Vescrutia: Legacy

Part One: The Sundering of the Sky

Before time bound itself to the ticking of the stars, there were two great thrones forged in the heart of the tempest—one of Wind, the other of Lightning.

From these thrones emerged: The Ruby Queen, sovereign of gales, breath of the skies, whose laughter birthed the winds that sail the heavens. And The Emerald King, god of thunder, bearer of storms, whose voice split the sky and whose pulse became the heartbeat of all lightning.

They were lovers, not rivals, but twin flames dancing in harmony—until the flame of another rose.

Daishin, the God of Demon Fire, born from a star that fell screaming from the void, craved dominion. Fire that devours, corrupts, mutates. He whispered into the cracks of the world, turning hearts to ash and minds to embers. And where he passed, life warped.

It was in this age of divine war that two mortal kingdoms rose—Denkai, the skyborn realm that revered wind, and Denkou, the storm-forged land of lightning. They flourished under the protection of their gods, distant but watching. Until one fateful alignment changed everything.

Beneath a rare celestial convergence—the Joined Constellation—twin children were born. Their mother, Queen Onohall of House Ri'ore, cried lightning as she delivered them; her wails summoned thunderclouds from the distant mountains. Their father, the 5th Emerald King Dracovis, vessel of the Arashin, knelt weeping beside her, for he knew what this meant.

The first child bore the marks of the Ruby Queen: hair kissed by the dawn winds, eyes that shimmered like dancing sunlight through crimson gems. He was named Na’lumire Ri’ore Denkou—Nazuma, “Storm Fang.”

The second child came with sparks crackling at his fingertips, emerald veins glowing faintly beneath his skin. He would be known as Da’Lazaar Ri’ore Denkou—but the world would call him Dazuma, “lightning rod.”

Two vessels. Two blessings. One prophecy.

“When wind and storm are born as one,
The heavens shall be their sons.”

But even as the twins were nursed beneath the ancient Sky Tree of Denkou, the whisper of Daishin slipped through the cracks of the kingdom. A courtier burned from the inside out. A noble turned to blackened ash in his sleep. The Naten, the sacred life-force gifted by the gods, began to taint.

Corruption crept.

By the time the twins could walk, Aerdria and Voltara had become one—the Kingdom of Denkou, forged in divine unity by their birth. Yet beneath the golden unity, Daishin’s fire smoldered.

And so begins the tale—not just of a kingdom—but of two brothers, born of gods, burdened by fate, and torn between destiny and desire. One will soar on the breath of the skies, the other roar with the fury of storms.

Together, they may save their world.

Or burn with it.

Nine Years later…

The solar pole spun lazily outside the shop, its stripes bleeding red and white onto the cobblestones. Dazuma watched it, chin resting on folded arms propped against the sill of his father's study. Below, a merchant argued with a guard over the weight of a spice sack. "Three ounces light, I tell you!" the guard barked, jabbing a finger at the scales. Dazuma sighed. Dust motes danced in the afternoon light slanting through the window, thick as pollen.

"Focus, Dazuma." King Dracovis didn't look up from the trade ledger. His voice was low thunder, the kind that precedes distant rain. "The grain tithes from the Southern Reach require your signature. Today." Dazuma traced the whorls in the ancient oak desk with a fingertip. The grain tithes felt like shackles compared to the sky calling beyond the palace walls. He could almost feel the updrafts teasing his hair. "Father," he began, hesitant, "Nazuma’s already sparring with Captain Vorik. Shouldn't I—"

The King slammed the ledger shut. The sound echoed like a gong. Dazuma flinched. "Nazuma burns his energy steel-on-steel. *You* burn yours understanding the kingdom's bones." Dracovis leaned forward, emerald eyes boring into him. “Lightning without direction is chaos. Lightning without grounding destroys." He pushed the ledger across the desk. "Sign."

Dazuma picked up the quill. The ink felt cold, heavy. As he scratched his name, a sharp *crack* echoed from the training yards below, followed by a ragged cheer. He knew that sound – Nazuma landing a clean hit with his practice glaive. Dazuma’s grip tightened on the quill. The inkwell trembled. Outside, the merchant finally paid his fine, shoulders slumped. The guard pocketed the coin, grinning. The solar pole kept spinning.

In the yards, Nazuma wiped sweat and grit from his brow with the back of his hand, ignoring the admiring murmurs of the watching soldiers. Captain Vorik groaned, hauling himself up from the dust, rubbing his ribs. "Call it a day, Storm Fang?" Vorik panted, offering a wry smile. Nazuma shook his head, sparks flickering unseen beneath his skin. "Again," he commanded, hefting the weighted glaive. "The sky hasn't fallen yet." His gaze flickered towards the high window of the King’s study, a silent challenge thrown upwards.

Dazuma felt the phantom tremor of Nazuma’s strike vibrate through the oak desk. He pushed the signed ledger away, the ink still damp. "Permission to join Nazuma, Father?" The words tasted metallic, like licking a coin. Dracovis sighed, a sound like wind escaping a sealed tomb. "The tithes are signed. Go." Relief washed over Dazuma, swift and cool as a mountain stream. He was halfway to the door before the King’s low rumble stopped him: "Remember the bones, Dazuma. Remember the grounding."

Dazuma burst into the training yard, the scent of trampled earth and hot metal sharp in his nostrils. Nazuma spun, glaive a blur, forcing Vorik back. Seeing Dazuma, Nazuma flashed a grin brighter than summer lightning. "Late!" he called, deflecting Vorik’s thrust. "The wind’s been waiting!" Dazuma snatched a practice sword from the rack, its worn leather grip familiar against his palm. "The wind can wait," he countered, falling into step beside his brother. "The storm’s arrived." Their movements synchronized instantly, glaive and sword weaving a defensive net Vorik couldn't penetrate.

The Captain yielded, hands raised in surrender. "Enough! Two against one isn't fair odds." Nazuma laughed, clapping Vorik’s shoulder. "When are the odds ever fair?" Dazuma felt the restless energy humming beneath his skin settle, replaced by the familiar warmth of shared exertion. He looked at Nazuma, the wind-kissed hair plastered to his temples. "Race you to the Sky Tree?" Nazuma’s eyes lit up. Without a word, they dropped their weapons and sprinted towards the palace gates, leaving Vorik shaking his head amidst the settling dust. The barber pole spun on, unnoticed.

Dazuma surged ahead, lightning crackling faintly in his veins, propelling him forward. Cobblestones blurred beneath his boots. He felt the familiar pull of the storm within him, urging him faster. "Too slow, Wind-Feather!" he called back, exhilaration sharpening his voice. Nazuma grinned fiercely. He didn't run faster; he *became* lighter. A sudden gust, summoned with a flicker of crimson in his eyes, lifted him off the ground entirely. He skimmed the rooftops, robes billowing like sails, soaring over Dazuma’s head with a triumphant shout. The air itself became Nazuma’s path.

Dazuma snarled, not in anger, but fierce competition. He didn't try to jump; he channeled the raw power. Emerald light flared beneath his skin. With a sharp *crack* that echoed off the stone walls, he discharged a controlled burst of lightning *downwards*, kicking off the cobbles. The recoil launched him forward in a blinding arc, not flying, but vaulting with impossible speed. He landed hard, rolling to absorb the impact, momentarily ahead again. The scent of scorched ozone briefly overwhelmed the city smells. Nazuma landed nimbly beside him, eyes wide. "Show-off!" he gasped, already pushing forward.

They reached the edge of the city, the vast Sky Tree looming ahead, its ancient roots twisting into the earth. Neck and neck, they plunged into the dense thicket surrounding its base. Nazuma wove through the trees like a phantom, wind parting branches before him. Dazuma took the direct route, small arcs of lightning snapping at clinging vines, clearing his path. Roots snaked underfoot. Nazuma stumbled. Dazuma instinctively reached out, lightning flickering harmlessly around his fingers to steady him. For a heartbeat, they paused, breathing hard, sweat stinging their eyes. Nazuma’s grin was pure sunlight. "Draw?" he panted. Dazuma nodded, the storm within him quieting to a satisfied hum. "Draw." Together, they stepped into the cool, silent embrace of the Sky Tree’s shadow.

