[Aethel]
[Galadriel]
The Grand Colosseum was the beating heart of the Festival of Octavia with the spectacle that only Zephyra Illusora could capture. The magic-infused projections—so lifelike, so tangible—allowed those beyond the Colosseum to bear witness to every explosion, every strike, every moment of triumph or defeat.
However, while the Grand Colosseum offered the best viewing experience, it was not the only place to witness the otherworldly festival of Octavia.
Beyond that, high above the capital city of Galadriel, those in the city could bear witness. An enormous Zephyra Illusora hung suspended, a sprawling, radiant screen that dominated the skyline. It showcased the ongoing battles of the festival, shifting every few minutes to a new combatant. Each clash captivated the masses below, the city streets reduced to near silence save for the occasional eruption of gasps and cheers.
Even the once-bustling marketplace had emptied, stalls abandoned as merchants, nobles, beggars, and commoners alike stood shoulder to shoulder, their gazes fixed upon the grand display in the skies.
Some huddled together, whispering speculations about who would emerge victorious. Others had placed wagers long before the festival, their fortunes now hanging upon the outcome. Children—eyes wide with uncontainable glee—shouted each time a massive strike shook the area, their young minds struggling to comprehend such awe-inspiring power.
Men and women alike gasped, their hands pressed to their chests, their mouths agape at the destruction unfolding before their eyes. The earth splitting open, pillars of flame and magic roaring skyward—each display of might felt almost palpable. The streets themselves trembled with the sound of combat alone.
But then, the ceaseless transitions between battles, a hush fell.
A single face had appeared on the screen.
Mikoto.
And the entire city—every voice, every whisper, every breath—ceased.
It was not merely his beauty that enthralled them, though it was undeniable. Those deep ruby-red eyes, burning like gemstones. Those rosy lips, that delicate yet hauntingly cold expression, the ethereal cascade of snow-white hair. There was something almost otherworldly about him, something that transcended mortal beauty—something that commanded reverence.
But it was not his appearance alone that struck them speechless.
It was his existence.
Another spawn of Octavia.
Impossible.
History had dictated there could only be one in each era. The will of Octavia, manifest through a singular chosen one. Yet, before their very eyes, defying the laws that scholars had sworn as immutable, stood Mikoto
Sorcerers and experts alike had already debunked the possibility of illusions or transformation magic. Even a spawn of Octavia could not bend reality in such a way—not while bound within the constraints of the festival's destruction. And so, with no room for denial, no room for doubt, the truth settled into the bones of the people like a creeping, chilling fog.
There were two.
Two beings touched by Octavia's will.
And yet—despite the view shifting away from his face—despite the return of explosive combat demanding their attention—no one could forget him.
The whispers never ceased.
His name was passed from tongue to tongue, from nobleman to beggar, from priest to heretic. A new legend was etched into the annals of history within mere moments.
But for William, none of that mattered. Of course he was shocked that Mikoto hid such a secret, but he could not dwell on it. His eyes remained glued to the screen, fixed upon the newest battle that had begun—Agatha's battle.
His sister.
There she stood, alongside the second princess, Mirabella, against a foe who should have never been faced lightly.
Selwyn Von Auerswald.
The crown prince of Vel'ryr.
And already—already—his sister had been tossed aside like a ragdoll.
A violent shudder ran through William's frame, his breath turning shallow. His chest tightened, his pulse thundering in his ears as the screen projected every agonizing second of the merciless assault.
He was helpless.
He stood with the masses, beneath the light of a festival meant to celebrate, and all he could do was watch. His fists clenched. Hard enough that his knuckles turned white, hard enough that his nails threatened to draw blood from his palms.
"A-Are you well, William?"
A voice—soft, gentle—snapped him from his trance.
Juliana stood beside him, her gray hair neatly styled, her lilac eyes darting nervously. The way her black horns curved, her presence alone made her stand out. But in this moment, he could only notice the concern in her expression.
He forced a smile.
"I am," he replied, though the dryness in his tone betrayed him. "I'm just… a little nervous for my sister."
