“I ran. Back to the forest. Back to our little hut of sticks and leaves. I buried Surasha into my arms, and then I ran as far as my trembling legs would take me. Even when the air was filled with the sound of screams, I did not stop. Even when the smell of burning flesh tormented my senses, I did not slow. Farther and farther, until I finally collapsed upon my own self-loathing and regret.

“When I eventually returned, nothing was left of the village but cinders. Charred corpses blanketed the fields as my every step was squelched against a scarlet field of blood. Stomp upon stomp, I marched towards my old home for reasons I still do not truly know. Perhaps I wanted to truly confirm my parents’ death, to see the ends of those I once trusted with my very eyes, and so I did. I found their blackened remains still clutching onto my former siblings. They perished, together. As a family.

“No tears flowed out. No cries gave voice. I simply lingered there, surrounded by the consequences of my cowardice: a sin that shall never be forgiven.

“Time passed. The sun set. And as the moon rose high with its pale, unsullied light, an amber hue began to shimmer from behind. As if to mock me - as if to bring further disgrace upon my feeble resolve - the hero’s call had answered me at last. Thus was I granted the Monarch’s Wings. Thus did I become the Inheritor of Freedom.”

—King Ascalon, Ruler of the Polus Monarchy

———

Ascalon

The clattering of hectic footsteps enter Ascalon’s ear as he lays on the fragmented floor. Hm? Is that the herald? My, it seems this rest must end already. But who could possibly be seeking for my audience so soon?

He slowly picks himself up, brushes off the wall’s dust, and regally places himself back on the throne. It is a strange sight considering the mess not so far away, but confidence in one’s manner does wonders to distract away from the peculiar.

The doors part way, and the herald enters once more - except now their expression is filled with horror. “Y-Your majesty? What has—”

“A simple incident: Pay no heed,” he says with utmost sobriety. “What brings you forth?”

“Ah, yes.” The herald appears not entirely convinced before the King’s facade, but they decide against prying any further. “The delegation sent to escort the survivor of Lorelai’s expedition has returned, and they are currently waiting in the guest chamber for your audience. I have already informed Templar Surasha, but to send them away can still be arranged if this is not the proper moment.”

What strange fate for them to arrive now of all times. Hehe, quite the eventful day indeed. Ascalon is still a bit shaken, but the matter over Lorelai’s current state cannot be delayed. He would rather receive the survivor’s report now than to brood in his trepidation any longer. 

“No need. I will await their arrival.”

“But of course. May Cosmos be with you always, my liege.”

They depart, and Ascalon is left to ponder. What news shall they bring? No other survivors have been found since then; not a soul has left that accursed forest. I must believe that Lorelai has escaped somehow, but to claim my body is devoid of unease would be dishonest. I am nervous; that is the undeniable truth, yet the time for feeble mullings have come to an end. Whatever they bring forth, I shall accept it and be strong. Lorelai would want me to look towards the morrow.

A familiar sound echoes once more, only it is accompanied by a greater number. One trots with plated foot; one marches with leather sole. The other, however, is strangely silent. Their steps have scarce a weight, almost as if left by a phantom, and a curious energy trickles deeper into the room the closer they approach. How to describe it? A soft quilt, perhaps—wrapping around my body with a pleasant, enchanting song.

Something isn’t right; he knows not exactly why, but there is a danger in that energy. It is subtle - ever so subtle - and without even a chance to resist, it spreads throughout his blood and settles into the deepest pits of his being—whispering sweet euphoria into his intoxicated mind. It is attempting to tear down his barrier. It is attempting to lull him into a false state of sanctuary.

With a grunt and a flash of amber, the King breaks free from the enthrallment—a cold sweat dripping down his pale face. What… was that? Such a faint trace, almost indistinguishable if not for Freedom’s warning, yet it holds a terrifying sway.

This is no longer a simple meeting; instinct screams at him now to steel his vigilance, for the person beyond those doors cannot be a mere common knight. Are they truly a remnant of Lorelai’s crew, or are they an enemy—one with the power to deceive even his closest confidants? Whatever their true purpose may be, Ascalon must be prepared to strike them down at any moment.

Finally, the delegation arrives, and they slowly begin to shuffle into the chamber. The Chancellor and his grandson, Dariel, are a familiar face. Hm? Why is Deborah here? The siblings’ appearances are oddly worn out. Did something occur at the gate check? However, a different air surrounds the young officer now. His usual lively spirit has been slightly subdued, and in its place is the maturity of one befitting a senior official. It appears Dariel’s escapade to the outside has done him much good; Ascalon is happy for him.