The stillness shattered. Four figures erupted from the dense undergrowth, practice swords gleaming dully. Not thieves—these were palace guards, faces grimly set beneath their helmets. Vorik’s men. One lunged low at Dazuma’s legs; another swept high at Nazuma’s shoulder. No warning shout, no challenge. Pure ambush. Dazuma reacted instantly, dropping into a crouch. Emerald light pulsed beneath his skin as he slammed a fist onto the mossy ground. A web of harmless, stinging sparks erupted outward, forcing his attackers back with startled yelps. Nazuma didn’t flinch. He spun away from the high slash, robes swirling. With a sharp exhale, he summoned a focused gust that whipped the attacker’s sword arm wide, sending the blade spinning harmlessly into the ferns.

"Captain’s orders!" barked the lead guard, recovering his stance. "Test the princes!" He signaled the others. They reformed, pressing forward with coordinated discipline this time, swords probing. Nazuma flowed between them, a blur of crimson-touched motion, using precise bursts of wind to deflect thrusts and unbalance feet. "Test us?" Nazuma laughed, ducking a swing. "He knows better!" Dazuma moved differently—not weaving, but anchoring. He met a blade descending towards Nazuma’s exposed back with his own forearm, catching the wood with a *thwack*. Emerald energy flared defensively along his arm, absorbing the impact. "Focus!" Dazuma growled, shoving the guard back. He saw Nazuma’s eyes flicker towards the Sky Tree’s trunk, understanding instantly.

Nazuma feigned a stumble towards the massive trunk. Two guards closed in, blades raised. Dazuma slammed his palms together. A sharp, concussive *crack* echoed through the grove—not destructive lightning, but controlled thunder. The sound wave hit the guards like a physical blow, staggering them, their ears ringing. In that instant of disorientation, Nazuma leaped. Not just a jump—a wind-propelled surge straight up the rough bark. He landed lightly ten feet above them, perched on a thick limb. Below, Dazuma stood firm, practice sword raised, emerald light flickering around him like a shield. The guards blinked up, stunned. Nazuma grinned down, wind stirring his hair. "Report back to Vorik," he called. "Tell him the wind and the storm... passed."

The bathhouse steam carried the sharp tang of pine soap and the deeper musk of heated volcanic rock. Nazuma sank deeper into the scalding water, the day’s grit dissolving. Across the pool, Dazuma leaned back against the smooth stone, eyes closed, tension visibly leaching from his shoulders. "Vorik’s getting predictable," Nazuma murmured, swirling his hand to create a tiny whirlpool. Dazuma cracked an eye open. "Predictably brutal. That ‘test’ felt like a real pincer move." He flexed his forearm where a faint bruise was forming. Nazuma snorted. "Only because you blocked that downward chop meant for my spine. Show-off." A flicker of amusement crossed Dazuma’s face. "Someone has to keep your feet on the ground, Wind-Feather." They lapsed into comfortable silence, the only sounds the drip of water and the distant clatter of the kitchens preparing dinner.

The long dining hall echoed with the clatter of silverware and the low murmur of conversation. Torchlight flickered off polished obsidian plates. King Dracovis sat at the head, Queen Onohall beside him, her white gown mirroring the topaz glints in her hair. Down the table sat Vorik, flanked by stern-faced Ri'ore cousins and visiting Voltaran ambassadors. Nazuma attacked his roast pheasant with gusto, recounting the ambush with vivid gestures. "...and then Daz just *boomed*! Sent them stumbling like drunkards!" Dazuma stabbed a root vegetable, focusing intently on his plate. "It was just noise, Naz. Enough to distract."

Vorik cleared his throat, his expression unreadable. "Distraction is a valuable tactic, Prince Dazuma." He paused, swirling his wine. "Though perhaps... less explosive methods exist." Queen Onohall’s sharp gaze flickered between her sons and the Captain. "Explosive or not," she said, her voice cool and clear as mountain air, "it secured the Sky Tree’s sanctity. And ensured both princes returned intact." She raised her goblet slightly towards Dazuma. "A mother’s thanks for that." Dracovis remained silent, watching Dazuma’s reaction, his emerald eyes thoughtful in the torchlight. The unspoken tension—the prophecy, the whispers, the Captain’s relentless testing—hung thick as the pheasant’s rich gravy.

The heavy oak doors at the hall’s far end groaned open. A sudden draft snuffed out several torches near the entrance, plunging that corner into shadow. A lone figure stood silhouetted against the dim corridor beyond. Tall, broad-shouldered, but moving with a stiff, unnerving gait, like a clockwork soldier wound too tight. Prince Myos, the Crown Prince, eldest son of Dracovis and Onohall, had returned. He wore travel-stained leathers, not armor, and carried no visible weapon. Yet an oppressive chill seemed to ripple outward from him, silencing the clatter and chatter instantly. The air grew heavy, tasting faintly of cold ash and damp stone. Nazuma’s fork froze halfway to his mouth. Dazuma felt the fine hairs on his neck prickle, his storm-sense recoiling from the unnatural stillness clinging to his brother. Queen Onohall’s knuckles whitened on her goblet. Ambassador Kelvos, seated near Vorik, subtly shifted his chair away.

Myos walked towards the high table. His footsteps were unnervingly silent on the stone floor. His face, usually stern but open, was a mask of carved obsidian, eyes hollow pits that scanned the room without truly seeing. He stopped a respectful distance from the King, bowing stiffly. "Father. Mother." His voice was a rasp, devoid of inflection, like stones grinding together. Vorik’s jaw tightened. Cousin Elara flinched, her hand instinctively clutching her pendant. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. King Dracovis studied his eldest son, his own expression unreadable. Then, with a deliberate slowness, he placed his knife and fork down, the clink unnaturally loud. "Ambassadors," Dracovis announced, his voice low but carrying effortlessly, "Captain Vorik. Please, continue your meal. Enjoy the pheasant." He rose. "Myos. Nazuma. Dazuma. Onohall. Join me in the Sunset Gallery. Now." He didn’t wait for acknowledgment, turning and striding towards the gallery doors. Onohall rose swiftly, her gown swirling as she followed, her gaze fixed on Myos with a mother’s fierce, unspoken dread.

The Sunset Gallery faced west, its tall windows open to a sky bruised purple and orange. The fading light couldn't penetrate the chill Myos carried. Dracovis stood by the balustrade, his back to them, looking out at the dying sun. Nazuma hovered near the doorway, restless as a caged breeze. Dazuma positioned himself slightly between Nazuma and Myos, his stance unconsciously defensive, the air around him crackling faintly with suppressed energy. Onohall moved directly to Myos, reaching out to touch his arm. He didn’t recoil, but neither did he react; her hand rested on cold leather, unyielding as stone. "Myos," she whispered, her voice thick. "What happened?" Dracovis turned. His gaze, sharp as fractured emerald, locked onto his eldest son. "Tell me," he commanded, his voice devoid of its usual rumble, flat and hard. "Tell me of the mission. Tell me of the northern border." The silence that followed was broken only by the distant cry of a hunting owl. Myos blinked slowly, his hollow eyes finally focusing on his father. When he spoke, the words were slow, deliberate, each one a labor. "Fire," he rasped. "Not... wildfire." He paused, a tremor running through him, brief but violent. "Living fire. It... walks."

