Chapter 13 : The Star, The Moon, and The Truth

Picture the face of the one you hate most. Stare at it. Etch every cruel line, every false smile into your mind. Now—replay the worst thing they ever did to you. Again. And again. Not to numb the pain... But to sharpen it. To turn that ache into focus.

That’s how Maggie practiced her aim.

She had found temporary shelter within the grand estate of one of Amorette’s wealthiest noble houses—an opulent prison of velvet drapes and gold trim. But outside, beyond the rose-lined walkways and fountains, lay a wide, secluded stretch of green. The manor’s back garden, sprawling and silent, was perfect. There, near the lily-laced pond, stood five old stone markers—decorative, altar-like, carved centuries ago.

To Maggie, they would serve a higher purpose.

She placed a crystal wine glass atop each one, delicate and gleaming in the sunlight. The finest glassware from the lord’s dining hall, now repurposed for something far more sacred.

She stepped back, her boots sinking gently into the soft grass, stopping only once she felt the distance was just right.

Her fingers coiled tightly around the cold, reinforced frame of her long-ranged rifle—metal-barreled and mechanical, a fine blend of modern engineering and old-world craftsmanship.

She inhaled slowly. A stillness took her. A name left her lips like a curse.

“Edwyn.”

Crack.

A flash. A burst. The glass shattered, spraying into the air like stardust.

“Frederica.” Another shot. Another glass reduced to glittering shards. Each shattered after a name that escaped her mouth “Annalise.” , shoot, “Beathrish”, shoot.

And then—she took a deep breath. The final name caught in her throat like a thorn. Her knuckles whitened around the rifle.

“…Father.”

She pulled the trigger.

The last glass exploded.

Silence returned to the garden. Five names. Five clean shots. Five clean kills. The broken glass lay scattered like confessions on the lawn. Her breath left her body in a slow exhale—steady, cold, and hollow.

Another perfect round. Another therapy to calm the mind.

Another quiet reassurance... that her aim, and her rage, were both intact and improving.

She didn’t need to turn to know someone was watching her.

"Are you just going to stand there and stare,” Maggie called out without shifting her aim, “or are you actually going to speak like a normal person?"

A beat of silence passed, followed by a sheepish chuckle.

She recognized that voice. And the mop of unruly white hair sealed it.

“It’s nice to see you awake,” she said, lowering her weapon slightly. “Can’t say the same about your outfit, though.”

Elliot stepped out from behind the garden’s marble archway, one hand behind his head, scratching at his tangled hair. “Ahaha… yeah, the fire guy—uh, Roderick—said running around with uncovered torso was, uh… indecent. Told me to wear something.”

Maggie raised a brow, her eyes glancing over his appearance—an oversized high-collared nobleman’s coat slung over one shoulder, its golden buttons undone and one sleeve still hanging loose, as if halfway donned. The sash was tied awkwardly at his hip like a belt, and his trousers, though tailored, looked like they were threatening to trip him any moment.

“That’s the best you could come up with?” she asked, unimpressed.

Elliot gave a crooked grin, tugging at the coat as if trying to make it sit right. “Hey, all I found in that closet were stiff jackets, lacey shirts, and pants that feel like they’re made of parchment. I had no idea how to wear half of it.”

“You look like a royal who got dressed during an earthquake,” Maggie muttered.

Elliot’s grin widened, not entirely sure if that was an insult or a compliment. “Then I guess I’m fitting right in.”

She shook her head faintly, then turned and made her way to the edge of the garden where her giant canvas backpack lay slouched like a sleeping beast beside the hedge. From within its depths, Maggie pulled out a folded black shirt, a crisp pair of white trousers, and a matching white leather jacket. Without a word, she walked back and offered them to Elliot.

“I’m pretty sure these will suit you better,” she said flatly, holding the garments out.

Elliot blinked, genuinely caught off guard. “You? Giving me clothes?” His hand hovered above the bundle but didn’t take it yet. “Alright, be honest… how much does this add to my already enormous debt to you?” His tone was light, but his eyes searched hers for the answer.

Maggie exhaled, her face calm as ever—stoic, almost detached—but there was sincerity in the way her shoulders eased. “Ah yes, the debt. The small matter of… destroying my shop.”

