Night falls on Whisperina Gorge in a different way than in the capital. Here, the darkness feels ancient, thick, and heavy. The limestone cliffs on the left and right rise vertically to a height of one hundred meters, blocking the moonlight and leaving only a narrow gap in the sky dotted with frozen stars.

  The night wind howls through the crevices in the rocks, creating a constant hissing sound that sounds like thousands of ghosts whispering.

  In the midst of the darkness, a small campfire burns. It is not a magical fire. It is an ordinary wood fire that crackles softly. Mira sat on a damp fallen log, wrapping her body in a coarse wool blanket. In her hand was a tin cup of weak coffee that had started to cool, but she didn't drink it. She just stared at the dancing flames, letting their warmth melt the cold from her fingertips, which were still trembling from her inner struggle.

  “You know,” Ulric's voice broke the silence, his voice soft so as not to disturb the Biakind militia soldiers sleeping a few meters away. “Fire is the most honest chemical reaction. It consumes what is there, gives off heat, and then dies as ash. There is no hidden agenda. Unlike us.”

  Mira turned her head to the side. Ulric sat cross-legged on the ground, roasting a piece of dry bread with a tree branch. His glasses reflected the orange light of the campfire, hiding the exhaustion and fear in his eyes. Tonight, Ulric didn't look like the genius strategist who had just devised an invasion route. He looked like the Ulric of old—the awkward classmate in the academy library.

  “Do you miss the library, Ulric?” Mira asked softly.

  “Every second,” Ulric smiled wryly, turning his bread so it wouldn't burn. “I miss the smell of old paper. I miss the dust. I miss a world where the biggest problem was spilled ink, not this.”

  Ulric pointed around them—at the faint outlines of emergency tents, piles of weapons, and the faces of soldiers sleeping with their hands clutching swords, waiting for death or victory tomorrow.

  “I'm sorry,” Mira said. “I dragged you into this mess.”

  “Don't apologize,” Ulric shook his head quickly. He broke his bread in two, giving the larger, warmer piece to Mira. “You didn't drag me into this, Rhea. You opened the door to my cell. I might have been safe in the library, but I wasn't really living. Here... even though it's scary, I feel useful. I feel like I'm writing history, not just reading it.”

  They ate the bread in comfortable silence. The feeling of friendship between them grew stronger, as warm as the fire in front of them. There were no formalities like “Your Highness” or “Miss.” Just Mira and Ulric. Two young people who had been forced to grow up too quickly.

  “Rhea,” Ulric called after swallowing his last bite. He picked up a wooden stick and began drawing abstract patterns in the sandy ground. “I've been observing the demographic composition of this continent.”

  “And?”

  “Do you realize how... homogeneous this continent is?” Ulric looked up, his eyes serious. "Look around. Ninety percent are Humans. The rest? Just a handful of remaining Elves, Sisilkka, and maybe a few Dwarf merchants at the port."

  Mira frowned. “I think that's normal. The other races live on the other continent, right? The Ladaun Continent is human territory.”

  “That's the school textbook narrative, Rhea,” Ulric jabbed the ground with his staff, frustrated. “But biologically and geographically, it's strange. This continent is fertile. Its ecosystem supports diversity. There should be more species. Why did they disappear?”

  Ulric stared at the fire with a sharp, analytical gaze, his genius brain working to connect the terrible dots. “I have a theory. The thicker the walls separating races, the thinner their tolerance. We humans are indoctrinated to believe that we are the pinnacle of civilization. We see other races as ‘guests’ or ‘expatriates’, not as fellow inhabitants.”

  “But Asnaven always prides itself on being an open kingdom,” Mira countered, remembering the palace propaganda Arlen often touted. “We accept refugees. We have an international trade district.”

  “Open?” Ulric laughed bitterly. “That's not openness, Rhea. That's a farm.”

  Ulric threw a small twig into the fire. “Remember what we found in the Clock Tower? Remember Lysandra's theory about batteries? Asnaven accepts other races not out of tolerance. But because they need variety in the Intian spectrum.”

  Mira's eyes widened. The bread in her hand nearly fell. “You mean...”

  “Humans have a standard Intian signature. But other races? They have connections to all kinds of other unique Intian,” Ulric explained, his voice trembling with horror. "If you want to build a perfect energy reactor like Arlen's Solstice, you need all those ‘colors’. The Runerre family deliberately invited them in, gave them shelter, only to harvest them when the time came."

