Chapter 19: Reaching For the Star

The first blow was struck—a burst of searing heat that rang out like a war-drum. The silent standoff shattered. The battle had begun.

It was Roderick Barrenworth who made the opening move. With no need for incantations to wield his elemental might, he seized the moment. A sharp exhale from between his teeth ignited a stream of fire, a cascading torrent of flame roaring straight toward his opponent.

Sir Gideon did not flinch.

Planting his feet, the Lion in Shining Armor raised his greatsword and drove it into the earth before him. The torrent of fire split upon its gleaming edge like a river crashing against stone, the flames surging around him but never touching skin or steel. The air shimmered with the heat, but Gideon stood untouched—a pillar of defiance amidst the inferno.

As the flames subsided, a new light began to rise.

From the hilt of his sword, a golden radiance began to swell—slowly at first, then building, pulsing like a living thing. The metal of the blade drank in the aura, then began to glow with blinding intensity.

He lifted the weapon.

“Plead the Lord and our Saviour,” Gideon intoned, his voice low and thunderous, laced with divine authority. “Bear witness the destined light—Lumos Gram Lubière!”

With a sound like shattering glass and roaring wind, the light covering the blade crystallized—solidifying into a radiant edge that extended beyond the sword’s natural length. A luminous greatblade, thick with divine animus, now stretched several feet beyond its hilt, gleaming like a shard of holy sunlight.

Gideon thrust the weapon forward.

The beam of light lashed out, slicing toward Roderick with incredible speed, the force of it enough to rattle the manor’s foundations. But the pyromancer was quicker. With a sharp pivot and a low sway to the left, Roderick dodged the blow by a breath.

The arc of light carved through empty air and smashed into the grand oak doors of the Barrenworth estate.

The entire entrance exploded into splinters and dust, blown inward in a thunderous blast that sent fragments raining across the marble floors.

Roderick rose from his dodge, his cloak trailing smoke, his eyes glinting with challenge.

On the other side of the manor grounds, a different storm was brewing.

Cassandra Willthrop stood her ground with the poise of a seasoned battlecaster, her violet fur-lined coat billowing in the wind, her gloved fingers weaving ancient sigils through the air. Around her, a cluster of orbs hovered—each one cloaked in ethereal purple flame, humming with arcane energy. They spun in measured orbit, like a constellation of deadly stars.

“As sly as the night, and silent as the grave,” she chanted, her voice low and resonant, “may the hollow orbs serve me—Zeldrik Rashan!”

With a flick of her finger, the orbs shot forward like arrows loosed from an unseen bow. Each one streaked through the air, trailing wisps of violet fire. Upon impact, they erupted in bursts of dark magic—more flash than flame, releasing clouds of dense, shadowy smoke as they struck the shield wall of the Pride Rock knights.

The battalion raised their polished shields in unison, disciplined to their core, bracing against the assault. The explosions did little to their physical form—their enchanted armor holding steady—but Cassandra’s objective had never been mere injury.

It was what came after that mattered.

“Mr. Butler,” Cassandra said coolly, not even turning her gaze. “If you’d be so kind…”

Ronald gave a quick, respectful bow of the head, then vanished into the settling smoke like a phantom. The cloud had begun to spread across the courtyard like a creeping fog, and within it, a trap had already been sprung.

The paralytic effect was subtle at first—a tingling in the limbs, a tightening of joints—but it spread rapidly through the bloodstream. A few knights wavered, their swords lowering involuntarily, shields dipping as their muscles betrayed them. Cassandra had imbued her orbs with more than a single affinity: velocity, explosive force, dark miasma… and the numbing kiss of paralysis. A five-core caelus construct, deployed with the ease of a veteran prodigy.

Ronald waded into the confusion with cold efficiency.

Steel flashed.

His blade found the gaps in their armor—joints, necklines, underarms. A flurry of slashes left several of the elite knights staggering or falling. But even amidst the chaos, the Pride Rock proved their reputation was not just for show. Some among them resisted the toxin quickly—catching on that the smoke itself was the danger. Holding their breath, they shook free of the spell’s effects with sheer willpower and honed discipline.

Seeing their formation recover, Ronald spun away and withdrew from the melee, returning to Cassandra’s side with the swiftness of a man unburdened by hesitation.

“They broke the paralysis faster than expected, My Lady,” he noted, sheathing his blade with a clean motion. “Perhaps the dosage needs increasing?”

