[A few days prior to the Festival]
[Galadriel]
[Veron outskirts: Forest]
A strange tension hung in the air. The vast sky above was a blur of swirling blues, streaked with thin wisps of mist-like clouds that seemed almost frozen in time. The breeze that swept through the clearing carried with it a distant hum.
Yet here, beneath this boundless sky, in the company of two of the most powerful women he knew, Mikoto was stewing over something far more pressing.
Something far more existentially horrifying.
Roaches.
Rats.
A shudder ran down his petite form, his gauntleted fingers tensing, and a faint, involuntary tremor passed through his shoulders.
"This guy can see the future." Mikoto's voice, usually calm, now carried an edge of dread. His soft, rosy lips curled in dismay, his delicate brow furrowing. "Does that mean he knows of my fear of roaches and rats? I'm cooked!"
A moment of silence, Guinevere snorted. A sharp, unexpected sound, she folded her arms, tilting her head slightly.
"You have such vast power… and you fear such cretins?"
His soft features contorted into something between disgust and horror. His lips, naturally full and tinged with the faintest hint of red, pursed in revulsion. His lashes fluttered as he shuddered again, his small hands curling into tight fists.
"Have you seen those things?" Mikoto's tone turned sharp, almost accusatory. His expression twisted into something that would have been adorable under any other circumstance, were it not for the genuine horror behind his words. "Ugh! They're so… ugh…"
A chuckle, not from Guinevere. But from Lyra.
The dark-haired woman tilted her head, she cupped her cheek. "Well, knowing him…" she murmured, dragging out the words with excruciating slowness, as if savoring the inevitable horrified realization about to dawn on him. "He would definitely use it against you."
Mikoto froze.
His eyes widened, pupils shrinking ever so slightly.
"For real!?" His voice pitched, a rare betrayal of his usual demeanor. The horror in his expression was so visceral, so genuinely aghast, that for a split second, both women felt… bad.
But only for a split second.
Because then—
A sudden shift.
A flicker of something in his eyes, a realization. His soft features brightened, delicate lips parting ever so slightly as something clicked.
"Ah, right!" His voice carried a distinct note of triumph, as if remembering something of utmost importance. "I remember now!"
Both Guinevere and Lyra's expressions shifted—the former arching a brow, the latter merely narrowing her eyes in curiosity.
"What is it?" Lyra inquired.
Mikoto folded his arms, the motion causing the sleek black alloy of his gauntlets to let out a faint, metallic hum. His lips curled, this time not in disgust, but in thought.
"I met one of your Ancestor buddies," he mused, his tone turned wry. "The split-colored-haired woman. She was spouting some crap about how I was free from fate and destiny, that I was some kinda Executioner."
Guinevere's brows knitted together in confusion, but Lyra stilled. Mikoto caught it.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, and one slender, pale hand rose to cup her chin, fingers tracing along the soft curve of her jawline.
"I see…" Lyra murmured, voice dropping into something more contemplative. "Yes," she continued, more to herself than to them. "If anyone could discern that, it would be Aurélie. It makes sense why Aelfric was so cautious," she mused, her tone carrying something close to satisfaction. "Being exempted from fate means his Ultra Vires is all but useless."
A silence settled between them.
Mikoto's lips parted slightly, an exhale barely audible as he processed her words.
Exempt from fate itself?
His small hands twitched, fingers instinctively curling against the cool alloy of his gauntlets. He had always known there was something off—something about his existence that felt… disjointed. Like a piece of a puzzle that had been forcibly wedged into place despite not belonging there.
He assumed that Aurélie was speaking nonsense. But Aelfric was cautious, even before he brought out Sabre. Meaning his Ultra Vires did not function properly.
This was his confirmation.
His very being was an anomaly in the grand order of the universe. That unnerved him as his mind drifted to something else.
("A great Death,") He frowned, deeply.
Yet before he could voice his thoughts, Guinevere spoke.