But what draws the King’s attention is the unknown knight hidden betwixt the group’s center. Is that a fist mark imprinted on their side? The bewitching aura is emanating from their being in full, and though Ascalon’s mental protection is still being maintained, he cannot help but be beset by a gnawing sensation of affection. Something about the knight feels intimate yet foreign in the same breath—as if he’s reuniting with a long lost friend. Sorrow, melancholy, hesitation… they all pang within his chest as a singular question nags without abandon: Why do they feel so familiar?

“Glory to the ruler of the skies above,” the gathering recites. “May the wisdom of Freedom’s Will guide you to prosperity, O’ Ascalon—stalwart blade of Polus.”

No matter. I will unveil their secrets, eventually. Their fate was set the moment they entered my domain.

“You may rise,” the King says, keeping a close eye on the survivor’s movements. “Welcome back, Dariel. I trust your adventure has been insightful?”

“Very much so, my liege. I apologize for abandoning my position so suddenly, but from now on, I promise to show you the fervor of a renewed servant of the kingdom.”

“I look forward to it. The court has felt much too dry as of late without your fiery will.”

“Hohoh, indeed,” Gadreel chuckles. “It is the duty of the old to foster the passions of the new. It will not be long now until young Dariel surpasses me in wisdom.”

“Don’t belittle yourself now, Chancellor. Amongst the entirety of the kingdom, you are the most astute of them all.”

“M-My liege…”

“And I apologize for my unsightly behavior before. You and the other officials did not deserve to be subjected to my anger; I learned a great lesson today, and I shall stake my own promise that such an outburst will never occur again. Will you forgive me?”

Tears begin to well up in the elder’s eyes, and he lets out an enthusiastic guffaw. “But of course, my liege. No matter what, I shall always be by your side.”

Ascalon smiles and turns toward Templar Deborah with a new, puzzled expression. “I am surprised to see you here as well, Deborah. Shouldn’t Annalay be amongst your party instead?”

“That’s… let’s just say she caused a little bit of trouble. Ok, a lot of trouble.” She turns and exposes her armor’s back to him, metal laden with large nicks and dents. It doesn’t take much time for Ascalon to surmise what has happened. “Right now she’s probably lazing around in the underground gaol. Since I was the one who had the misfortune of being her training post, I have to stay around for a while.”

Oh, Annalay. Dear, sweet Annalay… “Hehe, I would expect nothing less from our Untamed Throne. Do make sure to compensate the victims generously; I’ll make sure to properly give her a visit later. And don’t worry Gadreel, I will be firm this time.”

“That you must, my liege,” the Chancellor sighs. “That you must.”

“Now, onto the main subject of this audience.” Ascalon’s gaze turns stiff as he hardens his attention onto the supposed Polus knight. “Step forth, O’ remnant of the Alexandria.”

They do so, quickly and without a word, before planting their knees onto the hard floor and bowing their head in respect. “Greetings, your majesty. Though my memory still remains fragmented, I shall do my best to remember as much as I can; my knowledge is yours to use.”

There it is again: that feeling of familiarity. Their voice rings in my head, tone and quality constantly shifting with every second that passes. Never the same. Always of one dear to my memory.

“Now, tell me,” he commands. “Do you remember anything about your origin? It does not need to be much: a flashing memory, a nostalgic smell, or perhaps a name.”

“I do not. My only memories are of the forest, though Lady Annalay believes me to be a knight by the name of Celia.”

“Celia? As in Celia Chaplet?” The King is bewildered for a brief second, but if it is true, then it would explain her martial prowess against Annalay. Though he isn’t particularly acquainted with the teacher of the Seraph, Lorelai has told many a tale about their days together in the academy. Yes, she is the most likely out of all sent with the Throne to have endured against the miasma. Plausible, it is plausible, yet… was she the type of knight to have such an elegant, beguiling air? No, her temperament is closer in nature to Annalay’s. Cheerful. Boisterous. And full of spark. Even with a vacant memory, the one before me does not resemble her character.

“Hm, and what do you believe?” Ascalon says with a challenging query. “Do you think yourself to be Celia?”

“M-My liege?” Gadreel gasps. “Thy tone is rather harsh for—”

“Ah, I do apologize if my words were forceful,” he says with false reflection. The knight must not know of his suspicion towards them if he is to properly reveal their intentions. “This matter has left me in quite the fret this passing month. I didn’t intend to be so rude; forgive me.”

“Never did I think of your words so, your majesty. It is my duty to serve.”

They pause, mind seemingly deep in reflection, before speaking again; the answer is not what Ascalon expected. “No. I do not think Celia and I are the same person.”

What? That—I assumed they would seize the opportunity to claim a reputable identity, but if not, then maybe they truly are…? “Interesting, and why do you say so?”

“It is difficult to say. However, I believe one must have trust in the pangs of their heart, and right now, it resonates not with the name of Celia.”

Is—Is that so? “I see. Well, if that is your will, then let us move on to the memories you can gleam. Do you remember retrieving anything from the Aeternum? An object, a weapon, or perhaps even a child?”