Cassandra didn’t flinch. Her eyes narrowed like a hawk’s, scanning the field. “There’s nothing wrong with the spell,” she said, voice razor-sharp. “The moment they tasted poison in the air, they ceased breathing entirely. A quick read of the wind and a hold of breath. Smart.”

“Hah,” Ronald smirked, brushing soot from his sleeve. “As expected from the elite Pride Rock. A shame, really—I was starting to enjoy myself.”

She arched an eyebrow at him. “Then stop talking and be ready. That was only the opening act.”

Back in the heart of the shattered courtyard, the duel had escalated into a true clash of titans.

Roderick Barrenworth pressed forward, now wielding his signature weapon—a blazing trident forged from solidified flame, burning so hot the air shimmered around its edges. He moved with surprising speed for his size, unleashing blow after blow in a relentless flurry, driving the trident toward Sir Gideon with an aggression sharpened by purpose.

But the Lion of the West stood firm.

Gideon’s greatsword, easily the length of a man and twice as broad, moved with eerie fluidity—almost weightless in his hands. Despite its size, he deflected each strike with precision, sparks dancing from every clash of steel and fire. His expression never shifted; focused, unreadable. The sheer control in his movements revealed the truth behind his legend—this was no brute force warrior, but a master of his craft.

Then Gideon saw it—a faltering in Roderick’s momentum, the smallest lapse.

With a burst of speed, he turned the tide. His greatsword surged forward, slicing in a brutal counteroffensive. The first strike shattered the flaming trident down its middle with a resonant crack. The second cleaved across Roderick’s chest, carving a fresh wound, blood splattering the stone beneath them.

Roderick staggered back, teeth clenched against the pain, widening the distance between them. His breath came heavy, fire still curling from his lips.

“You’re bleeding, my Lord,” Gideon said coolly, confidence dripping from every syllable.

Roderick smirked through the pain. “And you, my gallant knight... are bathed in flame.”

He snapped his fingers.

At the Lion’s feet, the broken remnants of the trident—left behind during the retreat—flared ominously for a single heartbeat before erupting.

KABOOM!

The explosion surged upward, a violent inferno engulfing the courtyard. Gideon vanished within the firestorm, swallowed whole by Roderick’s calculated trap. Flames roared high into the air, licking the walls of the manor, as Roderick stepped forward, drawing in a deep breath—and exhaled.

A stream of searing flame burst from his mouth, feeding the blaze, fanning it into an even greater fury.

And then…

“Leonora Domas…” came the low chant, calm, almost reverent—sung beneath the roar of fire.

With a thunderous stomp, Gideon slammed the point of his sword into the ground.

A radiant wave of animus surged outward, like a divine shockwave. The flames parted instantly, extinguished as if snuffed by celestial wind. The force of the wave slammed into Roderick, sending him skidding backward across the scorched ground.

It was stronger than before—more refined, more wrathful. This wasn’t just a defense. It was a warning.

From the heart of the smoke, Gideon stepped forth, untouched, silver armor gleaming beneath the last flickers of dying flame. His mane-draped helm seemed almost to glow, and in that moment, it became clear:

The Lion was far from finished.

The Lion advanced with terrifying purpose.

Gideon’s massive blade cleaved through the air in wide, punishing arcs, each swing coming down like a guillotine. Roderick danced back, evading by the slimmest margins, but the strain was beginning to show. His breath grew heavier, movements slower, the fire in his veins burning just a bit dimmer. One misstep—just one—and he would be cut down.

And then—

“Zeldrik Bevaria.”

The incantation came swift and sharp from behind. From the center of Cassandra’s conjured ring—etched in whirling violet glyphs—erupted a lance of crackling dark energy, tinged in violet and void. It tore across the battlefield like a vengeful star, striking Gideon square in the flank.

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The knight staggered, digging his boots into the earth, attempting to anchor himself against the force—but the spell was relentless. With a final pulse of kinetic force, it hurled him backward, slamming him into the outer stone wall of the manor. The structure groaned beneath the impact, a section collapsing around him in a plume of shattered brick and dust.

Cassandra descended like a wraith upon the battlefield, robes billowing, the glow of her animus still flickering across her fingertips. She knelt beside Roderick, already casting a mending spell—soft white tendrils of restorative light curling around the wound on his chest.