He drew a shuddering breath, the sound like dry leaves scraping stone. "They... of The Daishin. They... awaited us. At Blackstone Pass." His gaze drifted past them, staring into some remembered horror. "Shrouded... in fire... and lightning. Theirs." He lifted his stiff hands, palms up, revealing thick, grey bandages wrapped tightly from wrist to knuckle. The cloth pulsed faintly with a sickly violet light. "Denkou... soldiers... brave. Fell... screaming." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Horrid. Dark." Dracovis stepped forward, his own hand outstretched. "Show me," he ordered, his voice low but urgent. Myos hesitated, a flicker of something ancient and terrified in his eyes. Then, with agonizing slowness, he began to unwind the bandages. Nazuma sucked in a sharp breath. Dazuma took an involuntary step back. Beneath the cloth, Myos's fingers were unnaturally grey, the skin cracked like dried mud. Veins, pulsing black as obsidian, snaked upwards towards his wrists. The air filled with the faint, acrid scent of citronella oil mixed with decay. "Hanobaki," Dracovis breathed, his face paling. "Daishin's rot." Without another word, the Emerald King placed his hands over Myos's. Emerald light flared, intense and pure, engulfing Myos’s forearms. A low hum filled the gallery. The black veins recoiled violently, writhing beneath the skin like trapped serpents, but they didn't retreat far. Sweat beaded on Dracovis's brow, his jaw clenched with strain. The light pulsed, pushing the corruption back inch by agonizing inch towards the wrists. Finally, the King gasped, the light dimming. The blackness was contained, halted just below the elbows, but the grey pallor remained. Myos let out a choked sob of profound relief, his rigid posture collapsing like cut strings. He pitched forward, unconscious, into his father's waiting arms.

Onohall was already moving, emerald light igniting in her palms like captured dawn. "Hold him," she commanded Dracovis, her voice steady despite the terror in her eyes. She didn't touch Myos directly; instead, she swept her hands wide. Bolts of pure white lightning silentl arced from her fingertips. They struck the polished marble floor, the obsidian pillars, the high windows. Instead of shattering, the light *adhered*, spreading outwards in a shimmering latticework. The gallery walls blurred momentarily, then solidified, radiating a gentle, pervasive warmth. The scent of ozone vanished, replaced by the clean, dry fragrance of sun-warmed stone. The oppressive chill Myos carried dissipated instantly, replaced by an atmosphere of profound stillness and comfort. The Sunset Gallery wasn't transformed into something else; it became *more* itself, amplified into a sanctuary. The dying light outside seemed brighter, softer, pouring through the windows now imbued with Onohall's gentle luminescence. Dazuma felt the restless storm within him quieten, soothed by the palpable peace radiating from the very walls.

"His true-name," Onohall murmured, her gaze locked onto her unconscious son. Her hands wove intricate patterns in the air, trails of soft emerald light lingering where they passed. "He forgets it. The rot eats memory." The light coalesced into shimmering symbols above Myos's chest – complex, shifting glyphs that pulsed with quiet power. "We must remind him." Dracovis lowered Myos gently onto the warm floor, the marble seeming to cradle him. He placed his own hands, still glowing faintly emerald, over Onohall's green symbols. Their powers merged, emerald and green swirling together into a deep, vibrant gold. The light sank into Myos's chest. He stirred, a faint groan escaping his lips. Nazuma knelt beside his brother, leaning close. "Myos," he whispered, his voice imbued with the subtle pressure of summoned wind, carrying the name directly into his brother's ear. "Prince Myos Ri'ore Denkou. Son of Dracovis and Storm. Remember."

A sharp rap, precise as a woodpecker's strike, echoed from the gallery's sealed obsidian doors. Onohall didn't turn. "Enter." The doors slid open silently. Three figures entered, clad not in palace livery but in unadorned grey robes of finely woven sky-silk. Their faces were calm masks, eyes sharp and observant. The leader, a woman with hair the colour of storm clouds and hands that moved with swift certainty, bowed low. "Your Majesty. Flonne House attends." Onohall gestured towards Myos, still prone on the warmed marble. "Stabilize him. Contain the corruption. Utmost discretion." The Flonne healers moved as one, surrounding Myos. Their hands didn't glow; instead, they produced slender needles forged from lightning and vials of viscous, silver liquid that shimmered with captured moonlight. The air filled with the clean scent of crushed herbs and ozone, faintly metallic. Dracovis stood guard, a silent sentinel. With a sharp gesture, he traced a complex sigil in the air before the gallery doors. Emerald light flared briefly, then solidified into a shimmering barrier, sealing the chamber tighter than a tomb. Sound from the hall ceased instantly; the outside world ceased to exist.

The Flonne leader pressed a needle dipped in silver liquid precisely where the black veins pulsed strongest beneath Myos’s grey skin. A hiss escaped Myos’s lips, but he didn’t stir. "The rot is potent, Majesty," the healer murmured, her voice low and devoid of panic. "Daishin’s touch. It seeks the core, the true-name." Another healer applied cool, damp cloths infused with crushed sky-bloom petals to Myos’s forehead and wrists, the scent momentarily overwhelming the decay. "We can halt its advance, bind it for now," she added, her fingers deftly wrapping fresh bandages infused with threads of spun moonlight around Myos’s forearms. The grey pallor seemed less stark against the luminous fabric. "But eradication? That requires… deeper measures. And his remembrance." Nazuma watched, fists clenched, the air around him unnaturally still. Dazuma felt the suppressed storm within him coil tighter, a silent counterpoint to the healers’ quiet efficiency.

King Dracovis watched his eldest son, his face carved from granite. "See it done," he commanded, his voice rough-edged. He turned his gaze, heavy as mountain stone, onto Nazuma and Dazuma. "You two. To your chambers. Now." He gestured sharply towards Vorik, who had silently entered the gallery moments before. "Captain. Escort them. Ensure they rest." Vorik bowed stiffly. "Majesty." Nazuma opened his mouth, protest forming. "Father, we should—" Dracovis cut him off with a sharp look. "You should obey." The finality in his tone brooked no argument. Onohall didn’t look away from Myos, her hands still weaving protective sigils in the air, but she murmured, "Go, my birds. Sleep." Reluctantly, Nazuma and Dazuma followed Vorik out of the transformed gallery, the sanctuary fading behind them as the obsidian doors slid shut with a soft *thump*.

Vorik marched them through hushed corridors, his usual stoicism deepened into grim silence. Palace guards melted away before them, sensing the tension. Only when they reached the heavy oak door to their shared suite, carved with entwined symbols of wind and storm, did Vorik speak. "Rest," he ordered, his voice clipped. "The King’s word." He didn’t wait for acknowledgment, turning sharply on his heel and striding back down the corridor, his footsteps echoing like distant thunder. Nazuma shoved the door open, Dazuma close behind. They entered their familiar chamber – high ceilings, tapestries depicting ancient storms, twin beds separated by a low table piled with scrolls and discarded practice gear. Nazuma slammed the door shut harder than necessary, the *bang* echoing in the sudden quiet. "Rest?" he hissed, pacing like a caged hawk. "How can we rest? Did you *see* him? Myos… he looked… hollowed out. Like something scraped him clean." He shuddered.

Dazuma moved to the window, staring out at the darkening city below. "The rot," he murmured. "Hanobaki. Daishin’s fire." He turned to Nazuma, his eyes troubled. "Father stopped it… barely. But what *is* it? How did it get to Myos?" Nazuma stopped pacing, leaning against the carved bedpost. "It’s… corrupted Naten. Twisted life-force." He frowned, thinking back to lessons with ancient tutors. "It reminds me… of the stories. The First Emerald King. Ains Vulkin Ri’ore." Nazuma’s voice dropped lower. "After he married the First Ruby Queen… the great union… but then…" Dazuma nodded slowly. "The Sundering. The loss." Nazuma pushed off the bedpost. "Exactly! The histories say the union *should* have strengthened both magics. But instead… Wind magic vanished from Denkou. For centuries. Until…" He gestured at himself. "Until me." Dazuma frowned. "But I’m not the *only* one, Dazu." Nazuma’s eyes lit up. "That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you! Remember Princess Daitsuya? From the Denkai delegation last year? Born a year before us." Dazuma recalled a quiet girl with eyes like polished amber. "The one who barely spoke?" Nazuma nodded eagerly. "Exactly! She didn’t *speak*… but I *felt* it. When she walked past that tapestry, the one with the ships? The fabric stirred. Not from draughts. From *her*. A tiny breath, barely there. But it was Wind Naten." He leaned forward, his voice intense. "I think she has it too, Dazu. Hidden. Like… like ours was supposed to be separate." He looked towards the door, towards the distant Sunset Gallery. "And if Wind magic is returning… maybe that’s why Daishin’s fire is rising too."

