The instant Karhile's head thudded against the cracked stone floor, the cubic labyrinth began to unravel. The angular walls and shifting corridors of Pendell melted away like smoke in the morning light, dissolving until the world around me reformed—the quiet twilight garden just outside the palace.

No words needed. The magic that had held us captive simply released its grip, and the familiar scent of jasmine filled the air, cool night breezes stirring the leaves.

I lowered my arms slowly, the metallic bow settling back at my hip alongside the hidden quiver. The tension in my muscles eased, but the grim images of the Chimera Flies, twisted into the shapes of children, still haunted my thoughts. Necessary cruelty, yes—but cruelty nonetheless.

Wallace stepped forward, his voice low and steady. "Your control was impeccable, Prince. The court will have no choice but to acknowledge your victory."

Around us, the murmurs of the gathered nobility swelled—Barons, Marquises, Viscounts, Dukes, the Three Princes, and the Five Queens—all had witnessed the spectacle, their whispering rippling like wind through the crowd. The political weight of this duel was undeniable.

Duchess Y, the arbiter, moved toward us, her silver mask catching the lantern light. Her voice was clear and resolute: "Prince Alexander Duarte-Alizade, by the laws of the duel and the eyes of the court, you have prevailed. The Everis Hills and all its associated holdings remain under your rightful dominion. Lord Wilstead Karhile is stripped of his noble status. Give us time to transfer the other lands to you."

A chorus of whispers spread through the crowd—some reluctant, others openly approving.

I gave a slight bow, aware of the High Queen Lillianne's steady gaze from her dais. The duel was more than a contest of arms—it was a declaration. The Everis Hills were mine, and my position in this tangled web of power was now affirmed.

Later, stepping into the garden's soft moonlight, I sought Fallias. She awaited by the marble fountain, her raven mask removed, her eyes luminous with a mix of concern and quiet pride.

Without hesitation, I extended my hand. "May I have this dance?"

Her gaze flickered briefly, then softened as she placed her hand in mine.

With the subtle shift of mana coursing through me, I slipped effortlessly into Celeste's Persona—the flawless grace and poised confidence of the legendary dancer filling my every movement. Without fanfare or spoken incantation, the magic wove itself into the dance.

Taking the lead, I guided Fallias into the center of the courtyard, marble beneath our feet and stars sparkling overhead. Each step was precise, elegant—a silent statement of strength and unity.

She shone beside me, every motion radiating confidence and beauty, her laughter bright and free.

In that moment, surrounded by the gentle night air and the distant hum of the palace, the weight of the duel lifted from my shoulders.

But the night was far from over.

As the final notes of our dance faded into the stillness, I knew the inevitable awaited: an audience with High Queen Lillianne herself. An apology for the unrest, a pledge of loyalty, and the careful navigation of what lay ahead.

***

"Now approaching: Kevkebyem Lekvedyem Benyeyr, Star-Writer—Alexander Duarte-Alizade. Regaling his victory over the now-defunct Rain-Maker, Wilstead Karhile. May all rise to attention!" The herald's voice rang clear through the vaulted courtroom of the High Queen, echoing against the marble and ancient stone. The crowd stirred; nobles, courtiers, and dignitaries rose, their murmurs swelling into a tide of expectation.

I stepped forward slowly, the weight of their gazes settling on me like a mantle. Before me lay the Seat of Sorrows—an altar to sacrifice, an eternal monument to those countless commoners who had given their lives in service to Bast, yet whose duty had never been commanded by law or honor. Their statues—men and women in countless poses of valor and suffering—stood silently, their names lost to time and memory, their faces worn smooth by centuries of grief. I couldn't help but feel the solemn burden of their sacrifice pressing down on me as I walked the path between those cold stone sentinels.

The silence deepened as I reached the true Seat of Sorrows, the throne of the High Queen herself. She sat poised with regal austerity, eyes sharp yet bearing the quiet compassion of one who has borne great responsibility. Kneeling before her, I bowed my head in respect, knowing this moment was far greater than ceremony—it was a reckoning.

"Kevkebyem Lekvedyem Benyeyr," Lillianne began, her voice steady but carrying the weight of history, "you have dictated your fate by right of steel and blade. You are victorious over your rival, Wilstead Karhile. His name is struck from the records. His courtesy stripped, his claims extinguished." Her eyes held mine with unflinching resolve. "His assets, holdings, and estates will be gathered and transferred to your dominion. The Everis Hills shall now answer ONLY to you."

She paused, allowing the chamber's heavy silence to stretch.

"As you well know, these two days of ceremony and celebration were meant to herald your ascent to the Scarlet Table. You stand as the first Triple S Walker upon debut since William Constant. Are you as strong as he was? No. Are you as smart? No. Are you as brave? No."

