked her blanket from the bed and threw it over herself like a cloak of secrecy. Then, in a fit of childish impulse, she slid beneath the infirmary bed and curled up tight—giggling like a lunatic in the shadows, muffling her glee with the blanket and pressing her face into the floor.

She laughed where once she might’ve prayed, where whispered faith had once decayed.