"Still…" her eyes narrowed with something unreadable, "for an Ancestor of Wisdom, it is quite stupid to go after mere spawns of the Goddess he detests. He spoke of how Octavia loved her spawns. What did he mean by that?"
Lyra's expression shifted again.
"A question that has sat on my mind as well…" she murmured. "Aelfric was a man twisted by tragedy," she began. "But said tragedy forced him to change. To adapt. He was never reckless, despite his rage. Yet he deigned to get The Bringer of Death involved… just to get to Alyssia."
She exhaled, voice turning heavier.
"It was illogical for him. But I have learned why Octavia might hold this deep a worry for her spawns."
Mikoto tilted his head slightly, a single delicate brow raising. "Hm? Is it 'cause I'm ruggedly handsome?"
Lyra snorted.
"More like cute." Her lips curled. "Like a doll."
His lips parted in protest, he grumbled, muttering something incomprehensible, his rosy lips slightly pouting as he crossed his small, gauntleted arms over his chest. His sulking expression was almost comically endearing.
But Lyra wasn't done.
"To give a broader scope… there are eight realms in total."
Guinevere and Mikoto's expressions remained still, but the interest in their eyes spoke volumes.
Lyra continued.
"Though, one of those realms is in such disarray that it can barely even be considered one anymore." She exhaled softly, almost as if lamenting its fate, before shaking her head. "But that's neither here nor there. The important thing to understand is this—Octavia did not come from any of these realms."
A slight pause.
"If you were to imagine these eight realms as celestial bodies—planets, orbiting within a single solar system—then the place where Octavia originated from would be…" She lifted her hand slightly, index finger extended, then tapped it against the empty space just outside that imagined system.
"A world outside of it."
Guinevere remained silent, Mikoto, meanwhile, found his delicate fingers unconsciously curling against his own chest, a faint pressure forming just beneath the surface of his ribs.
Something about this…
Felt unsettling.
Yet he kept his thoughts to himself, instead waiting for Lyra to continue.
And she did.
"Upon coming to this realm, she did not come alone. She brought with her… seven souls. The souls of her siblings."
Mikoto hummed. "I see. Seven spawns, seven souls," he murmured.
Beside him, Guinevere's expression hardened, her arms crossing tightly over her chest.
"Hence the reason he attacked mother." Her voice was quieter now. "So Goddess Octavia no doubt blessed those souls… to protect them."
Lyra gave a small nod. "My thoughts exactly."
Mikoto's hand moved to his chest. A single, small motion—almost subconscious—but it betrayed the growing turbulence in his mind.
His thoughts turned inward.
("That Ancestor woman mentioned my soul… could that be what she meant? No—if a God's blessing is ingrained into the soul, then it would mean the blessing and the soul of Octavia's sibling must have been imbued into me only when I arrived in this universe.")
His lashes fluttered, his brows knitting together delicately as his mind raced.
("But why? Why me? What did she see in me? Of all possible vessels, why—")
He gave his head a small shake, the thought lingering, instead, he exhaled, tilting his head slightly.
"So that woman has siblings, huh?" His tone was light, but there was a lingering curiosity. "That's surprising. I didn't think Gods functioned under the same… familial systems."
Lyra hummed. "Hm. Well, they don't. Not really." She tapped a slender finger against her cheek. "The closest comparison would be how certain Gods act as avatars for greater forces. Take Isadora, for instance—The Source of Life and The Architect's mutual creation. A being born from their will, yet neither fully one nor the other. Octavia, however… is a whole other story."
Guinevere's brow arched slightly. "What do you mean?"
"Octavia is not a 'Goddess.' Not truly." Lyra's gaze became faraway, and when she spoke again, her voice carried a weight that felt distressed. "When Aelfric gained immortality, he incurred the wrath of The Keepers. Octavia was their Executioner. The one sent to erase him from existence."
A slow breath.
"The Keepers of Order do not tolerate those who threaten their rules. Octavia was their blade. Yet her presence that day was… different." Her brows furrowed ever so slightly, as if the memory itself was still puzzling to her, even now. "It was divine—yet not quite like that of a God. She had six radiant wings. A mark of something… more."