Her gaze softened but did not waver. "What you are, Star-Writer, is more tenacious. More cunning. More willing to change tactics and adapt. William Constant's name, 'Time Twister,' perfectly embodied his nature—a constant force, unyielding and unchanging. But you, Alexander, are different."

Lillianne's voice took on a tone both grave and approving. "For most within this chamber, you are no hero. To many, you remain a child—one who manifests items as if by magic, crafting skillcubes from your own arte with unprecedented skill. Yet today, you proved that your power lies not just in strength or talent, but in your ability to read those around you, to navigate the treacherous tides of politics and war alike."

She gestured subtly with her hand, as if weaving invisible threads. "You recognized and wielded three of the four paths of noble advancement in Bast. You mastered the blade—the strength of arms. You commanded the pen—the power of strategy and wit. You dominated the stage—showmanship, presence, and influence. And though you have not yet fully embraced the vial, the subtle art of manipulation beneath the surface, the path lies before you."

A faint murmur spread among the courtiers as she continued. "These are not merely marks of power, but of survival in a realm that tests all who seek to rise. You have taken your place—not by birthright, but by merit, through tenacity and the courage to defy expectations."

The heavy chamber fell silent as I stepped before High Queen Lillianne. Her presence was undeniable—stern, patient, and bearing the kind of quiet strength that turned the tides of history without a single raised voice. The crimson of her gown was faded along the edges, not unlike the weapon she held now—a long, rusted spear, worn nearly to the point of fragility.

"This," she said, lifting the Sanguine Spear before me, "is no jewel of the Scarlet Table. It is no symbol of glory or honor like the silver staves or the jeweled crowns worn by your fellow councilors. It is a rusted blade, cast aside by the first hands that wielded it in battle, discarded when newer, shinier weapons came to replace it."

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She let the spear rest in my hands. The metal was rough, pitted with age, but heavy—heavier with meaning than any polished prize.

"This spear is the first that went into the fires of war and the first to be cast aside when the battle was done. It is the weapon of those who stand on the front lines, who bear the brunt of both victory and defeat, the spear thrown first and forgotten last. It is a mark not of honor, but of sacrifice and responsibility."

I looked up at her, the weight of the spear grounding me in the moment.

"You, Prince Alexander Duarte-Alizade, now hold this burden as the Sanguine Spear of the Scarlet Table. Your dominion over the Everis Hills—lands once ruled by Wilstead Karhile—is not just a gift or a prize. It is a task. These lands have seen neglect and stagnation, but under your stewardship, they are to become a beacon of renewal and strength."

Her eyes softened, and for the first time, I glimpsed something personal beneath the crown.

"When I first spoke with you—before the world could see, before the ball and the duel—I made you a promise. 'I will teach you how not to be a tyrant.' This," she gestured to the spear, "is part of that lesson. To rule is not to command blindly or crush opposition underfoot. It is to carry the burden of your people, to be the shield for those who cannot protect themselves, and the voice of justice when others fall silent."

Lillianne's hand reached out, steady and sure, clasping my shoulder.

"You have won this duel not merely with strength, but with strategy and wisdom. You have shown that you are not the reckless boy who once doubted himself, but a leader forged in fire and tempered by resolve. Now, as the Sanguine Spear, you will be the spearhead of Bast's defense, the first to meet its enemies and the last to withdraw."

A quiet murmur passed through the chamber as courtiers and nobles took in her words.

"The weight you bear is great. The eyes of many will watch you, some with hope, others with skepticism. Remember this—power given can be taken away. What lasts is the respect earned through fairness and courage."

I tightened my grip on the rusted spear. This was no trophy, but a reminder of the path ahead—the sacrifice, the hard choices, and the relentless duty.

"I accept, Your Majesty," I said, voice steady. "I will not be a tyrant. I will carry this burden with honor."

Lillianne nodded once, sharply, as if sealing a covenant.

"So be it, Sanguine Spear. May your rule breathe life into the Everis Hills, and may you never forget the lesson of this rusted blade."

As I left the chamber, the weight of the spear at my side was a constant reminder: true power was never in shining glory, but in the strength to endure—and the wisdom to lead justly.

***

The grandeur of the High Queen's court was a distant memory by the time we reached the shadowed stairwell winding deep beneath the palace. The heavy oak doors closed behind us with a dull thud that seemed to seal away the splendor and politics above, leaving only silence—and the heavy pulse of unspoken truths.

I followed Lillianne down the cold, narrow stone steps, her heels clicking steadily against the worn steps. Her usual regal composure had shifted; there was a gravity in her gait, a tension in her posture that I hadn't seen before. The air grew cooler and denser as we descended, as though we were moving not just downwards in space, but into the very marrow of the realm's dark heart.