A chuckle—forced and brittle.
"I know she's strong, but even so…"
Juliana's lips curled into a wry smirk.
"I understand."
Her voice carried an odd softness, a warmth that felt out of place amid the rising tension.
"I think it's nice that you care so much for her."
William nodded absentmindedly, though his gaze remained upon the horrors unfolding above.
Juliana hesitated. A flicker of something unspoken passed through her eyes, something that hinted at a deeper unease.
"I-I also worry for Mirabella," she murmured at last.
William turned to her, raising a brow.
"Ah, right. You two were quite close."
Juliana nodded, almost meekly, Mirabella had been the first to offer her friendship.
To someone like her.
Someone who should have been hated.
Someone who did not deserve kindness.
Even the princesses had accepted her.
And now—she could only watch.
She wanted to tear her eyes away, to shield herself from the violence—but she couldn't, she needed to see Mirabella safe.
William was no doubt of the same mind.
A beat of silence passed.
Then, in an attempt to shift the conversation, he asked—
"Say… have you seen Ruby at all recently?"
Juliana blinked, snapping from her thoughts.
She shook her head slowly.
"N-No. It's odd…"
Her voice trailed off into a whisper, they had not seen Ruby for quite some time now. An unease coiled within her gut, like a foreboding shadow slithering into her thoughts.
But before she could voice it—
A gasp erupted from the crowd.
A single, piercing gasp—
And then another.
And then hundreds.
A city-wide, horrified intake of breath.
William and Juliana's heads snapped upward.
And their eyes—
Widened in horror.
--------------------
[The Grand Colosseum]
The Grand Colosseum had fallen into a silence so complete, so unnatural, it felt as though the world itself had ceased to breathe. A million spectators, once roaring with cheers and excitement, now sat frozen in their seats, gripped by an emotion far stronger than awe—horror. It was not the kind of silence that came from reverence or respect; it was the kind born from dread, a silence that weighed upon the soul, pressing into the chests of all who bore witness to the spectacle upon the massive Zephyra Illusora screens.
Then, the whispers came.
"H-How could he do that…?" A woman's voice trembled, her hands clasped over her mouth, eyes wide.
"A-Aren't they… children?" A man muttered, his voice disbelieving, as if saying it aloud would somehow undo what they had just seen.
"This… this is too cruel." A sorceress' lips quivered, her fingers twitching at her sides, her body struggling between instinct and helplessness.
"This is insane! They're just children!"
"Of course it's someone from Vel'ryr!"
The murmurs exploded, outrage and panic colliding in a collection of voices. Some spectators stood, hands shaking, others clutched their heads as if to block out what they had just witnessed. It was too much. Too much.
But on high, above the chaos and the rising pandemonium, in the balcony overlooking the Colosseum, a single pair of blue eyes burned.
King Thordan.
His jaw was clenched so tightly that it seemed his teeth might shatter. His hands, resting on the gilded arms of his throne, now dug into the polished wood with such force that the material cracked, deep fissures splitting through the gold-trimmed surface. His breaths were ragged, his entire form seething with a anger so potent it trembled in the air around him. Yet his eyes never left the screen.
For there, on the most prominent Zephyra Illusora, was the image of his daughter.
Mirabella.
His breath hitched.
"That damned monster!"
Thordan's voice roared through the balcony. The force of his rage shook the silence of those who sat beside him. His composure was gone—this was not the controlled fury of a ruler; this was the primal wrath of a father.
The Archbishop did not react to the king's outburst, his gray eyes impassive. He did not offer comfort, nor did he offer a word of caution—he merely watched. As if this had all been ordained.
And further still, his expression unreadable was Emperor Aerious.
He did not speak. He did not move. His gaze was locked onto the bloodied battlefield displayed in the Zephyra Illusora, the sight of his son, his heir.
For all the power that sat in this balcony—kings, emperors, and archbishops—not one of them could change what had just transpired.
And not even Aerious, for all his attitude, would mock Thordan at this moment.