Dazuma stared at Nazuma. "Wind… returning? After centuries?" He shook his head sharply. "No. That’s impossible." His jaw tightened. "All Denkai use Lightning magic. Their entire bloodline is Storm-forged. Like ours." He gestured emphatically. "Their nobles channel lightning. Their smiths forge with thunder. Their healers mend with sparks." He paced towards the hearth, where embers glowed faintly. "Wind magic vanished from Denkou centuries ago. It belongs to Aerdria’s line… our mother’s line." He turned back, frustration sharpening his tone. "Daitsuya Denkai? Her mother is Queen Ar’Gen—the Storm. “

Dazuma sighed, leaning back against the sturdy oak frame of his bed. He rubbed his temples, the faint crackle beneath his skin finally dormant. "Naz," he said, his voice flat with weary patience. "Denkai. They're cousins to Voltara. They *only* wield lightning. Like me. Like Father. Like everyone else *except* you." He met Nazuma’s hopeful gaze squarely. "You saw dust motes stirred by a draft. Or maybe she tripped. There *is* no other wind magic user. That’s why Vorik watches you like a hawk circling prey. That’s why you’re… different."

Nazuma slumped onto the window ledge, moonlight silvering his wind-kissed locs. "Different," he echoed, not sounding entirely convinced about Daitsuya, but latching onto the core truth. "But… I can be strong. Stronger. Like Father. Strong enough to face… *that*." He gestured vaguely towards the gallery far below. Dazuma pushed off the bed frame, crossing the room to stand beside him. He looked out at the vast, star-strewn sky, the distant peaks silhouetted against the moon. "Strength?" His voice was quiet, almost lost in the vastness of the night. "Maybe. But Naz… I just want the sky. Open. No walls. No whispers. No rot. Just… free." The longing in his words hung heavy in the air between them, a stark counterpoint to Nazuma’s fierce ambition and the unseen horror now festering within their own palace walls.

A soft scraping sound came from the balcony door, followed by a muffled curse. Both princes froze, instantly alert. The latch clicked open slowly, and a head crowned with messy dark curls cautiously peered inside. Evant, heir to House Urso, slipped through the gap, his usual cheerful grin replaced by wide-eyed concern. He clutched a small, slightly dented tin box. "Saw the guards marching you back like prisoners," he whispered, shutting the door silently behind him. "Heard whispers… something happened? With Myos?" Evant’s gaze darted between them, landing finally, inevitably, on Dazuma. His cheeks flushed faintly in the moonlight. "Are you both alright?"

Nazuma shot upright, wind swirling briefly around his ankles. "Evant! How did you—?" He cut himself off, glancing sharply at Dazuma. "It's... nothing. Just palace business. Father's orders. Secret." His words tumbled out too fast, unconvincing.

Evant shuffled further into the room, clutching the dented tin box like a shield. His gaze flickered nervously towards Dazuma again, a blush deepening on his cheeks in the moonlight. "Secret palace business that makes guards look like they're escorting traitors?" Evant pressed softly, his usual easy charm replaced by genuine worry. "You look spooked, Naz. And Dazu..." He trailed off, unable to articulate the stormy tension he saw in Dazuma's stillness. Dazuma cleared his throat, forcing his shoulders to relax. "We're fine, Evant. Truly." His voice was calm, steady, but his eyes held Evant's just a fraction too long before looking away.

Nazuma groaned dramatically, flopping back onto the window ledge. "Fine, fine! Secrets are *boring* anyway. Evant, distract us! What's in the box? Something fun?" He gestured impatiently at the tin Evant held. Evant blinked, momentarily thrown, then a hesitant grin spread across his face. "Oh! Right! Found these crazy old Sky-Tiles Grandmother swore were cursed." He popped the lid open, revealing intricately painted ceramic tiles depicting stylized clouds, lightning bolts, and swirling winds. "Supposedly, they predict storms... or tell fortunes... or summon spurtles? Honestly, she was a bit vague. But they're pretty!" He dumped them onto Nazuma's bedspread with a clatter.

The tension dissolved into the familiar rhythm of their friendship. Nazuma immediately grabbed tiles, arranging them into nonsensical patterns. "See? This one says Vorik will trip over his own spear tomorrow! Definitely cursed!" Evant laughed, the sound warm in the quiet room. Dazuma picked up a tile painted with a jagged bolt, his thumb tracing the lines. He glanced at Evant, who was grinning at Nazuma's antics, then quickly looked down. Hours melted away as they played, inventing ridiculous rules and fortunes, Evant's easy presence a balm against the gallery's chill memory. Eventually, the moon dipped low. Yawns replaced laughter. Nazuma drifted off first, sprawled across his bed, tiles scattered around him. Evant slumped against the bedpost, head nodding. Dazuma watched Evant's steady breathing for a moment in the dim light, a quiet ache in his chest. Then, with a sigh softer than the night breeze, he pulled a spare blanket over Evant's shoulders before settling onto the floor nearby, the painted lightning tile still clutched loosely in his hand. Sleep claimed them all, tangled in the comfortable chaos of their shared sanctuary, the horrors of Blackstone Pass momentarily held at bay.

The next morning arrived not with whispers of rot, but with the frantic clatter of preparation. Denkou’s annual Royal Gala bloomed across the palace grounds like a forced flower. Servants draped banners depicting entwined wind and storm sigils over every archway. Musicians tuned instruments near the Sky Tree pavilion, their melodies clashing with the hammering of carpenters assembling viewing platforms. The scent of roasting spiced meats and honey-glazed pastries battled the lingering ozone from yesterday’s lightning. Nazuma groaned, burying his head under a pillow. "Gala? *Now*?" Evant stretched, blinking blearily. "Free food? Count me in!" Dazuma stood by the window, watching the controlled chaos below. Guards lined the perimeter, more numerous than usual, their expressions grim beneath ceremonial helms. Vorik’s stern face scanned the gathering crowd near the palace gates. The air itself felt thicker, subtly charged—House Urso’s barriers humming invisibly, reinforced by Minaru wards woven into the very stone pathways. Optimism was mandatory armor today.

The Sunset Gallery remained sealed, a silent scar beneath the gilded festivities. King Dracovis and Queen Onohall emerged onto the Sky Tree Pavilion precisely at noon, their regalia flawless emerald and ruby silk. Only Nazuma noticed the slight stiffness in his father’s movements, the faint shadows beneath his mother’s eyes. Beside them stood King Ar’Groven of Denkai, imposing in deep purple robes etched with stylized lightning forks, and Queen Ar’Gen, serene in silver-grey, flanked by their six daughters. Princess Daitsuya stood slightly apart, her amber eyes darting nervously. Nazuma nudged Dazuma. *See?* Dazuma ignored him, his gaze fixed on the arrivals: Dol’ara Ri’ore banners beside Ange’ Flonne healers discreetly stationed near refreshment tables; Oradara Gamallow merchants displaying sky-metal jewelry; Minaru Urso representatives deep in conversation with Vorik, pointing towards the reinforced palace walls. Evant’s father, Lord Urso, stood nearby, his usual joviality replaced by sharp-eyed vigilance. Every noble house was present, every defense heightened. The air crackled with unspoken tension.