Finally, she stopped in front of a door hidden behind thick velvet drapes. She swept the fabric aside and entered, motioning for me to do the same. The chamber inside was sparse—lit by a few flickering candles that cast long shadows across the stone walls. At its center, mounted with solemn dignity, hung a rusted spear. Its blade was jagged and chipped, stained with the faint, faded marks of countless battles, and the wood was cracked and worn by time.

Lillianne stepped forward and placed a hand on the spear's shaft. The metal seemed to absorb the candlelight, dull but forbidding.

"This is the REAL Scarlet Spear," she said softly, her voice stripped of ceremony, raw and intimate. "What you heard in the great hall—the speeches, the ceremony, the honor and glory—those were words meant for the masses. For the court. For the noble houses who need hope, or at least the illusion of it."

She turned slowly, eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made me shift slightly under her gaze.

"But the truth, Alexander... the truth is far more brutal."

I swallowed, suddenly aware of the spear's ominous presence. "What do you mean?"

She drew a slow breath. "The Scarlet Spear is not a symbol of triumph, nor of valor. It is not a prize for the worthy or a mantle of power to be celebrated. It is a burden. A curse."

Her fingers tightened on the spear, and I could see the steel beneath her skin—the weight of responsibility and sacrifice that had worn on her through the years.

"To be the Scarlet Spear is to be the executioner of Bast's corruption. The hand that strikes down those who poison our realm—not only enemies or rebels, but sometimes those closest to us."

Her voice softened, but her eyes remained fierce. "It means killing the barons who betray their oaths, the marques who plot in shadows, the viscounts who turn a blind eye to injustice, the dukes who enrich themselves on the suffering of others. Even queens. Even me."

I blinked, the weight of her words crashing down like a tempest.

"You mean... I must be willing to kill my own? Those I once called allies, friends, family?"

She nodded. "Every one of them. No exceptions. Because the spear is not wielded against the innocent. It is wielded against the cancer of power that festers behind noble doors."

The room felt colder now, and I could hear my own breath, harsh and uneven. I pictured the court's gilded halls, the whispered intrigues, the smiles that hid knives. And me, standing in the eye of a storm that could consume everything.

Lillianne's gaze softened for a moment, and she stepped closer. "You are the first triple-S Walker to debut since William Constant. You know what happened to him, don't you?"

I nodded. The Time Twister had been a legend, a hero—and a cautionary tale. A man who had risen too fast, too far, and fallen because he could not navigate the deadly currents beneath the surface.

"He was brilliant, yes. Brave. Strong. But he was rigid. Too fixed in his ways. He saw the world as constant, unchanging. And that rigidity was his undoing."

She looked at me then, searching my face. "You, Alexander, are different. You bend. You adapt. You read the currents before you try to swim against them. But that means you will face choices more terrible than you can imagine."

I swallowed hard. "What kind of choices?"

"The kind where you must decide who lives and who dies—not on a battlefield, but in the shadows of court. Where loyalty is a knife's edge, and mercy can be a weakness that destroys you."

She paused, then gestured at the spear. "This weapon is the first sent into battle and the first cast aside. It is not beautiful. It is not a prize. It is a tool for the dirty work no one else will do."

I ran my fingers lightly along its shaft, feeling the roughness, the history etched into every scar.

"To sit at the Scarlet Table as the bearer of the Spear means you carry a responsibility heavier than most can bear. You must be willing to walk alone through betrayal, through bloodshed, through endless sacrifice. You must be willing to bathe in the blood of the court to cleanse it."

Her voice dropped to a whisper, but it filled the room with weight.

"And sometimes, that means striking down those who wear crowns and rule kingdoms. Even me, if I fall to corruption."

I looked up sharply. "Even you?"

She nodded solemnly. "Power corrupts all, Alexander. The Spear's bearer is the guardian against that corruption, regardless of rank or love or history. It is a lonely throne."

The silence between us stretched, thick with the enormity of her confession.

"Why tell me this now?" I asked quietly.

"Because you must know what you are truly taking on—not just the title or the lands or the ceremony, but the brutal reality beneath."

She stepped closer, placing a firm hand on my shoulder. "This is why I vowed to teach you how to wield the Spear without becoming a tyrant yourself. To guide you through the darkness, so that you do not lose yourself to it."

I met her gaze, fierce determination rising in me. "I swear to you, High Queen, if I must bathe in blood, it will be to build a better Bast, a better Continental Alliance, not a cruel one."

Her lips curved in a brief, tired smile. "Then you have the first and most important quality of the Spear's bearer—tenacity. The willingness to change, to fight not just with strength, but with wisdom and compassion."

She turned back to the spear, voice softening. "Remember, Star-Writer, sometimes the greatest battle is not against enemies without, but against the shadows within."

The words echoed in the quiet chamber long after she fell silent. The rusted spear on the wall was no longer just a weapon—it was a symbol of all I would have to face.

And all I would have to become.

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