--------------------
[???]
Agatha's breath came slow—shallow, barely there. A thin trickle of blood seeped from her lips, dripping down her chin in sluggish rivulets, staining the ground beneath her. Her body trembled, her muscles spasming involuntarily as she knelt in the growing pool of her own blood.Her face remained eerily calm. Composed. Even as her skin grew deathly pale, even as her body struggled to function, she refused to break.
Mirabella, on the other hand, was struggling—barely holding on. Her breath came in ragged, sharp and gasps, her fingers twitching erratically against the ground. Every attempt to rise was met with an unbearable wave of agony, her battered body rejecting every command.
And then she heard it, a sound worse than anything.
A wet, gurgling, fleshy sound, as though something had been ripped apart from the inside out. The noise of steel carving through sinew, of muscle fibers snapping like frayed rope—of bone splintering under force.
Mirabella's head snapped toward Agatha, and she saw it.
The blade.
Selwyn's blade.
Buried deep.
It had pierced straight through Agatha's chest, just beneath the collarbone. The steel shuddered inside her, cutting through ribs, hooking against her insides. Mirabella saw the wound gaping wide—too wide—saw the torn flesh, the way the muscle around the injury pulsed, as if trying and failing to stitch itself back together. Blood spilled, thick and dark, soaking into Agatha's tattered armor, pooling beneath her knees.
A sharp choke left Agatha's lips, but—still—still—she did not scream. She only gasped, shuddering under the sensation of metal grinding against bone, twisting, digging—burrowing deeper. Selwyn's grip on the sword remained firm, his hand steady as he leaned in, forcing the blade even further. Mirabella heard it, the sickening crunch of cartilage giving way, the slow, squish of muscle being pried apart.
Agatha's breathing was wet now, gurgling, as blood flooded her throat. Her pupils dilated, her body convulsing in minuscule, involuntary shudders. Her fingers twitched, a pathetic, spasmodic reaction as her nerves screamed, as her body betrayed her.
Selwyn sighed, almost bored.
"How utterly pathetic."
With no warning, no hesitation, he ripped the blade free. The sound it made—oh gods, the sound. the tearing, the splitting. The wet, gruesome rupture of flesh being forcibly undone.
A violent spray of blood splattered across the ground, droplets flicking onto Selwyn's face, his armor—yet he did not react. The stains against his pale skin did not bother him. Agatha's body convulsed violently, her lungs seizing as she coughed, blood gushing from her lips. Her posture faltered—just for a second—but she caught herself.
She would not fall, she refused to fall.
Mirabella saw everything and something in her broke.
"YOU FUCKING—"
She lunged.
Or—tried to.
She barely got her arm under her before Selwyn's sabaton slammed into her face with inhuman force.
CRACK.
The impact was skull-rattling. Something inside her snapped, a deep, gut-wrenching fracture that sent her mind spiraling into a storm of pain. Her jaw screeched in agony, white-hot bursts of torment erupting along her skull as her head snapped to the side.
The world tilted violently, her vision swimming, her stomach churning from the force behind the kick. She felt something wet inside her mouth. Thick. Metallic.
A tooth.
Spat loose from the sheer brutality, she barely had time to register it before a new pain arrived—
Selwyn's sword, through her hand, through the bone.
Mirabella's entire body locked up, her muscles seizing as an indescribable pain ripped through her arm. She let out a sound—a strangled, guttural, raw sound, something inhuman, something broken, something that didn't even sound like her.
Selwyn did not stop, he pressed down.
Deeper.
The steel scraped against bone, cutting through tendon, ligament and marrow. The nerves in her hand were set ablaze, ignited by the indescribable, gut-wrenching agony of having a limb skewered straight through. Her fingers twitched involuntarily, locked in a twitching position, the muscles incapable of functioning properly under the violence inflicted upon them.
Selwyn leaned in—his lips dangerously close to her ear.
"How does it feel?" he murmured, disgustingly intimate.