“Y-Yes,” Elliot winced, eyes dropping a little. That shop had gone up in flames far too quickly.

“Let’s just say,” she said, adjusting the bundle in her hands, “your debt has been nullified.”

“I’m sorry, nul—what now?”

“Consider it forgiven. Saving my life doesn’t come cheap. So letting go of a few broken shelves and burnt curtains is the least I can do to even the scales.”

Elliot stared at her, brows raised. Beneath the hardened shell, beneath the tough tone and survival-hardened grimace, there was something else—something kinder. He never would have guessed, when they'd first met in the chaos and fire, that she was capable of warmth. That she might actually be… decent.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Don’t mention it,” she muttered, already turning away.

She headed back to the pedestals to prepare another round of her unspoken ritual—five fresh wine glasses clinked softly in her hands as she moved with the precision of someone who needed this repetition, needed it like air.

Before she could begin, Elliot stepped in front of her, hand outstretched awkwardly but with earnest intent. “Um… we haven’t actually introduced ourselves properly. My name’s Elliot Hargrove. I’m from—Stonegard.”

Maggie paused, brow arched as she looked him over.

“Nice to meet you… White Hair.” She took his hand, her grip firm and brief. “Maggie.”

“Just… Maggie?”

“Yes,” she said, her tone suddenly lighter, though tinged with something bitter beneath. “We Rutterslide residents don’t exactly get the luxury of surnames.”

She turned back to the stone pedestals before he could reply, placing the first glass down with a soft clink—like the ringing of a memory not yet laid to rest.

“I see…” Elliot said, watching her with a cautious sort of awe. “You’ve got a pretty solid handle on that thing—whatever it is.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow. “My rifle?”

“Ah, so that’s what it’s called,” he replied, chuckling sheepishly. “Sorry if I sound ignorant—I’m from Stonegard. Catching up with all these new terms… it’s been a bit overwhelming.”

She gave a small nod, not unkindly. “Can’t fault you for that. To be honest, even here in Amorette, these haven’t exactly become mainstream.”

She walked back to the patch of grass where she’d set the weapon down and picked it up again, running her hand along the metal barrel with a reverent touch.

“This isn’t just a weapon,” she said, almost more to herself than to him. “It’s a symbol. Progress, adaptation... a doorway to a new era of crafted precision. A testament to what can be built when magic isn’t an option.”

Elliot tried to follow, but most of her words swirled past him like wind through stone corridors. He kept his expression neutral—respectful—even if, internally, he was struggling to connect the dots.

“It gives us a chance,” she continued, holding the rifle like a sacred tool. “A chance for those who were born without animus—to fight, to stand their ground. Who knows? Maybe a thousand years from now, people like us will be able to call themselves adventurines too. Not because of bloodlines or magical gifts, but because of what we build.”

“Right. Yes. Very inspiring,” Elliot said, nodding solemnly.

“Youre not getting im saying, didn’t you?” Maggie said bluntly.

“Not a clue” said right away.

“Anyway, uh—Maggie—Roderick told me to meet him in the... what was it called again…” He snapped his fingers, eyes squinting toward the sky in thought. “Ah! The study. Yes. Been trying to find it, but I’ve ended up in more broom closets than I care to admit.”

Maggie gave him a look somewhere between amusement and pity. She slung the rifle over her shoulder.

“Come on, White Hair. I’ll show you the way before you get yourself locked in the pantry.”

*****

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The two walked side by side, their footsteps echoing softly through the endless corridors of Barrenworth Manor. Ornate chandeliers dangled above, their flickering candles casting a golden sheen along the polished wooden floors and stone archways. As they passed velvet-draped windows and dustless portrait frames, Maggie found herself glancing—not once, but several times—at the man beside her.

It was the outfit, partially. The black shirt clung comfortably to his lean frame, the white jacket sharp against it, and the fitted pants completing the ensemble with a sleek edge. A far cry from the cloaked, half-delirious vagabond she’d first laid eyes on, drenched in sweat and shadows. Now, under proper light and clean linen, he looked… undeniably appealing.

But it wasn’t just the clothes.

His eyes were striking—unnaturally vivid. Blue, yes, but not just blue. Like polished crystal under the sun. Cerulean, perhaps? If that was even the right word. Clear, bright, yet sharp. The kind of eyes that made you forget what you were saying.