“No. What I remember vividly is a feeling of frustration, of loss, and of resolution. We changed course because there was nothing to find.”

“Truly? That is unfortunate.” But also for the better. Our destiny would be one of doom if Caelum had managed to claim the Comet as their own; better for the child to remain hidden than to have their power abused by another. “If you were set to return, what caused the collapse of the construct?”

“I did not see it very clearly. All I remember is…ugh—” The knight collapses on their knees and groans in pain as their hands scrape against the helm’s temple. Gadreel and the others rush to their aid, but they raise a firm hand up and block all from coming near. “I’m ok. I-I just need to push through.”

“Please, don’t force yourself,” Ascalon says with a genuine hint of concern. He knows full well their pain could be but a deceitful ploy, yet their struggling breaths convey not a bit of falsehood. Their gasps are genuine; their tremblings are true.

“No,” they wheeze, standing back up with a quivering leg. “Please, let me continue. I must conquer this haze if I am to truly heal.”

“You…” Ascalon wants to rebuke them, but the way they speak reminds him so dearly of a certain other—one with a stubborn personality. One who would always grit their teeth and fight back against that which dared to impede their way. “Hah, very well then. But please do be careful.”

“Of course.” And with a deep breath, the survivor continues their story. “All I remember is a sudden tremor, a screeching wail, and an overwhelming force from above. We collapsed onto the forest’s bed: confused, weakened, and with nary a chance to respond before an army emerged from the darkness and descended upon us with strange, hefty suits of jagged plate—the miasma completely vanished. Rust and blood filled my nostrils, and though the haze of battle had all but consumed my sight, I remember seeing very clearly a warrior that appeared to command over the others. Violet. Yes, their body was clad in a sinister violet hue.”

Violet armor, a force from above, and the miasma’s disappearance? That could only be… “Gravitas,” Ascalon snarls. Now it is all becoming clear. Only that monster would be able to force Lorelai into such desperate conditions. “Did you see anyone else? What of a woman clad in ivory whilst wielding a pair of twin blades?”

“No. I never saw her. If she was there, then perhaps she was buried under the bodies. Everywhere. Decaying. I-I trudged and trudged through the blood-soaked mud, but there was no one left. My fellows, the monstrous creatures of metal, and even that warrior in violet… they were all splayed out upon the earth.”

The survivor’s demeanor turns murky, voice haunted by visions from deep within. And for a brief moment, it is as if Ascalon can see through their eyes: see the terrible realm of slaughter that never left their being. Helpless. Meek. Madness creeping ever stronger as the mound grows with every taken life. They can only watch as the lives around them dwindle; to rot in their own regret for outlasting every other. It is a far, far too familiar feeling.

“I watched as the miasma crept back up from the earth and devoured their bodies. Devoured my mind. I cried and I weeped and I begged, yet it dissuaded not this wretched sorrow. It only enraged the phantoms writhing in loathing, giving them life as vengeful corpses to grab at me. To claw at me. To curse me for trying to abandon them.”

Their shaking becomes more violent with every bitterly spewed word. Broken and battered, yet it is not fear that controls them. Nor is it a terror of the battlefield. No, it is guilt: guilt in failing to save even a single life.

“And so I ran. Farther and farther, until I could no longer see that sickening necropolis. I ran with every miserable spout of strength left I could muster, but - in the end - I couldn’t escape their screams. I couldn’t escape the stench of blood. I couldn’t—”

Without a word, Ascalon leaps from his throne and swiftly envelops the survivor into a wide, tight embrace. They try to protest, to squirm away from his hold, but he can feel their efforts are not genuine. Slowly, gently, they stay wrapped around each other, resting against the other as the beating of their hearts join as one. And for a moment, the world becomes ever so still—just the two of them, together. He hasn’t felt this way towards another since…

“I am going to make one last request,” he begins. “You may refuse if you wish, but I… I believe in my heart. In my soul crying out now ever so fervently, and so I ask of you; will you let me take off your helm?”

Gadreel and the others quickly shout out in warning, but Ascalon has never felt more certain in himself than now. This is the moment: the reason for why he was granted these unbearable wings all those years ago. Everything, his struggle, his duty, and his dreams of being a hero have been all for this: that he may bring back the gift of love into this soul’s aching will.

The survivor freezes, and through their touch he can sense a flash of apprehension - of fear towards baring themselves true before him - but that feeling quickly disappears, and they slowly nod their head.

“Are you sure?” they mutter. 

“Of course. Now, and in the eternity to come.”

“…You may.”

Ascalon carefully lifts the helm up until their face is revealed before the world, and he smiles. He smiles, for the sight before him is of the woman he loves most.

“You’ve returned,” he says, brushing his hand against her scarred cheek. “Just as you promised you would.