“Need an assist, Lord Barrenworth?” she asked dryly, her tone laced with amusement, though her eyes flicked warily toward the debris where Gideon had vanished.

Roderick winced as the healing took effect, flexing his hand. “Don’t fuss over me,” he muttered, wiping blood from his lip. “Shouldn’t you be busy wrangling those polished tin soldiers out there?”

“I was,” she replied smoothly, pressing her palm firmer against his chest. “But your charming ex–war criminal of a butler seems to be doing an admirable job on his own. Frankly, I think he’s enjoying it.”

Roderick gave a short, pained chuckle. “Mad bastard always did love a crowd.”

From the broken heap of brick and ruin, a figure rose once more.

Sir Gideon emerged, cloaked in dust and ash, the light of his animus pulsing faintly beneath the grime. His armor, though marred by scorch marks and scattered debris, bore no true damage. Not a single wound marred his body—only a glint of sharpened fury now burned in his gaze.

“Magnificent,” he said, his voice cold, almost admiring. “The two of you together—truly, a sight to behold.”

He stepped forward, dragging the point of his massive blade against the broken stone before slamming it once more into the earth. A low hum resonated from the steel.

“But still,” he continued, voice deepening with reverence and wrath, “not enough in the presence of the sanctified.”

He raised his free hand, and the air around him began to shimmer with sacred heat.

“In the name of the Holy Creator, and His radiant court of Celestials,” he intoned, “bear witness the brilliance that knows no shadow—”

His blade struck the ground with divine finality.

“Ars Leonora Altera Domas!”

The world ignited.

A pulse of incandescent light surged from the sword’s tip, roaring outward in a blinding tidal wave of divine force. It shattered the air, cracked the earth, and consumed the manor’s façade in an instant. The very pavement of the courtyard fractured beneath the blast, while flowers and hedges were vaporized in the onslaught of holy energy.

Roderick and Cassandra were thrown like dolls into the air, blasted back by the overwhelming radiance. Their bodies crashed onto the splintered stone, armor cracked, skin seared by purity itself.

And then, silence.

The storm of light faded into a ghostly afterglow, leaving the grounds scarred and lifeless. The once-elegant courtyard lay in utter ruin—blackened soil, shattered tiles, and drifting smoke the only remnants of its former grace.

Gideon stepped through the haze, sword gleaming like the sun itself.

The two lay still—Roderick groaning through gritted teeth, Cassandra struggling to rise, her coat half-burned.

“Stay down,” Gideon said, his voice devoid of mockery—only calm, commanding certainty. “The light has judged you.”

Gideon turned his gaze to the horizon—where the aircraft, once tethered in the courtyard, now drifted far across the sky like a silver bird escaping a burning nest. He had been too consumed with Roderick and Cassandra to notice its escape. Now, the vessel soared beyond conventional reach—too distant for even the sharpest long-range spells to strike with accuracy.

But Gideon Gallagher was no common spellcaster.

He was the leader of the Royal Crusade, bearer of the Radiant Blade, and wielder of a divine relic that few in this age could rival.

With a deep breath, he summoned his chanting ring—circular glyphs of blinding bright yellow flaring into life beneath his boots, their radius vast and laced with scripture etched in celestial runes. Six caelus cores flared at once, orbiting within the circle.

“Radiant storm,” he began, voice rising with righteous fervor, “for it is the sigh of mercy that holds the breath of salvation. Bright and just as the Creator decreed, may my blade defy reality—not for conquest, but for divine preservation. Reach forth, past the heavens themselves…”

High above the fleeing vessel, the sky tore open.

A second, larger ring of golden light burst into form, almost as the same size as the airship . Gideon raised his sword—and grinned, certain of his impending triumph.

“Pierce through the boundary… Ars Gram Artoria Lubiere!”

From the glowing ring descended a celestial blade—a massive construct of pure light, its edge screaming as it tore through the air, slicing down toward the ship with divine vengeance. The aircraft stood no chance. The sword cleaved through its center, shearing it clean in two.

For a moment, Gideon basked in his handiwork. He watched the splintered halves of the ship spiral down, trailing smoke and flame.

But as the wreckage neared the earth, it shimmered… and dissolved.

Not with the fire of impact—but with wisps of violet mist.

Gideon’s grin withered.

“A decoy…” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “Illusion magic.”

His head snapped toward Cassandra, who now stood firm amid the rubble, her once-pristine coat torn and scorched, but her defiance unshaken.