“Um… yes?” Elliot's voice snapped her from her thoughts. He’d caught her staring.

She didn’t flinch. Her tone was plain, her face unreadable. “Your eyes. They’re… really pretty. Has anyone told you that before?”

Elliot blinked, startled. “My—My eyes?”

“Forget it,” she replied briskly, brushing it off like lint from her coat. “Any particular reason why Roderick wanted to see you?”

“Oh. Right,” Elliot said, still visibly off balance from her bluntness. “Well, the moment I woke up, I sort of hit him with a storm of questions. He said he’d explain everything in the study.”

Maggie squinted slightly. “Why him? You already found me. Why not ask me?”

“Uh…” Elliot scratched his temple, offering his signature no-thought-involved grin. “Didn’t think of that, honestly. But, since we’re here—how did we get away from that undead orc? Did we beat it? And where’s Serena?”

Maggie froze mid-step.

Her gaze shifted away, down the hallway’s long stretch, where light met shadow. Then came a breath, slow and weighted.

“You know what? You’re right. I think Roderick should tell you. I’m… not the best at delivering a delicate information.”

Elliot narrowed his eyes. “Wait, what’s that supposed to mean?”

But Maggie was already picking up pace. “Anyway, here we are. This is the study.”

They stood before a tall double door of dark mahogany, carved with aged vines and silent watchers. Maggie’s voice suddenly sped up, almost comically fast. “Since he’s the one who summoned you, I assume he wants to speak with you alone. So, yeah. Good luck. Bye.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and bolted—graceful as ever, but unmistakably fleeing.

“Wait—what? Maggie?” Elliot called after her, reaching out.

Too late. She vanished around the corner, her footsteps quickly swallowed by the manor’s quiet.

Elliot’s hand hovered over the iron handle of the heavy door, Maggie’s final words echoing in his mind like a stubborn bell.

There was something in her tone. Not cold. Not detached. Just… careful. Too careful. Is something wrong with Serena? The thought lodged itself like a thorn in his chest. He shook his head, as if he could physically cast it out and let it dissolve into the quiet air around him. No. He wouldn’t jump to conclusions. Not yet.

A long breath. Another. Then, he turned the handle.

The study opened into a spacious, dim-lit chamber adorned with towering bookshelves and walls cluttered with scrolls, charts, and ancient weaponry. A fire crackled low in the hearth. Seated on a sprawling leather couch with the grace of a man who owned the floor beneath him was Roderick Barrenworth, looking only slightly less brooding than usual. And across from him, elegant and composed, sat a woman in a tailored black dress—sharp eyes, fairly braided hair, and an expression like carved marble.

Elliot recognized her instantly.

“Ah, White Hair,” Roderick drawled, not bothering to rise. “You made it. Come in. Sit. Or lie on the floor for all I care.”

“Huh?” Elliot blinked, confused by the lack of hospitality. His gaze flicked to the woman, so poised and serious—how could Roderick act so indecent in front of someone like her?

Roderick gestured lazily. “Just get in here. I want you to hear it all. Directly from her.”

“Hear what?” Elliot stepped inside slowly. “I… I beg your pardon?”

Roderick let out a mocking chuckle. “No need to force the pleasantries. She’s not a noble, nor a highborn—she just carries herself like one.”

The woman’s lips curled into a cold, refined smile. “Well, someone here has to maintain standards, don’t you think?”

Roderick raised his teacup in mock salute. “Ah, forgive me—how rude of me not to introduce you two. Allow me.” He cleared his throat with dramatic flair. “Elliot Hargrove, meet the esteemed, the legendary, the impossible-to-impress Gold-Rank Adventurine… and instructor at one of the realm’s most prestigious academies: Professor Cassandra Willthrop.”

Elliot’s eyes widened as if struck by lightning. “Willthrop?” His voice caught, then burst out in recognition. “By the Light—you’re Serena’s mentor?!”

Something in Cassandra’s posture twitched—barely noticeable—but her smile remained immaculate. “Ah… so you do know that troublesome little miracle?”

“Oh, this is going to be good,” Roderick muttered under his breath, casually snatching the wine-filled teapot from Cassandra’s side, as if he felt she should handle this particular conversation sober.