  Mira felt nauseous. The bread in her stomach felt like a rock. Asnaven's tolerance was an illusion. And its citizens were livestock waiting their turn to be slaughtered to feed the ambitions of the “God of Thunder.”

  “A clever theory for a bookworm,” a sharp, melodious female voice interrupted from the darkness.

  Mira and Ulric turned simultaneously, Mira's hand reflexively reaching for her dagger. Lysandra Eriallve stepped out of the shadows of a large rock. Her footsteps made no sound at all on the gravel—a natural stealth ability that people often overlooked due to her loud and explosive personality.

  Lysandra was not wearing her full combat armor. She wore a loose dark red silk tunic and tight leather pants. Her red hair was left loose, glowing like embers in the darkness.

  “May I join you?” Lysandra asked, though she was already sitting on a log across from them before she was answered.

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  “Sure,” said Mira, shifting her seat slightly. “We're discussing demographics.”

  “I hear you,” Lysandra took a small bottle of wine from her pants pocket, took a sip, then tossed it to Ulric. “And you're right, Bookworm. Asnaven is a cattle pen. But you're wrong about one thing.”

  Lysandra leaned forward, the firelight illuminating her beautiful face, yet it had sharp, unnatural angles. Her cheekbones were too high, her eyes too piercing. She brushed the hair away from her ear.

  “You said other races are rare,” Lysandra said. She pointed to her ears. “Actually, we are everywhere. We just... adapt.”

  Mira looked at Lysandra's ears. They were shaped like normal human ears, but the tops were slightly pointed. It was very subtle. If you didn't look closely, you would think it was just a normal genetic variation.

  “The Eriallve family,” Lysandra said proudly. “We are not pure humans. We are evolved High Elves.”

  “Elves?” Ulric gaped, his glasses almost falling off. “But... your ears... your posture...”

  "Climate, dear. Climate,“ Lysandra rolled her eyes. ”The elves you usually see—the ones with ears that reach their shoulders and pale skin—are immigrants from the continent of Akhar. They are not suited to the dense and aggressive climate of Ladaun."

  Lysandra touched her own ears. “Our ancestors have been on this continent for thousands of years. Our bodies have adapted. Our ears are shortened to reduce heat evaporation. Our muscles densified for the heavier gravity. We lost our longevity, but we gained an explosive affinity for fire.”

  Lysandra stared at the bonfire, and the flames seemed to return her gaze, dancing higher to greet their master. “People think the Eriallve family is just a bunch of eccentric nobles. They don't know that our blood runs deeper than the foundation stones of the palace itself.”

  Mira looked at Lysandra with new eyes. It explained her natural arrogance. It explained why her fire magic was so instinctive, not just reciting academy spells.

  “If you've been here for so long,” Mira asked cautiously, “why did you let the Humans—the Runerre Family—take over? Why did you submit?”

  Lysandra's face darkened. Her cynical smile disappeared. She opened the pocket dimension and pulled out an object. It wasn't a weapon. It was a book. The book looked very old. Its cover was not made of paper or leather, but of thin black metal sheets bound with copper wire. There was no title, only a crudely carved symbol of fire.

  “Because we were betrayed,” Lysandra hissed.

  He placed the book on his lap and opened it carefully. The metal pages rustled softly as he turned them, a heart-wrenching sound in the silence of the night. “This is Eriallve Patra. The secret historical records of the Eriallve family. The only history book to survive the Great Purge a hundred years ago.”

  “The Great Purge?” asked Ulric, approaching. “You mean when King Stormborn I unified Asnaven?”

  “Unified?” Lysandra spat on the ground in disgust. “He unified nothing. He stole.”

  Lysandra pointed to an illustration engraved on the metal page. The image showed an ancient governmental structure, long before Runerre existed. Not a single throne. But two high seats side by side.

  “Look at this,” Lysandra's sharp finger pointed to the left seat. “Before Runerre came with his thunder and lies, this Kingdom was ruled by a Diarchy (Two Kings) system.”

  Lysandra pointed to the symbol above the left chair: the Eight-Pointed Star.

  “The Villings family,” Lysandra said, her voice full of respect and sorrow. “They wield the Sword and the Magic Staff. They oversee the Military, Defense, and Magic Administration. They are the Protectors. Rulers of the Star element and controllers of pure Intian.”

  Then her finger moved to the right seat: the Eight Horizontal.