Mirabella's entire body was trembling, her chest heaving with ragged gasps. Sweat and blood dripped from her chin, from her hair, from the gaping wound in her palm. And still she found the strength to speak.
"Choke… on a knife," she hissed.
Selwyn sighed. Then—slowly, methodically—he began to drag the blade downward.
Slicing, splitting. Carving through flesh and bone alike, the pain was indescribable. Mirabella had felt pain before. But never like this.
It was too much, she couldn't even scream anymore, her voice refused to work. All that came from her lips was a shaking, pathetic breath.
Selwyn finally—mercifully—tore the blade free.
Mirabella's arm dropped, useless.
Blood poured freely from the mangled, butchered mess of her palm, spilling onto the ground in thick rivulets. The limb twitched, but she could no longer feel her fingers.
Agatha watched, her expression unreadable. Her lips parted, but no words came. Selwyn stepped back, inspecting the bloodied blade, exhaling softly.
He smiled.
"You both put up a fight. I shall grant you that."
His eyes flickered downward—toward their ruined bodies, their trembling, twitching limbs, the vast pools of blood spreading beneath them.
"But in the end—"
His gaze turned cold.
"You're still weak."
Mirabella thought, maybe this was it.
Maybe—
Maybe they were going to die.
Selwyn approached Agatha once more. He raised his blade high and then brought it down with overwhelming force, a sickening crack split the air.
A figure appeared, their sabaton colliding with Selwyn's face.
Selwyn's head snapped sideways in a violent, concussive blur, his entire body twisting mid-air as his vision fractured into a haze of white. The impact was so sudden, so violent that his mind barely had time to register the pain before his body was sent flying.
A shockwave detonated upon impact, splitting debri with a resounding boom. The force of the strike—a single kick—ripped Selwyn from where he stood, his body nothing more than a helpless projectile hurled into the air. A trail of blood arced behind him, droplets scattering like falling.
Selwyn's body collided with the ruined cliffs in an earth-shaking eruption. The rock face crumbled upon impact, splitting apart like glass as the entire structure gave way, collapsing into an avalanche of debris, swallowing his form beneath a burial.
Mirabella blinked.
Her breath caught in her throat, the shock overriding even her pain. It took far too long for her battered mind to catch up with reality, to process what had just happened, to even comprehend what force had just obliterated Selwyn from where he stood.
The dust settled and a figure landed gracefully.
The presence was imposing, as if they had simply chosen to appear rather than descend. Their form was unmistakable—a dark silhouette, black armor adorned with deep crimson accents.
Mirabella's gaze strained, her battered body sluggish to respond. From her vantage point, she could only make out his lower half—the heavy plates of his greaves, the contours of his sabatons, the stance of someone who hadn't even exerted effort.
Her breath trembled.
"Agatha, Agatha, oh Gods!"
A frantic, high-pitched voice yanked her focus away from their savior.
Agatha's bleary, half-conscious gaze flickered toward a small, fluttering form—Cor'nella. The tiny fairy hovered frantically before her, her usually arrogant, sharp tongue replaced with genuine worry.
"I can barely—" Agatha rasped, her voice hoarse. She tried to move, but her limbs refused to obey. It was as if her body had given up, even though the battle was not yet over.
A voice.
Smooth and familiar.
"Tch. How pathetic." The words weren't just an insult, they were a dismissal.
The voice—his voice—was soaked in disdain, yet something about it felt soothing and enthralling. It was a voice that commanded attention, that refused to be ignored.
"For an animal like that to be able to do this much…" The voice carried not a hint of concern. "Knew you two were useless."
A snap. The crisp sound of gauntleted fingers scraping together.
And then light, a golden light burst forth, cascading over them in a warm, all-encompassing flood of mana.
Their shredded, bloodied flesh knitted itself back together. Bruises faded, shattered bones mended, and even the armor that had been nearly torn from their bodies was restored in an instant. The once all-consuming agony dissipated like smoke, replaced by an almost unnatural warmth.
And yet despite the relief Mirabella and Agatha remained on their knees.