Elliot stepped forward with a kind of awe. “Serena idolizes you. You’re her hero. In the short time I knew her, she wouldn’t stop talking about you. How strong you are. How brilliant. She admires you so much.”

Cassandra glanced sideways at Roderick, who was now smirking like a man who’d tossed a lit match into dry grass. She returned her attention to Elliot, extending a gloved hand with elegant grace.

“So, you must be the young man who saved her during that tavern incident,” she said softly. “Strong. Skilled. And quite handsome, I must say. You are… an intriguing one, aren’t you?”

Elliot flushed, caught entirely off guard. “Eheh… Thank you, ma’am.”

“All right,” Roderick said sharply, cutting through the warm haze of introductions like a blade. “Enough with the pleasantries. Elliot—you came here seeking answers, didn’t you?”

His tone was firm, each word weighted with authority. His eyes, hard as flint, locked onto Elliot’s.

“Then ask. Now’s your chance.”

“W-What?” Elliot blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

“Isn’t it eating at you?” Roderick continued, leaning forward slightly. “How did we survive? How did any of us walk away from a creature born of forbidden sorcery—a monster forged from black magic that should have killed us all?”

“Yes, of course I want to know—” Elliot began, but the older man didn’t let him finish.

“It was Serena,” Roderick said bluntly. “She destroyed the beast. On her own. Summoned a high-tier purification incantation—something far beyond her years. She channeled six caelis cores in unison, invoked lost tongues of the old world, and wielded an elemental affinity so rare… no one has seen its like in over a thousand years.”

He turned his head to Cassandra with a pointed glance. “Am I leaving anything out, Professor?”

It was less a question than an unspoken challenge—he was handing the torch to her, and she knew it.

“Yes,” Cassandra said slowly, exhaling as if the truth itself was heavy in her chest.

“Then go on,” Roderick pressed. “Tell him what you told me. He deserves to know the truth.”

Cassandra’s posture shifted. She sank slightly into her chair, no longer trying to maintain the mask of decorum. Her expression darkened, her voice turning flat and serious.

“It’s called the Breath of the Stars,” she said. “Or in older texts, the Light of Asters. An elemental force older than most recorded histories. It was once wielded by rulers of a bygone age—an affinity thought to be lost when their line vanished from the world.”

Elliot’s brow furrowed. “The Light of Asters…?”

Roderick didn’t look away from Cassandra. “And how,” he asked, his voice cutting like wind through glass, “did Serena come to wield such a forgotten power?”

He already knew the answer. But he wanted her to say it. For Elliot’s sake.

Cassandra fell silent, her expression a mask of composure—cracking ever so slightly around the edges. A lingering shadow of shame crept into her eyes.

Then she spoke, her voice low and deliberate.

“Because… Serena is not human.”

Elliot’s heart dropped like a stone hurled into the abyss.

He opened his mouth, but no words came. Confusion, dread, denial—none could rise fast enough to form speech. But Cassandra, seeing the look on his face, pressed on, determined to rip the bandage clean.

“Five years ago, something descended from the heavens. A star—or what we believed to be one—fell from the sky and struck the heart of Orias Academy’s courtyard. From the crater emerged a girl… a child cloaked in radiant energy, radiating more animus than we’d ever recorded in a living being. She had no memory of who she was, or where she came from. Not even a name.”

Cassandra’s eyes locked with Elliot’s.

“That girl… was Serena.”

Elliot reeled back a step. “N-No,” he stammered, almost pleading. “That’s not right. Serena… she’s from Alteria. Her mother used to bake her oukan pie—it was her favorite. She told me she loved butterflies because they were beautiful, because they were… free. She—she laughed. She cried. She lived—”

Cassandra lifted her hand. “Those things are true… and also not.”

“What?” Elliot breathed, his voice breaking under the weight of disbelief.

“She lived those memories because we gave them to her,” Cassandra admitted. “A being with power like hers—untethered and without knowledge of herself—is a danger to the world. And to herself. We didn’t know what she was or why she had come, only that she possessed an animus so immense, it bent the laws of what we thought possible.”

Her voice dimmed, regret seeping into every syllable.

“So… we gave her purpose. We shaped her into something we could understand. Something… controllable.”