  “And the Ashart family. Your adoptive parents, Rhea. They hold the Pen and the Coin. They oversee the Economy, Education, Diplomacy, and Social Welfare. They are the Caretakers.”

  Mira's heart was pounding. Ashart. Her mother. Henesa. So that was why Henesa always emphasized “Balance” and “Equilibrium.” They weren't just wealthy merchants. They were the remnants of half of this continent's government.

  “This empire creates perfect balance,” Lysandra continued. "Military power is balanced by economic prosperity. Firmness is balanced by diplomacy. For five hundred years, this kingdom has been peaceful. The races live side by side without fear of being harvested."

  “Then what happened to the Villings family?” asked Mira, her eyes fixed on the Eight-Pointed Star emblem. “I've never heard that name in any history book.”

  “Of course not,” Lysandra closed the book with a heavy thud. “Because Stormborn Runerre wiped them out.”

  Lysandra stared into the fire, her eyes glistening with past anger. "Stormborn was an ambitious foreign general. He attacked during the Solstice. The Villings family, as military protectors, stood on the front lines. They... were slaughtered. To the last person."

  “To the last person?” Mira repeated.

  “Yes. No one survived,” Lysandra shook her head. “Stormborn knew that the Villings' Star Magic was the only threat to their Lightning element. So they hunted down every man, woman, and child with Villings blood. Total genocide.”

  Mira fell silent. She felt a strange fluttering in her chest. Her Star Magic... the magic she had learned from Kars... Did that mean Kars had something to do with this family? No. Kars was just a strange wanderer. Hadn't Kars already explained that? That Star Magic randomly chose its users.

  “As for Ashart,” Lysandra continued, looking at Mira. "They were more cunning. They surrendered before they were slaughtered. They traded their crown for their lives, agreeing to become ‘merchants’ under the Stormborn's rule, while secretly maintaining their wealth and networks. And Eriallve... we Elves chose to hide behind the walls of our own palace, becoming silent guard dogs."

  Lysandra stared sharply at Mira. “Rhea. You were adopted by the Ashart. You bear their name. You are the rightful heir to the Right Seat.”

  Lysandra pointed at Mira's chest, right where Ashart's silver pin was pinned. “But you also have a strange magical talent. I felt it when you fought. It's not ordinary magic. It reminds me of the description of the Villings' power in this book.”

  “Me?” Mira feigned confusion, though her heart was trembling. “I'm just... lucky.”

  “Or maybe fate has an ironic sense of humor,” Lysandra smirked. “An Ashart girl who awakens powers similar to those of the extinct Villings family. You are the symbol of the reunited Diarchy, Rhea.”

  Ulric sighed deeply, took off his glasses, and rubbed his face. “That's why Arlen is so afraid of you, Rhea. Perhaps unconsciously, he sees the ghosts of the past in your eyes. Ghosts from two families whose ancestors destroyed each other.”

  Mira bowed her head, staring at her own hands. The burden on her shoulders was no longer just about freeing herself, claiming her land, or finding her sister. She carried the weight of the history of this kingdom. She was an anomaly representing the world order that should have existed.

  “Thank you, Lysandra,” Mira said sincerely. “This information... changes everything.”

  “Don't thank me,” Lysandra said, standing up, brushing the dust off her pants. “I'm telling you this so you know what you're fighting for. We're not rebelling, Ashart. We're restoring.”

  Lysandra turned and walked back into the darkness of the gorge. “Sleep. Tomorrow we will burn that Lightning flag and return the Star and Balance to their rightful place.”

  Mira and Ulric remained seated. The campfire began to die down, leaving behind red embers that flickered like the eyes of a sleepy dragon.

  “Ulric,” Mira called softly.

  “Yes?”

  “If the Villings family is truly wiped out...” Mira stared at the starless sky, obscured by the cliffs. “Who will sit in the Left Seat? Who will wield the sword?”

  Ulric looked at Mira. His gaze was deep and meaningful. “Perhaps that seat doesn't need to be filled by old blood, Rhea. Perhaps that seat is waiting for someone new. Someone brave enough to take that sword from the ashes.”

  Mira smiled faintly. In her heart, she thought of Kars. Her mysterious teacher. If Kars were here, he would surely laugh and say that the throne was just an uncomfortable wooden chair.

  “Let's sleep, Ulric,” said Mira, extinguishing the remaining embers with dirt. “Tomorrow, we'll make new history.”