Even as the wounds vanished, their suffering did not. The memories of pain, of near Death, of Selwyn's cruelty, remained. Their breaths came shallow, their bodies trembling, their minds struggling to comprehend how they were alive.
"Thank goodness!"
A strangled, tear-filled gasp.
Cor'nella's tiny form darted down toward them, her wings fluttering erratically as she all but collapsed onto Agatha's shoulder. Mirabella had never seen her like this before—never seen her so undone, so openly vulnerable.
"I-I got some help! But I thought— I thought—!" Her voice hitched, as if she couldn't even bring herself to finish the thought.
Death.
She had thought they were already dead.
"If I have to hear some sappy shit, I might end myself."
Mirabella and Agatha's gazes snapped to him, their bodies moving before their minds caught up.
The black armor.
They knew that armor.
Their gazes traveled upward, breath hitching, as the figure—their savior—turned slowly, as if giving them time to process what they were about to see.
Crimson eyes. Deep, sharp and hypnotic. They bored into them, piercing through the very depths of their souls. A face so strikingly ethereal, so unnervingly perfect, that it felt as though he shouldn't exist. Otherworldly beauty sculpted into human form.
A spawn of Octavia.
But that thought—that realization—came far too late.
They were too enthralled.
"Now tell me," his voice cut through their stunned silence, soft, but laced with irritation. "Are you two gonna quit being pathetic and get up?"
The weight of that voice, that certainty, that arrogance left no room for argument. But someone had an argument anyway.
"Hey! They've been through a lot! Let them rest!" Cor'nella's voice chirped indignantly, her tiny wings fluttering with renewed energy.
Mikoto spared her a glance. "Hmph. So you got your spunk back already."
An irritated huff left his rosy lips as he reached up, flicking away the long strands of white hair that fell over his eyes. It was such a simple motion, so utterly dismissive, and yet—it captivated them.
They couldn't help but stare, he was too stunning, too unreal.
But the pieces were falling into place.
Agatha finally found her voice. "Mikoto?" She forced herself to stand, her legs shaking, but she didn't care. She had to be sure.
Mikoto scoffed. "Congratulations, Gregory. You pointed out the obvious."
The name—Gregory—hit her like a slap. It was such an effortlessly snide, arrogant insult, but that wasn't what caught her off guard. It was the way his rosy, kissable lips curled into a scowl when he said it.
Her heart skipped a beat.
It was surreal.
For so long, Mikoto's face had been hidden—obscured behind a helmet and now, it was laid bare before them.
Flawless.
Agatha felt something unfamiliar creep in, her face felt hot. She gritted her teeth and shook her head.
"You're… a spawn of Octavia?" It was Mirabella who voiced it. She may have been an amateur in magic, but even she could tell that what was before her was no mere illusion. That perfect face was all too real. Her brows were knitted, lips slightly parted in disbelief, her gaze flickering over every inhumanly perfect feature of his face.
It didn't make sense.
Men couldn't be spawns of Octavia.
Her mind struggled with it, tangled in the impossibility of it all.
("Hot.") Her thoughts derailed, her face burned. She violently shook her head, trying to shove that intrusive thought into the abyss. "But how's that possible? I thought only women could be—"
Her words died mid-sentence. She suddenly exchanged glances with Agatha, a single thought surfaced between them.
("Is he a—")
"I'm not a woman, you utter morons." His voice was flat, laced with exasperation and undisguised annoyance.
They stiffened.
Mirabella's lips parted in slight shock. Agatha's brows twitched, her expression caught between embarrassment and indignation.
Yet—confusion remained. A supposed second spawn of Octavia stood before them, they should have been shocked they should have been demanding answers.
But instead—
The emotion that passed over them was not just shock, it was relief.
Mikoto—their Mikoto—was still there.
Even beneath the coldness.
Even beneath the disdain.
Even beneath the 'phase.'
He was still him.