She met his glare with a smirk.

“Well played, Madam Willthrop,” he growled.

“With all due respect, Sir Gideon,” she said, brushing soot from her collar, “it appears your mind isn’t quite as radiant as your sacred sword.”

“A bold tongue,” Gideon snarled, lifting his blade again, “for a woman about to die.”

Cassandra’s smile only widened. “I could say the same to you.”

That was when he felt it—the heat.

Steam hissed up from the ground beneath his feet. He looked down. Cracks had formed in the stonework, glowing red-hot, splitting with volcanic heat.

Then he heard it—the voice.

A chant, low yet fierce, rising like a battle hymn from the depths of the earth.

Roderick Barrenworth knelt not far off, both palms pressed firmly to the scorched earth, his chest rising with labor, his gaze locked dead upon Gideon with a wrathful stillness. His eyes glowed like embers in the dusk.

“The slumbering flame beneath the world… I summon you,” Roderick intoned, his voice trembling with power. “Great fire, heed the call of my selfish heart… for your embers are the flood, the tide of the crimson river—”

For the first time in many years, a chanting ring bloomed beneath Roderick. The air shimmered around him as the very heat of the true flame began to rise.

“I hereby invoke… the fire that scorched the halls of heaven,” he cried, “the molten destruction—Rhea Lavitein!”

The ground beneath Gideon ruptured.

From it exploded a towering pillar of flame, swirling skyward with the roar of a volcano unbound. It engulfed the Crusade leader in an instant, lifting him into the heavens on a cyclone of infernal judgment.

From a fair distance, beyond the humming engines and steel frames of the drifting aircraft, the crew watched in awe as a tower of fire rose into the heavens.

Even through the reinforced glass of the observation deck, they could feel it—that searing heat licking at their faces like the breath of a dragon. The pillar roared in the distance, a skybound inferno clawing against the dusk.

“That’s… one hell of an animus release,” Serena murmured, her eyes wide with astonishment, still locked onto the scene. The reflection of the flames danced in her irises.

“Shit!” Corrin snapped, slamming a palm against the side of the console. “I’ve lost visual!”

Heads turned toward him.

“My familiars can’t get any closer—the heat's too intense. They’ve already started pulling back. Damn it, I can’t see what’s happening down there anymore!”

Throughout the battle, Corrin had been their eyes—reporting every motion, every chant, every shift in momentum through the eyes of his winged familiars. But now, that link was severed, swallowed by the fury of the flame.

“As far as I could tell, they held their own,” he added, jaw clenched. “They gave Gideon hell. But after that… I’ve got nothing.”

“U-Um,” Gerald spoke up from the side of the bridge, one hand nervously raised. “Do we… really need to keep watching?” he asked, his voice shrinking. “I mean… who could possibly survive that much fire? Right? R-Right?”

No one answered.

All eyes remained on the raging column outside, silent in reverence or fear.

Except for one.

In the corner of the bridge, Elliot had stepped away from the glass. He lingered in the shadows, back turned to the scene, shoulders rigid. Sweat trickled down his brow—not from the heat, but from the cold tremble in his bones.

His breath came shallow. His palms quivered.

The sight of the roaring flame had unearthed something deep—something long buried. A memory. No, a scar. Flashes of a past he had spent years trying to forget. Heat, smoke, screaming… the scent of charred wood and seared flesh.

A voice broke the silence around him.

“You good?”

It was soft, yet firm. Grounded.

Elliot startled, glancing up to find Maggie standing beside him, her golden hair catching the glint of the overhead light. Her tone wasn't pressing, but it carried weight—concern, perhaps, or curiosity.

“I—yeah. Yeah. Just a little… lightheaded, maybe,” he replied, the lie slipping out clumsily, poorly rehearsed.

Maggie didn’t press him. She offered a half-smile. “First time flying?”

He chuckled nervously, running a hand through his hair. “That might be it. Altitude and nerves, y’know?”

“You’ll get used to it,” she said casually, then glanced back toward the front of the ship. “We’re on a steady course now—nothing the auto-runic controls can’t handle for a while. Thought I’d stretch my legs.”

“Oh. That’s good.” He nodded too quickly, and then, unsure of what to do with his hands, raised two awkward thumbs. “Nice flying… good job.”

Realizing just how awkward his words had sounded, Elliot quickly scrambled for a topic shift.