Dazuma scanned the crowd, his instincts prickling. Something felt *off*. Beside him, Evant fidgeted with his formal doublet. "King Ar’Groven keeps staring at you," Evant whispered, nodding subtly towards the Denkai monarch. Dazuma glanced over. Ar’Groven’s gaze wasn't hostile, but intensely focused—studying Dazuma’s posture, his hands, the faint emerald tracery visible at his collar. Queen Ar’Gen leaned close, murmuring something to her husband. He shook his head slowly, his expression unreadable. Princess Daitsuya caught Nazuma’s eye and offered a hesitant smile. Nazuma grinned back, a spark of crimson flickering briefly in his own gaze. Daitsuya flinched, her hand instinctively brushing a tapestry beside her. The heavy fabric rippled softly, untouched by any breeze. Nazuma’s grin widened. *Told you!* Dazuma clenched his jaw. Denkai wielded lightning. Always. Yet... that ripple. That impossible ripple. His gaze snapped back to Ar’Groven. The King was now watching Nazuma, a deep frown etched on his weathered face.

King Ar’Groven’s gaze was a blade. It sliced abruptly from Nazuma’s triumphant grin to Princess Daitsuya’s startled face, silencing their unspoken exchange. His eyes narrowed, sharp as obsidian shards. Daitsuya froze, her cheeks flushing crimson, her fingers curling tightly into the silver embroidery of her gown. She looked away instantly, staring fixedly at the polished marble floor. Nazuma’s grin vanished, replaced by confusion and a flicker of defiance. He met Ar’Groven’s stare head-on, the air around him growing unnaturally still. The Denkai King’s expression didn’t soften. It hardened into cold disapproval. He leaned towards Queen Ar’Gen, whispering fiercely. Her serene mask faltered, replaced by a flash of alarm before she smoothed it back into placid neutrality. The brief, hopeful connection between Nazuma and Daitsuya had been severed with brutal precision.

The formal procession began. King Dracovis stepped forward, his voice resonating with forced warmth. "Welcome, honored kin of Denkai! May our bonds strengthen beneath the Sky Tree’s boughs!" Applause rippled through the crowd, polite but subdued. Ar’Groven inclined his head stiffly. "Our ties are forged in storm, Dracovis," he replied, his tone flat. "May they endure." His eyes flickered back towards Nazuma, then Daitsuya, lingering on her bowed head. The implication hung heavy in the charged air: *Endure despite interference.* Nazuma shifted uncomfortably. Evant nudged Dazuma’s arm. "What was *that*?" he breathed. Dazuma shook his head slightly, his own gaze locked on Ar’Groven’s stern profile. The Denkai King wasn't just disapproving; he was actively silencing something. Protecting Daitsuya? Or hiding her? The impossible ripple felt less like hope and more like a dangerous secret.

Music swelled as the first courtly dances commenced. Lords and ladies paired off beneath the Sky Tree’s ancient canopy. Nazuma remained rooted near the pavilion edge, watching Daitsuya being led onto the floor by a Denkai cousin. Her movements were graceful but stiff, her eyes downcast. Ar’Groven observed her like a hawk. Dazuma felt Evant’s tentative touch on his elbow. "Dance?" Evant asked, his voice hopeful despite the tension. Dazuma hesitated, scanning the crowd again. Vorik stood rigid near a Minaru Urso representative, his hand resting conspicuously on his sword hilt. Guards lined every archway. The Flonne healers lingered near the refreshments, their grey robes stark against the festive colors. The gala’s forced optimism felt brittle, a thin veneer over the rot festering unseen. He turned back to Evant, forcing a small nod. "Alright," he said quietly. "One dance." Evant’s answering smile was a fragile beam of sunlight piercing the gathering storm clouds.

Nazuma saw his opening as the Denkai cousin bowed and retreated. He strode forward before Ar’Groven could intervene, stopping directly before Daitsuya. He offered his hand, palm up, the gesture formal yet earnest. "Princess Daitsuya," he said, his voice clear above the music. "Would you honor me with this dance?" Daitsuya’s amber eyes widened, flicking nervously towards her father. Ar’Groven’s stern face darkened instantly. He stepped between them, a mountain of disapproval in deep purple silk. "Prince Nazuma," he stated, his voice cold and clipped as winter hail. "The Princess is fatigued from her journey. She will not dance." His gaze locked onto Nazuma’s, forbidding any argument. Daitsuya flinched, shrinking back, her hopeful spark extinguished.

King Dracovis moved with deliberate calm, placing a firm hand on Ar’Groven’s shoulder. The Denkai King stiffened. "Cousin," Dracovis said, his voice low but resonating with undeniable authority that silenced the nearby chatter. Emerald light pulsed faintly beneath his skin. "This is a celebration of unity. Denkou and Denkai, wind and storm." He gestured towards Nazuma and Daitsuya. "Let the children dance." Ar’Groven’s jaw tightened, his knuckles whitening on his goblet. He met Dracovis’s unwavering emerald gaze—the gaze of the Emerald King’s vessel. The air crackled with silent power. Ar’Groven glanced at Daitsuya’s pleading eyes, then back at Dracovis. Resistance drained from his posture. He inclined his head stiffly, a single sharp nod. "As you command, Your Majesty." The Emerald King’s word was law.

Nazuma offered his hand again. Daitsuya placed hers in it, her touch trembling slightly. As they stepped onto the polished marble floor, Nazuma summoned a gentle breeze. It lifted the edges of Daitsuya’s silver-grey gown, swirling dust motes into dancing constellations. Across the pavilion, Dazuma guided Evant through the steps, his movements precise and grounded, a counterpoint to Nazuma’s effortless glide. Daitsuya’s nervousness melted away as Nazuma led her into a graceful turn. A tiny, genuine smile touched her lips. Nazuma grinned back, crimson light flickering softly in his eyes. For a fleeting moment, beneath the watchful gaze of kings and the hidden dread, they moved in perfect harmony—wind and storm dancing not as gods, but as hopeful youths beneath the ancient Sky Tree.

High above the pavilion, on a wide stone overpass connecting the palace wings, Queen Onohall leaned against the balustrade. Beside her stood Queen Ar’Gen of Denkai, her serene mask finally slipping to reveal weary lines around her eyes. "Nine years," Onohall murmured, watching Nazuma guide Daitsuya. "Since the twins' birth. Since we last stood together." Ar’Gen sighed softly. "Too long, sister. Your Nazuma... he carries the Ruby Queen's breathe openly." She glanced towards Ar’Groven, his stern gaze fixed on the dancers. "Daitsuya... she hides hers. Barely."

A swirl of vibrant silk announced another arrival. Nathevia Dol’ara, retired mentor of Denkai’s royal house, joined them, leaning heavily on an ornate cane carved from sky-wood. Her sharp eyes missed nothing. "Hiding only fuels suspicion, Ar’Gen," she rasped, voice like wind through dry reeds. "Fire seeks air. Wind seeks storm. Denying it breeds rot." She nodded towards Nazuma and Daitsuya. "Look. Denkai wind *and* Denkou wind. Dancing. Not warring."

Two more figures emerged onto the overpass. Vaelorith Ordara, combat specialist, moved with predatory grace, her gaze scanning the crowd below like a hawk seeking prey. Beside her, Zythalia Minaru radiated calm authority, her hands clasped loosely before her. "The barriers hold strong," Zythalia stated, her voice low and resonant. "For now. But Daishin’s whispers coil deeper." Vaelorith’s hand rested on the pommel of her ceremonial dagger. "Let them come," she said, a flicker of emerald light dancing in her pupils. "Denkou’s blades remember how to cut corruption." Below, Nazuma spun Daitsuya, her laughter a fragile chime rising above the tense music. Onohall watched her son, then her gathered sisters. A fragile thread of unity, woven anew.