Elliot’s face twisted with growing horror. “What do you mean shaped? What did you do to her?”

“She was implanted with memories,” Roderick said, voice like gravel. “False ones. Manufactured identities. Family. Home. A favorite pie. All of it. Fabricated to make her believe she belonged.”

Cassandra nodded grimly. “We summoned an imperial scholar from the distant Araxes Kingdom—one trained in high-level mindcraft. Through their expertise, Serena was given a past. A story. Something that would ground her, allow her to live among us… without suspicion. Without questions.”

Elliot staggered back. His knees buckled slightly, and he gripped the edge of a nearby table to stay upright. His breath grew shallow.

“All this time…” he murmured. “She never knew.”

“That’s why her animus is so wild,” Roderick added, stepping in to explain. “It’s not cursed. It’s too vast. Her body can’t regulate it the way a normal person’s can. Every time she casts, the flow overwhelms the medium. The chanting ring can’t process the surge, so her spells either misfire… or collapse completely.”

“She was never broken,” Cassandra whispered. “She was simply… too much.”

Elliot’s gaze turned distant, pain rising in his chest like fire.

Everything he thought he knew—Serena’s laughter, her stories, her struggles—all of it was now cast under a harsh new light. And though he wanted to deny it, deep down, a terrible part of him already knew something had never quite added up.

“All this time…” Elliot’s voice trembled, low but rising like a storm cresting on the horizon. “She thought there was something wrong with her. That she was broken. That she didn’t belong.”

He took a step forward, eyes locked with Cassandra’s, sharp with fury and sorrow.

“But she wasn’t broken. She was more than fine—she was extraordinary. She isn’t the problem…”

His voice cracked with bitterness. “You are. You crippled her.”

A heavy silence followed. Cassandra flinched, but only slightly—just enough for guilt to flicker across her otherwise impassive face.

“She deserves to know,” Elliot pressed, fire building in his chest. “She needs to hear the truth. To understand that there’s nothing wrong with her.”

Cassandra’s gaze turned colder, sharper. “There never was a Serena,” she snapped. “Not truly. The girl you knew—she’s a collection of manufactured moments, a patchwork of illusions sewn into a soul. She’s not real, young Hargrove.”

“You’re wrong,” Elliot growled. “She is real. I’ve seen her smile. I’ve seen her cry. I’ve watched her fight to understand a world that didn’t make sense. Those memories, those feelings—they may have been planted, but what grew from them was hers.”

His voice rose without him meaning to. “She’s not an illusion—she’s a person!”

“Oh, what could you possibly know?” Cassandra’s composure fractured, her tone edged with frustration. “You knew her for less than a day.”

“And that one day was enough to know that she matters,” Elliot shot back. “And if those lies are all she’s known… then those lies are as real as the air she breathes!”

He turned sharply to Roderick, rage and urgency boiling together. “Where is she?” he demanded, grabbing the man by the collar. “Where’s Serena?!”

Roderick didn’t respond right away. His eyes shifted briefly toward Cassandra, gauging the storm she was barely containing. Then, with a long breath, he met Elliot’s eyes.

“There’s a healing chamber beneath the grand staircase,” he said plainly. “You’ll find a hidden entrance behind the portrait of my father. It’s concealed, but not locked.”

Elliot held his glare for a second longer before releasing Roderick’s tunic, smoothing it down instinctively.

“…Thank you,” he muttered, turning for the door.

Then he paused.

“And… sorry. For pulling your shirt.”

Roderick waved a hand dismissively, already reaching for the wine pot again. Cassandra, however, said nothing. Her face was stone—but her silence carried the weight of a woman who knew her own sins far too well.

Elliot cast her one last look—half disappointment, half disbelief—then disappeared into the corridor, his footsteps fading like thunder echoing through the halls of Barrenworth Manor.

Cassandra shot Roderick a withering glare, her lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re enjoying this… aren’t you?”

Roderick swirled the last dregs of wine in his goblet, then drank them down with a satisfied sigh. The firelight glinted off his amused eyes as he leaned back lazily in his chair.

“I told you before,” he said with a lopsided grin. “You are one wicked woman, Cassie.”

Her nostrils flared. “Don’t call me that.”