Zilean stood motionless in the silence, now utterly alone in the dimly lit room. For a brief moment, something shifted within him, a hidden, vulnerable thought he would never allow anyone else to witness. His niece, Celestine. His little rose.

He exhaled quietly, a sound that, if anyone had been present, would have chilled them to the core. The very air seemed to recoil from him, warping subtly as if the room itself recognized the presence of something that was never meant to exist. Sol itself, that shimmering lifeblood of the world, bent away from him in invisible currents, leeching color from the walls and casting the room into a strange, unnatural pallor. Shadows grew darker, lines sharper, as if the world's palette had lost half its spectrum in his presence.

His pride for Celestine was an old, burning ache, one that never softened. He watched her walk with that quiet, blazing resolve, his little rose, blossoming amidst storms no flower should ever weather. And yet, all he could ever do was remain at the periphery of her world, too dangerous, too different, too much an embodiment of the impossible to offer comfort with anything more than silent nods and distant, approving eyes.

His fists closed, and the metal of his gauntlets shrieked softly in protest—a sound like a blade being drawn. The air itself seemed to tremble, a faint keening in the ether, as if the room had begun to sing in anticipation of disaster. Even the motes of dust in the shafted sunlight drifted away from him, caught in eddies of repulsed Sol, swirling in lazy spirals toward the corners.

For Zilean was not merely powerful. He was a wound in the world, a hole where no soul should be, a living reminder that the laws of nature were sometimes forced to kneel. The Sol that animated every stone and every breath in this world shrank back from him, refusing to touch his skin, his steel, his shadow. Color dulled, gold faded to brass, and even the light leaking through the shattered windows seemed hesitant to brush his armor.

To love her was to fear for her. To fear for her was to know that, if ever needed, he would bring down a thousand storms upon the world for her sake. But such declarations could never be spoken.

He wished, just for a moment, that he could sweep her up, cradle her close, whisper how proud he truly was, how desperately he wished to shield her from every harm that lingered beyond his sight. But such warmth was not for a man like him. Not now. Perhaps not ever again.

His thoughts soured, shifting from warmth to cold, searing anger. Chaos. Just the thought of that name made him bristle with barely contained fury. He'd learned the truth through whispers—confidential reports from his own trusted subordinates, those who kept watchful eyes on the Northern Liberatorium, always alert to shifts in power and stability.

Those reports had come directly from Vega, a stalwart friend and the grieving brother of Regulus, the Titan Class Liberator whose recent death had sent shockwaves quietly reverberating through the highest echelons of the Liberatoriums. While outwardly the Liberatoriums maintained calm appearances, internally, this loss had set off a chain reaction of anxiety, tension, and fear. A Titan's death was never trivial, since Titans were the pillars of stability, with less than ninety remaining to hold the vast balance of power.

Regulus's death had been shocking enough, but the circumstances had twisted the knife further, Chaos, a Titan himself, had openly assaulted Celestine, his beloved niece. It was Regulus who had intervened, Regulus who had fought valiantly to protect her, and Regulus who had ultimately paid the ultimate price. From all accounts, it had not even been a true fight, more a ruthless execution, brutally one-sided and utterly merciless.

Zilean's fingers curled involuntarily, scraping against his gauntlets as he imagined it. Why, then, had Chaos stopped? Why had he fled the scene rather than finishing what he'd so maliciously started? Something felt off, twisted, and incomplete. He'd wanted to investigate further, but the answers that had come from his brother, the King himself, were unsettling and entirely unsatisfying.

According to the official reports given by the king, Chaos had already been captured, imprisoned securely within the First Liberatorium's deepest dungeon. Zilean felt a flash of quiet rage ripple through him. Prison. Prison for the man who'd dared harm Celestine, his little rose? Prison for a traitor who murdered a Titan-class Liberator in cold blood, a protector who'd served loyally for decades?

His brother was wise, powerful beyond question, and surely stronger even than Zilean himself. And yet, he was choosing to let Chaos linger behind bars rather than grant him the swift, merciless death that such a heinous crime demanded. The king must have had his reasons, but they escaped Zilean's understanding completely. In his mind, Chaos's death was overdue, and justice was crying out in bitter, frustrated anguish.

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Yet even Zilean, as powerful as he was, knew the truth. Attempting to execute Chaos himself, breaking into the First Liberatorium's infamous prisons, and openly opposing his brother's decree was pure madness. Not only was the King his superior in strength, but the King's Guard's strongest warriors, the First and Second, stood in his path. Zilean was confident he could match each individually, but taking them on together would prove nearly impossible. And even if he succeeded, the death of another Titan-class being at his hands could trigger events he'd fought desperately to avoid.