Onohall turned to Ar’Gen, her amber eyes sharpening like twin blades. "What did you do to her?" she demanded softly, gesturing towards Daitsuya’s swirling gown. "Her Naten’s Sigil wasn't Denkai lightning. It was *wind*. Pure wind." Ar’Gen flinched, her serene mask crumbling further. She glanced towards Ar’Groven, still watching Daitsuya like a jailer, then back at Onohall, resignation settling over her features. "He called it 'Ascension'," she whispered, her voice thick with unshed tears. "Daitsuya... she carries Valkyrie magic. The female echo of Nazuma’s gift." Nathevia hissed softly, her knuckles tightening on her cane. "The Ruby Queen’s breath... in Denkai?" Zythalia’s calm gaze sharpened. "Impossible. Unless..."

Ar’Gen’s shoulders slumped. "After Hytsuya was born seven years ago," she confessed, the words tumbling out like stones, "Ar’Groven became obsessed. He feared Denkai’s lightning was weakening. He found ancient scrolls... rituals." She swallowed hard. "He subjected all our daughters. A procedure. It awakened their dormant Valkyrie lineage... but it severed their connection to the Rai-father." She looked down at Daitsuya, spinning beneath Nazuma’s gentle breeze. "It cost them their birthright. Their lightning." Onohall recoiled, emerald light flickering dangerously in her palms. "He *mutilated* them? For power?" Nathevia’s cane tapped sharply. "Fool! Wind *is* storm’s breath! Severing one weakens both!" Below, Daitsuya laughed again, the sound pure and bright. Ar’Gen’s voice broke. "They’re shadows now. Daitsuya... she struggles to control even a breeze." Zythalia’s calm facade cracked. "A Denkai’s storm is never crippled," she breathed. "That’s why Ar’Groven fears Nazuma. He sees the true wind... the power he had is lost."

The tension eased fractionally as Ar’Gen wiped her eyes. "Daitsuya still loves storms," she murmured, forcing a small smile. "She collects sky-glass fragments after every thunderclap." Onohall’s anger softened. "Nazuma does the same! He lines his windowsill with them." Nathevia chuckled, a dry rasp. "Little magpies, both." Zythalia gestured towards the dancers. "Look at them move. Like complementary currents." Below, Nazuma guided Daitsuya into a slow circle, her silver gown shimmering like captured moonlight. Evant stumbled slightly beside Dazuma, earning a rare, fleeting grin from his partner. "Evant’s enthusiasm is... infectious," Onohall observed drily. Ar’Gen managed a genuine laugh. "He reminds me of Lord Urso at that beanfeast in Denkai years ago. Remember? He danced with that enormous pastry?" Nathevia snorted. "Nearly flattened Ar’Gen!" The shared memory warmed the air.

Ar’Groven’s thunderous expression hadn’t softened. He watched Nazuma’s hand rest lightly on Daitsuya’s waist, saw her tentative smile widen as Nazuma murmured something that made her laugh aloud—a clear, bright sound that sliced through the strained music. Ar’Groven’s grip tightened on his untouched goblet. He saw not a prince charming, but a walking reminder of his own failure, his daughters’ stolen heritage. As the dance ended, Nazuma bowed deeply. Daitsuya curtsied, her amber eyes sparkling. Before Nazuma could escort her back, Ar’Groven strode forward, a purple-clad stormcloud descending onto the marble floor. He seized Daitsuya’s arm, pulling her roughly behind him. "Enough," he growled, his voice low but carrying. "The Princess retires." Gasps rippled through the nearby nobles. Daitsuya’s face crumpled. Nazuma stiffened, crimson light flaring briefly in his eyes. "King Ar’Groven, she was enjoying—"

King Dracovis moved instantly, placing himself between his son and the Denkai king. His voice, resonant with the Emerald King’s power, cut through the murmurs like lightning cleaving stone. "Brother." The single word held command. He didn’t touch Ar’Groven, but his presence was an immovable barrier. "The Princess danced willingly. Show courtesy." Ar’Groven met Dracovis’s emerald gaze, fury warring with ingrained respect for him. He glanced at Daitsuya’s tear-filled eyes, then back at Dracovis. The silence stretched, thick and brittle. Finally, Ar’Groven released Daitsuya’s arm with a jerk. "My apologies," he ground out, the words tasting foul. He inclined his head stiffly to Dracovis, then steered a trembling Daitsuya away without another word.

Nazuma watched them go, fists clenched, the air around him unnaturally still. Evant hurried to his side. "That was... intense." Dazuma joined them, his gaze locked on Ar’Groven’s retreating back. "He’s terrified," Dazuma murmured. "Not angry. Terrified of what she might become." Nazuma scowled. "Terrified enough to cage her?" Dracovis turned to his sons, weariness etching deep lines beside his eyes. "Denkai’s storms run deep and troubled," he said quietly. "Do not provoke him further tonight."

A sharp clap from Lord Urso shattered the lingering tension. "Gifts!" he boomed, forcing joviality. "Denkai honors our alliance!" Servants streamed forward bearing ornate chests. Ar’Groven, visibly composing himself near the Sky Tree’s roots, gestured stiffly. The first chest opened, revealing shimmering bolts of sky-silk woven with threads of captured lightning. "For the Queen," Ar’Groven declared, his voice flat. Onohall inclined her head gracefully. "Denkai’s generosity warms us." Next came intricate pyrolizers – devices that condensed pure storm-light into glowing orbs. Evant leaned toward Dazuma. "Bet those could power half the palace lamps." Dazuma nodded silently, his eyes narrowing at the devices' complex inner coils.

King Dracovis stepped forward, emerald light pulsing faintly beneath his formal robes. "Denkou offers Denkai tokens of enduring kinship." Gamallow craftsmen presented a polished obsidian plinth etched with the entwined wind-and-storm sigil. "A symbol," Dracovis stated, "forged in unity." Ar’Groven touched the cool stone, his expression unreadable. Beside it, Nazuma placed a small velvet box before Princess Daitsuya, who stood rigidly beside her father. Inside lay a single, flawless piece of sky-glass, its heart swirling with captured crimson dawnlight. "A fragment," Nazuma said softly, "from the highest spire after last week’s gale." Daitsuya’s amber eyes widened, a tiny gasp escaping her lips. Before Ar’Groven could react, she snatched the box, clutching it tightly to her chest. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice trembling but defiant.

Lord Urso unfurled a thick parchment scroll onto a ceremonial table. "The Renewal!" he announced. King Dracovis dipped a stylus tipped with liquid emerald light. King Ar’Groven took his own, charged with crackling purple energy. They signed simultaneously – Dracovis’s signature flowed like wind, Ar’Groven’s jagged like lightning. As the inks met on the parchment, a soft chime resonated through the pavilion, sealing the trade pacts and mutual defense accords. Vorik relaxed his grip on his sword hilt a fraction. Evant grinned. "See? Optimism wins." Dazuma watched Ar’Groven’s stony face, then Daitsuya clutching her sky-glass like a stolen treasure. "For now," he murmured. "The rot’s still creeping."

The gala dissolved into subdued farewells. Denkai’s delegation retreated swiftly towards their sky-sleds, Ar’Groven shielding Daitsuya and her sisters like a fortress wall. Nazuma stared after her, a knot of frustration tightening his chest. "He treats them like a prisoners," he muttered. Evant clapped his shoulder. "Give it time, Naz. Diplomacy’s a slow burn." Dazuma remained silent, his gaze fixed on the obsidian plinth. The entwined sigil pulsed faintly where the inks had mingled – a fragile, temporary glow. He felt the hum of Minaru wards beneath his boots, the lingering ozone from the pyrolizers. The defenses were strong, the alliance sealed. Yet the air tasted like impending thunder.

King Dracovis’s summons came as Nazuma paced his chambers. A royal guard delivered it tersely: "His Majesty requires your presence. Prince Myos’s recovery suite. Immediately." Nazuma exchanged a glance with Dazuma, who had been silently observing Nazuma’s agitation. Evant, lingering near the door, frowned. "Myos? He’s awake?" Dazuma’s expression hardened. "Awake enough to be summoned." They moved through the palace corridors, the celebratory banners suddenly garish. The air grew colder near Myos’s suite, thick with the cloying scent of medicinal herbs and something darker – charred flesh and decay barely masked. Two royal healers flanked the ornate door, their faces grim.