"Tch." His gaze flickered past them, towards the rubble, toward the torn remnants of the cliffside. "If you two are done being useless, buzz off. That animal isn't done yet. You'll get in the way." His words were harsh, but now—they understood. If he had still been wearing his helmet, they might have taken offense. But now—they saw through it.
Agatha let out a breath, he was still Mikoto, the Mikoto she knew.
Merely influenced by the 'phase.'
And despite everything—despite the torment, the suffering—that realization made her lips twitch into the smallest smile.
Mirabella, too.
"Alright…" She murmured, stepping back. "But I want an apology when you're done with this 'phase' crap, you hear?"
Agatha nodded. "Me as well."
With Cor'nella fluttering behind them, they turned—leaving the battlefield to him.
Mikoto watched them go, his expression unreadable, he shook his head as his voice cut through the silence, edged with boredom.
"You may as well come out from under there. I know that little kick wasn't enough to finish you."
For a beat, nothing moved. Then, the wreckage trembled. A low rumble reverberated beneath the broken stones. And then an explosion of force. The ground shattered apart, slabs of stone bursting into the air like miniature meteors, hurtling in all directions. Yet Mikoto remained untouched, his gaze locked. He didn't even deign to glance at the debris as it rained down. His eyes were fixed forward, locked onto the man emerging from the rubble.
Selwyn.
The prince stepped forward, brushing the dust from his form as if he had merely risen from slumber rather than clawed his way from a grave of debri. The only evidence of the previous impact was the faint trickle of blood running from his nose, which he swiped away carelessly with the back of his gauntleted hand.
And then, instead of rage, instead of fury— he smiled.
"It's you." Selwyn exhaled.
"You have eyes. Good for you." Mikoto's words were a drawl, dripping with sarcasm.
But Selwyn's smirk only widened. He took another step forward, slowly, his blade held in a loose grip at his side. There was no tension in his body—no hesitation, no wariness. Only a confidence, a predator's assuredness, the knowledge that the kill was inevitable.
"I have held great anticipation for this moment." His voice was rich with something deeper than amusement, something more insatiable. "There are many worthy prey, yet only you can sate my hunger."
His eyes bore into Mikoto's, starved. Mikoto met his gaze with nothing but flat, seething disdain.
"Could you stop spouting such meaningless drabble?"
Selwyn exhaled a soft laugh, tilting his head as if inspecting something particularly precious.
"Come now, why so cold, my friend?" His fingers flexed along the hilt of his blade, adjusting his grip. "I yearn for the feeling of my sword cutting through your delicate flesh. I shall take great pleasure in watching that beautiful face of yours twist in pain. I shall engrave this battle into my very soul."
There was something off in the way he spoke. He wasn't simply talking about a fight—he was savoring the idea of it, relishing every syllable as though each was a step closer to tasting Mikoto's suffering.
And yet, even as the words slithered from Selwyn's mouth, even as that hunger seeped into the air like a suffocating miasma, Mikoto did not flinch. He did not break eye contact.
Then he sneered.
"Don't get cocky, you animal." His voice was lower now. "You won't engrave anything into memory because I'll do more than just kill you. I'm going to take your soul, eat it, and shit it out before stuffing it into the deepest layer of the Abyss. And then—" his voice darkened further, "—I'll go after the rest of your filthy kind and do the same to them."
For a long moment, Selwyn just stared.
Then, he grinned.
"Ah... magnificent." His voice was breathy, reverent even. He looked at Mikoto as if he were something divine, something untouchable—and he wanted nothing more than to defile it. "Yes, yes! That is what I wanted to hear!" His laughter rolled out, deep and full, the sound grating against the air. "Such unyielding fire! Such fury! I have longed for this moment, Mikoto, my dear adversary. For years, I have tasted naught but fleeting pleasures. Worthless. Hollow."
Selwyn's grip tightened on his sword, the steel groaning beneath the pressure. "But you. You are different." His gaze flickered with something almost euphoric.
He raised his weapon.
"Come now, my beloved rival. Let the realm bear witness to our battle! Let us carve our story into the very bones of history!"