Mikoto's brows furrowed. "Like an angel."
Guinevere spoke. "Scriptures speak of angels. Beings of immense beauty, often labeled as either Astrothian variants… or mere myths."
Something about her words bothered Mikoto, a faint crease forming between his brows.
"Say, Lyra…" His voice was more thoughtful now. "Do you know the names of Octavia's siblings?"
With a small shake of her head—
"Unfortunately not."
"I see." Mikoto's lips curled faintly, though the gesture held little amusement. "Let's get back to Aelfric."
Lyra's expression darkened, the mention of that name irking her.
"You think Sabre could kill him, correct?" she asked, her voice one of curiosity.
Mikoto tilted his head, his bangs shifting, a contemplative hum slipped from his lips before he spoke.
"Kill?" He mused. "If I had to describe Sabre, it wouldn't be in terms of something as simple as 'killing.' Killing implies a function that adheres to the fundamental laws of existence—Death, an end, a conclusion. Sabre is... something else entirely."
His eyes narrowed, his gauntleted fingers flexing as though grasping at something.
"Sabre is the antithesis to the universe. A concept beyond the frameworks that bind us. It does not simply cut—it imposes. It dictates reality rather than being dictated by it. It can input or ignore the fundamental laws that govern existence. Death, Life, Creation, Destruction—these are nothing but suggestions to it. It enforces its own will upon reality, rewriting the script rather than abiding by it."
There was an eerie silence as his words settled. Guinevere observed him with an unreadable gaze, arms loosely crossed.
"Granted," Mikoto continued, his tone dipping slightly, "it's fickle. Capricious, even. Using its full power isn't exactly something I can just will into happening. I can manifest only fragments, shards of its potential. I probably need to earn it. Even so—"
A smirk tugged at the corner of his rosy lips.
"—we all saw how piss-scared Aelfric was when I brought it out."
Guinevere let out a soft snort, shaking her head. "Indeed. Still...I doubt it'll be that simple."
Lyra exhaled through her nose, folding her arm. "Knowing Aelfric..." she murmured, "he won't strike you immediately. No matter how much he loathes you, he's not the kind to attack recklessly. He'll wait. He'll let you exhaust yourself—let you fight, drain yourself until you're vulnerable."
Mikoto's eyes narrowed, the corners of his delicate lips pressing into a thin line.
"I'll probably be fighting a lot..." he admitted, his voice quieter now. "Even with my mana reserves, I'm not infinite. I can run out, and if I do—" He scowled slightly. "Sabre only takes a minuscule amount of mana to remain manifested, but if I'm pushed too far..."
"You may be too exhausted to even summon it." Guinevere's voice was pragmatic. Her lilac eyes locked onto his face, piercing through the fragile beauty he projected to the delicate, volatile core beneath.
Mikoto didn't deny it.
"Then," Lyra interjected, shifting her weight as she tilted her head, "I suggest that during the festival, you summon Sabre ahead of time and keep it hidden. If the worst comes to pass—if you're too weak, too drained, too compromised—either I or Guinevere will retrieve the blade and wield it in your stead."
Mikoto's brows furrowed slightly, carrying frustration, not at the plan itself, but at the implication behind it.
"We have to assume you'll be in a weakened state," Lyra continued. "The Inheritors will want to combat you. Selwyn, no doubt, will have his eyes fixed on you the entire time. And with all of that happening, Aelfric will be lurking, waiting—but if we can divert his attention, if we can ensure his focus remains solely on you, then he won't foresee what we do in the background."
A tense silence lingered between them.
Then, slowly—Mikoto's lips curved into a smirk.
"Mm," he hummed, tilting his head slightly, his hair falling over his shoulder. "Makes sense," he finally conceded, a soft, almost feline grin playing at his lips. His fingers cracked slightly as he flexed them. "Then..."
His gaze sharpened.
"Let's kick his ass."