Inside, the room felt tomb-like. Heavy velvet drapes blocked the moonlight. King Dracovis stood rigidly beside the bed, his face etched with exhaustion and something deeper – dread. On the bed, propped against silk pillows, lay Prince Myos. Bandages swathed his torso and left arm, ending abruptly at the elbow. The once-handsome heir to Denkou looked shattered. His unbandage eye, fever-bright and venomous, locked onto Dazuma the moment he entered. "Ah," Myos rasped, his voice a ruin of smoke and gravel. "The Lightning Rod himself. Come to gloat over your *spare*?" Nazuma flinched. "Myos—"

"Silence!" Myos snarled, spittle flecking his bandages. He shifted his glare to Dracovis. "You sent me north, Father. Sent me to die amidst those… *things*." His voice cracked. "The Hanobaki weren’t just worshipping Daishin. They *were*…. Flesh melting, bones twisting… feeding on our lightning." He shuddered violently. "They swarmed us. Chewed through wards like Thanksgiving feast. Tore, Kaelen, apart screaming. Took my arms… while you sat here, safe in your Emerald palace!" His accusation hung thick, poisonous. Dracovis remained motionless, but Nazuma saw the tremor in his father’s clasped hands. "You held the border, Myos," Dracovis said, his voice strained. "You saved countless lives."

Myos let out a bark of harsh, painful laughter. "Saved? I led them to slaughter!" He pointed his bandaged fingers accusingly at the twins. "And *they*… they should have been there! The mighty Lightning Rod! The powerful Storm Fang! But no, you kept your precious vessels *here*, dancing while Denkou bled!" Dazuma met Myos’s hate-filled gaze, his own face impassive. "The Hanobaki feast on corrupted Naten," Dracovis stated calmly. "Denkou lightning draws them like moths to a pyre. Sending me north would have drawn the entire horde onto your position." Myos froze. The logic was undeniable, a tactical truth he hadn’t considered in his pain and fury. His eye flickered with confusion, then reignited with fresh, desperate rage. "Liar!" he screamed, thrashing against his restraints. "You wanted me gone! Wanted to give him my throne!" He collapsed back, gasping, tears mixing with the sweat on his ravaged face. "The Daishin promised… promised power… vengeance…" The whispered admission slithered out, chilling the room. Dracovis paled. Nazuma felt the air leave his lungs. The Hanobaki hadn’t just attacked Myos. They had whispered to him. The corruption hadn’t just crept. It had sunk its claws deep.

A soft rustle came from the shadows near the heavy drapes. The Flonne Medic stepped forward, her movements unnervingly silent. Her robes were simple grey linen, smelling faintly of crushed mint and damp earth. Her eyes, large and dark as polished river stones, settled on Myos. "Prince Myos," she murmured, her voice low and soothing, like water flowing over smooth pebbles. "The pain speaks. The poison speaks. Not you." She moved closer to the bed, ignoring the palpable tension. "The Daishin’s fire twists thought into thorn. It remolds truth into nightmare." She placed a cool hand gently on Myos’s unbandaged forehead. "You must fight," she urged softly. "Fight the curse that wraps your words. Your spirit is strong. It remembers Denkou’s sky-light." Myos flinched away from her touch, a choked sob escaping him. "It… it promised…" he whispered again, weaker now, the venom draining slightly under her calm gaze. "Only lies," the Flonne Medic affirmed, her tone unwavering. "Fight the whispers. Claim your voice." Dracovis watched, a flicker of desperate hope warring with the horror in his eyes.

Nazuma found his voice, stepping forward. "Myos," he began, his tone gentle but firm. "The Hanobaki didn’t just wound you. They tried to steal your honor. Your loyalty to Denkou. Don’t let them win." Dazuma remained silent, his gaze fixed on the Flonne Medic’s hand. He saw faint emerald light pulse beneath her fingertips where they touched Myos’s skin – not healing light, but purification light. Cleansing the tainted Naten. Myos shuddered violently, turning his face into the pillow. "Leave," he rasped, muffled. "All of you… just leave." The Flonne Medic nodded slowly, withdrawing her hand. "Rest now, Prince. The fight continues when you wake." She gestured subtly towards the door. Dracovis lingered a moment longer, his hand hovering near his son’s shoulder before clenching into a fist and turning away. The twins followed him out, the heavy door closing with a soft thud behind them, sealing Myos once more in his tomb of pain and poisoned promises.

Outside, the corridor felt jarringly bright. Evant waited anxiously. "How is he?" Nazuma shook his head, his earlier frustration replaced by a cold dread. "He heard Daishin," Dazuma stated flatly. "The Hanobaki spoke for it." Evant’s eyes widened in horror. "Then the corruption… it’s inside the palace?" Dracovis leaned heavily against the cool stone wall, the weariness etched deep into his face suddenly overwhelming. "Not just inside," he said, his voice thick with a terrible realization. "It’s inside *him*. Inside my heir." He looked towards the closed door, then at the twins, his expression hardening into grim resolve. "The whispers have found their voice. The rot has reached the bone."

They walked towards the entertainment wing in heavy silence, the festive banners lining the halls now mocking reminders of the fragile peace shattered in Myos’s suite. The scent of roasting meats and sweet pastries from the kitchens drifted incongruously through the air. Evant hurried ahead, murmuring apologies to nobles still lingering from the gala, clearing a path. Nazuma kept pace beside Dracovis, his mind replaying Myos’s venomous accusations. Dazuma trailed slightly behind, his gaze distant, fingers tracing faint sparks against the seam of his tunic.

The vast entertainment hall buzzed with subdued chatter. Queen Onohall sat in the royal box, her posture regal but her eyes shadowed. She gestured for them to join her as the heavy velvet curtains began to part. Below, the stage glowed with soft light, revealing a painted backdrop of Denkai’s ancient storm-plains. "The play begins," Onohall murmured as Dracovis sank heavily beside her, Nazuma and Dazuma taking flanking seats. Evant slipped into a chair behind them. "A reminder," she added softly, her gaze lingering on her husband’s strained face, "of strength forged in fire."

The opening scene unfolded: a young Dracovis, portrayed by an actor crackling with restrained emerald energy, knelt beside a dying King Ri’ore. The old king’s trembling hand pointed towards a swirling vortex of crimson and black fire consuming the horizon – De’on Singapore Ri’ore, Dracovis’s adopted brother, now a vessel for Daishin’s fury. "Denkai burns," the actor croaked. "Only you… the Emerald King’s chosen… can bind the storm… stop him." Young Dracovis clenched his fists, lightning arcing across his knuckles. "I will bring him home, Father," he vowed, his voice thick with grief and resolve. The scene shifted abruptly: De’on, wreathed in demonic fire atop a crumbling Astral spire, laughed as Dracovis approached alone. "Come, *brother*!" De’on roared, his corrupted voice echoing through the hall. "See the power Daishin grants! Join the flame!" Nazuma leaned forward, captivated despite the turmoil, unconsciously mirroring Dracovis’s own tense posture beside him. The confrontation, the heart of Denkou’s salvation, was about to unfold.

On stage, Dracovis didn't charge. He planted his feet firmly on the painted storm-plains, facing the fiery vortex that was De’on. Emerald light pulsed steadily beneath his skin. "Singapore," Dracovis called, his voice amplified by subtle stagecraft to resonate with quiet command, cutting through De’on’s crackling fury. "Remember the Sky Tree sapling we planted? You swore you’d see it touch the heavens." De’on’s fiery form hesitated, the flames flickering erratically. A flicker of the brother Nazuma barely remembered surfaced briefly in the actor’s eyes – confusion, pain. "Lies!" De’on shrieked, but the fire recoiled slightly. "Daishin shows truth! Power!" Dracovis raised a hand, not to attack, but palm outward. "Truth is Denkai’s dawn wind singing through its branches *right now*," he countered, his voice unwavering. "Truth is *you*, Singapore Ri’ore, heir to the Astral Kingdom, my brother. Not this burning shadow." Nazuma felt Dazuma shift beside him, his stillness more intense than any movement.