“Uh… anyway,” he cleared his throat, glancing around the bridge, “where are we heading now?”

Before Maggie could respond, Corrin—never one to pass up a chance to elaborate—spoke up in her place.

“Well,” he began with theatrical flair, “the gracious lady who saved our hides and generously loaned us this magnificent vessel also gave us a few options. One was making our way directly to Orias Academy for protection—sensible, but predictable. The other, more daring option, was to fly straight to Heisphera.”

He paused, grimaced, and added dryly, “Which, of course, is a terrible idea.”

Maggie nodded. “Exactly. The Crown knows the Academy stands with us—they’ll be waiting for us there, and I’m not keen on walking into a trap.”

“Huh,” Corrin quipped, feigning surprise. “Look at that. We actually agree on something. That’s new.”

Maggie didn’t even glance his way. “Which means,” she continued, turning her gaze to the others, “we need a new destination. Somewhere safe. Any suggestions?”

“Ooh! How about Stonegard?” Gerald piped up, his face brightening. “It makes sense—Elliot’s from there, he can vouch for us. It’s remote, high in the mountains, practically invisible to outsiders. I doubt the Crown’s hounds would ever find us.”

Maggie arched a brow at the idea, surprisingly intrigued. Her silence alone gave Gerald a sense of victory.

However, the same couldn’t be said for the others.

Elliot and Serena exchanged uneasy glances—each one aware of a particular detail Gerald had overlooked: Elliot wasn’t truly a resident of Stonegard. And even if he were, that didn’t guarantee them safe passage.

“Uh… yeah,” Elliot started, forcing a smile. “Stonegard does sound like a solid choice, but… the folks up there aren’t exactly the friendliest when it comes to strangers.”

“And,” Serena jumped in smoothly, “it’s pretty far. I mean, are we even sure we’ve got enough fuel to make it there?”

Maggie narrowed her eyes, her voice steady and unconvinced. “We’ve got enough to reach Hafensteel and back. Fuel isn’t the issue.”

That alone knocked the wind out of Serena’s excuse. She looked to Elliot, who was visibly wilting under Maggie’s unrelenting scrutiny.

“And don’t worry about the Stonegard locals,” Maggie added. “We’re arriving in a luxury airship. If appearance means anything to mountain folk, we’ll earn their respect before we even step off the deck.”

Elliot and Serena gulped. Her optimism was terrifying.

But Corrin, mercifully, stepped in.

“I hate to be the harbinger of bad news, Miss Maggie—and my dearest, sweetest Mr. Brennan,” he added with mock affection, “but Stonegard is off the board.”

“Oh?” Maggie tilted her head. “May I ask why?”

“Because the last report I received said they’re under full lockdown. Tensions with our northern neighbors have escalated—border disputes, minor skirmishes, you name it. If we get too close, the geomancers up there will rain down boulders the size of this ship without so much as a warning bell. And while this vessel is elegant, it’s not made to take that kind of beating.”

Corrin’s voice carried the certainty of a man who’d double-checked his intel. That made Maggie pause.

Serena took the cue, discreetly stepping on Elliot’s foot.

“Ow—oh, right! Totally slipped my mind. I’ve been away so long, I forgot about the lockdown,” Elliot added hastily with a nervous laugh. “Yeah… bad idea. Definitely.”

Maggie folded her arms. “Fine. No Stonegard.”

A collective breath of relief escaped from Serena and Elliot.

She turned to the halfling. “Gerald, got any other ideas?”

The small man scratched his head. “Well… there’s a saying: the best place to hide a tree is in the forest, right?”

Everyone blinked.

“So,” he continued hesitantly, “maybe the best place to hide… is the Capitol? I mean, it’s the last place they’d expect us to go.”

A pause. The silence hung for a heartbeat too long.

Then, in perfect unison, came the chorus:

“No!”

Serena followed up with sharp disapproval. “That is a terrible idea, Sir.”

Corrin chimed in, smirking. “Brilliant thinking! While we’re at it, let’s just fly straight to the palace and hand Serena over to the Princess with a thank-you note.”

Elliot added dryly, “You sure you’re feeling okay, buddy?”

And Maggie—ever the deadliest—delivered the final blow. “Stress does dull the mind, Gerald. Perhaps that’s why you’re not using yours at the moment.”

Gerald threw up his arms. “You people are impossible!”