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In a secluded hamlet Dr. Veydal and the Holy Maiden Zetalylia shared a fleeting, tranquil peace. By the time her mastery over her augmentations had become second nature, allowing her to move through her daily life without hindrance, the silence was shattered.
A retinue arrived, bearing the cold seal of The Arbitrate.
Their demand was singular and devoid of mercy: the immediate return of the Blade to the Kingdom of Ezaris.
“You were there, on that blood-soaked field,” the lead emissary pressed, his eyes fixed only on his mission. “You must know where the blade lies. It is the sovereign treasure of Ezaris, and it must be restored to us at once.”
Is her life worth less to you than a piece of ancient steel? Veydal’s knuckles whitened as he clenched his fists in silent fury.
He had sent formal missives to the crown of Ezaris, meticulously detailing every agonizing step of Zetalylia’s recovery. Yet, these men offered not a single word of gratitude—not one breath of solace for the girl who had bled in their stead. To them, she was no savior. She was a spent asset, a tool to be discarded once its edge had dulled. They felt not a shred of guilt for forcing a child to wage their war.
“Leave us,” Veydal spat, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. “I have nothing to say to the likes of you.”
“A grave mistake, Master Veydal,” the messenger sneered as he turned to depart. “This insolence shall not be forgotten. It will escalate beyond a mere medical matter into a crisis between nations.”
The threat, however, was hollow. The emissary would never again press his boots into the soil of Ezaris. On the voyage home, a massive Beast-Devil rose from the churning abyss, dragging their vessel—and their arrogance—into a watery grave.
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