His mind darkened further. They would notice. Those foul creatures, those inhuman monsters hidden deep within the world's shadows, ever waiting, ever patient, seeking the smallest crack through which to creep back into the world. They were watching, feeling, sensing every shift of balance. Killing Chaos, no matter how deserved, could potentially tilt that precarious scale in their favor. Zilean would not risk plunging the world into another catastrophe.

And so, frustrating as it was, he had no choice but to trust his brother's judgment. He could only hope that the king loved Celestine even half as much as he himself did, and that justice, swift and brutal, would soon be delivered in some quieter way.

Shaking himself slightly, Zilean turned his attention forcibly back to his immediate task, his armored gaze again settling upon Elsie's portrait. He knew that the War-Den required his attention, and quickly. The War-Den, the isolated fortress that stood as a silent bastion where only the Soulless walked. He knew it better than anyone, that without his constant, vigilant supervision, the War-Den could fall in days. It was a place that demanded his full and absolute focus. Even now, a silent worry gnawed at the back of his mind, wondering if leaving for this long had been a mistake.

Yet the mystery of this village held him momentarily captive. The soulless man he had come to retrieve could not remain unsupervised. Every minute Zilean spent away was an invitation for chaos to brew within the fortress's walls, but he was equally aware that if the Liberatoriums became aware of a rogue Soulless left unchecked, the consequences would ripple dangerously. There were certain secrets the world was not yet prepared to confront, certain truths only Zilean was strong enough to contain.

His gauntleted hand tightened again, resolute determination flaring briefly beneath his visor. This Tale had spiraled far beyond the Liberators' initial report. Dark curses, unnatural Sol manipulation, and now, an unidentified soulless hidden among villagers, too many threads weaving into something far more complicated than anticipated.

Glancing down again at Elsie's frozen form, Zilean allowed a flicker of compassion. She was brave, he could sense that much even through the painting's unnatural state. He could tell she was a fighter, resilient and fiercely protective—qualities he greatly respected. The fact that Celestine cared so deeply about her was reason enough for Zilean to dedicate every ounce of his energy to stabilizing her condition until Kaiser and Celestine found a solution.

As his large, armored frame straightened slowly, runes of brilliant blue and white appeared again around him, gently pulsing in rhythm.

"Your comrades will return soon," he murmured softly, knowing she could not hear him, but feeling compelled to offer the comfort nonetheless. "Fight until then. Show us all the strength my little rose believes you hold."

His mind sharpened, locking into focus. Nothing else mattered now. Chaos, his brother, the political unrest, he could set it all aside. Now was the time for precision, not rage; calmness. He would find the soulless quickly, secure him, and return to the War-Den without further delay.

Yet, deep inside, he couldn't help but whisper another silent promise, one he intended to keep, no matter the cost:

Chaos would face justice, one way or another. Celestine would be safe. And the balance, delicate as it was, would remain firmly in place, no matter what sacrifices he might need to make.

Just as that ancient ache of pride and longing for his niece threatened to swallow him, Zilean's senses flickered, every fragment of input amplified a thousandfold by the abyss within his chest. For a man who could not sense Sol, every other detail was a symphony of information: the minute compression of floorboards, the shift in the breeze as it slid over an unfamiliar body, the infinitesimal flex of a hinge a heartbeat before the door itself stirred.

There it was, a shadow, a hush of movement not even a breath out of place. Where others would hear nothing, Zilean heard a world: the pattern of footfalls, the echo ricocheting off battered timber, the micro-resonance of a heartbeat that did not falter or quicken. Every vibration spoke to him, and in that microsecond, Zilean realized, this was no villager, nor monster.

It was a man.

He caught the faintest glimpse in the reflection of a cracked pane, a silhouette tall and iron-backed, red eyes burning low with calculation. The way the man's weight distributed, how his hand hovered ever-so-casually near his weapon, how the subtle arc of his spine never fully relaxed, these were tells Zilean understood on an instinctive level. This man was not merely accustomed to violence. He could see that he thrived in it.

Zilean's own stance did not shift. There was no need. The Sol in the room continued to ripple away from him, draining color from the very air, casting the moment in a strange, dreamlike monochrome.

The door creaked open, silent as a coffin lid, and Kaiser stepped inside, sword still sheathed, an unreadable half-smile ghosting his lips. His presence seemed to fill the ruined house, predatory, poised, and utterly confident, despite the difference in both their strength and status.

"Greetings," Kaiser said simply, voice carrying the weight of a hundred subtle meanings. There was no forced civility, no hint of bowing to authority, but neither was there open hostility.

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