De’on screamed – a raw, agonized sound that scraped against the nerves. The demon fire flared violently, engulfing him completely. The stage plunged into near-darkness, punctuated only by the chaotic crimson blaze. Then, a single, focused bolt of pure emerald lightning lanced down from the stage rafters, striking the heart of the fire. Not destructive, but binding. It wrapped De’on in a net of crackling energy, forcing the flames inward, compressing them. De’on thrashed, howling curses that dissolved into desperate sobs. Slowly, painfully, the fire dimmed, revealing the actor beneath – kneeling, broken, the Daishin’s corruption visibly retreating like dying embers. Dracovis knelt before him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Welcome home, brother," he murmured. The stage lights brightened, showcasing not victory’s triumph, but salvation’s profound exhaustion and sorrow. Nazuma heard Onohall draw a sharp, quiet breath. Evant whispered behind them, "He saved him… He actually saved him."

Silence held the hall for a breath. Then De’on shuddered violently. He looked up at Dracovis, eyes clear for the first time, filled with terror and unbearable shame. "The flame… Dracovis… it’s still *in* me," he gasped, clutching his chest. "I can feel it… clawing… waiting to burn again." Before Dracovis could react, De’on seized the ceremonial dagger sheathed at his brother’s hip. With a cry that was equal parts despair and defiance, he plunged it deep into his own heart. Dracovis lunged, catching him as he crumpled. Emerald light flared uselessly around the wound as De’on’s lifeblood seeped onto the painted storm-plains. "Forgive…" De’on whispered, his final breath mingling with the scent of stage-smoke and tragedy. Nazuma flinched, his gaze darting to his father beside him. Dracovis’s jaw was clenched tight, his knuckles pale on the armrest, staring unblinkingly at the stage corpse mirroring his past.

The velvet curtains swept closed with a heavy finality. The applause that followed was hesitant, fragmented, a ripple of confused appreciation rather than acclaim. Queen Onohall rose gracefully, her hand brushing Dracovis’s rigid shoulder as she acknowledged the performers below with a regal nod. Beside her, the King remained seated, staring at the closed curtains as if they concealed not actors, but ghosts. Nazuma leaned towards Dracovis, his voice low. "It showed your strength, Father. How you faced the fire." Dracovis didn't turn his head. "Strength?" he murmured, the word brittle. "It showed a brother driven to end his own life because I couldn't purge the poison festering within him." He finally stood, his movement abrupt. "It showed failure."

The King's chambers were a fortress of silence after the hall's uneasy murmur. Moonlight streamed through tall windows, painting silver bars on the obsidian floor. Onohall dismissed the attendants with a flick of her wrist, the heavy doors thudding shut. She turned to Dracovis, her expression stripped of its public composure, revealing raw dread. "Tell me," she demanded, her voice taut as a bowstring. "What truly happened in Myos's room?" Dracovis paced towards the window, his silhouette stark against the moonlit skyline of Denkou. "Vorik’s ‘test’ was a pinprick," he began, his voice rough. "What happened with Myos… that was Daishin’s blade plunging deep." He recounted the scene: Myos’s venomous accusations, his belief Dracovis had sent him north to die, the chilling confession of Daishin’s whispers promising power and vengeance. "He blames me. He blames *them*." He gestured sharply towards the door, indicating the twins. "He believes I orchestrated his sacrifice to clear the path for The Twins."

Onohall paled, clutching the back of a chair. "The Hanobaki didn't just wound him. They poisoned his mind." Dracovis nodded grimly. "The Flonne Medic confirmed it. The corruption isn't just in his flesh; it’s wrapped around his thoughts, twisting truth into nightmare." He stopped pacing, facing her fully. "He feels betrayed, Onohall. Utterly abandoned. And Daishin offered him vengeance wrapped in fire."

Silence thickened between them, charged with unspoken fears. Onohall stepped closer, her fingers brushing his clenched fist. "We face rot deeper than flesh tonight," she murmured. "Myos needs his true-name reforged, not just remembered." Dracovis exhaled sharply. "How? The Flonne bindings hold the physical corruption, but his spirit..." Onohall lifted her hand, tracing the air where her silent lightning had woven sanctuary earlier. "We did it once tonight. We merged Wind and Storm." Her eyes met his, fierce and unwavering. "Not for defense. For remembrance. For *him*."

Dracovis hesitated, then nodded. He shed his heavy ceremonial robe, letting it pool on the obsidian floor. Onohall did the same, her sky-silk gown whispering as it fell. They knelt facing each other on the cool stone, knees touching. No words now. Dracovis pressed his palms flat against hers, skin to skin. Emerald light bloomed beneath his touch, fierce and jagged. Onohall answered with a soft, swirling green luminescence from her own hands. The energies didn’t clash; they spiraled together, gold and deep forest green intertwining like living vines. The air hummed, thick with ozone and crushed mint.

Slowly, deliberately, they leaned forward until their foreheads touched. The merged light pulsed brighter, bathing the chamber in warm radiance. Dracovis closed his eyes, focusing not on power, but on memory: Myos as a boy laughing atop the Sky Tree, his first lightning strike under the tutors’ watch, the fierce pride in his eyes when named Crown Prince. Onohall poured in her own torrent—his stubborn kindness shielding Nazuma from bullies, the scent of storm-blossoms he always brought her, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against hers when he hugged her tight. They forged remembrance into pure Naten, a lance of golden-green light aimed not at the palace, but northward, towards the shattered prince in his sickroom. It pierced the shadows around Myos’s bed, a silent, searing whisper only he could hear: *Remember who you are*.

The energy faded slowly, leaving them trembling and drained on the cool stone. Dracovis opened his eyes, finding Onohall’s gaze inches away, luminous with shared exertion and profound sorrow. "It’s done," he rasped. Onohall nodded, her breath warm against his lips. "Now we wait." The silence stretched, heavy with the echo of their desperate act and the unresolved terror facing their sons. Slowly, almost hesitantly, Dracovis lifted a hand, tracing the curve of her cheekbone with a thumb roughened by lightning. The touch wasn't royal command or divine duty; it was simply a man reaching for his anchor in a storm-tossed sea. Onohall leaned into it, her own hand rising to cover his, their intertwined fingers resting against her jawline. "Stay," she whispered, the word thick with need. "Just… stay."

He didn't speak. He moved. Gathering her close, Dracovis lifted Onohall effortlessly, carrying her the few steps to the low divan bathed in moonlight. There was no urgency born of passion, only a deep, aching need for solace and connection. He laid her down gently, his movements deliberate, reverent. Their lips met—a slow, searching press that held decades of shared battles, grief, and unspoken love. It wasn't about claiming, but reaffirming. His calloused hands slid down her sides, finding the familiar planes of her body beneath the thin silk shift, while hers tangled in the silver-streaked hair at his nape, pulling him closer. They shed the last barriers of cloth wordlessly, skin meeting skin in the cool air, seeking warmth and the undeniable proof of life amidst encroaching decay.

Afterwards, they lay entwined, limbs heavy with exhaustion and the fragile peace of shared breath. Onohall rested her head on Dracovis’s chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heart beneath her ear—the heartbeat of Denkou. His arm held her securely, fingers tracing idle patterns on her bare shoulder. No words broke the quiet vigil. They simply existed together, drawing strength from the familiar weight and scent of each other, a silent bulwark against the darkness whispering beyond the chamber door. Outside, the fate of their heir hung in the balance, and the corruption crept ever closer. But here, for this stolen moment, they were just Dracovis and Onohall, husband and wife, finding refuge in the quiet storm of their union.