The news struck like a poorly forged dagger.
"Zerek von Vireon has been killed... by Azrael von Fan Caelestis," announced the messenger, his voice taut, as if the very words might spark a war.
The room fell into a silence so thick it seemed to press against the lungs of everyone present. Elizabeth sat upright in her chair, unmoving. Beside her, the gathered princes barely breathed. Vincent touched his chin, thoughtful; Narel folded his arms with tense restraint; and Dren... Dren clenched his fists, as if violence could resolve what diplomacy could not.
Elizabeth closed her eyes.
She searched inward, diving into the fragmented memories that were no longer borrowed but becoming her own. In those halls of failed timelines, she had seen this event countless times. Again and again, the death of Zerek—or the death of Azrael—always led to the same outcome: war.
War between Solaris and Vereon.
A war without truce, without justice, without honor.
And caught between those two imperial behemoths... was Tharnhold, Dren's homeland. Torn apart like bread between wolves, used as a battlefield, ravaged and reduced to ruin by a conflict it had never asked for.
"What do you intend to do?" Mayron asked carefully, as if speaking to a lit fuse.
Elizabeth opened her eyes. There was no youth in them now—only resolve. Something ancient.
"Send the following message to Prince Azrael von Fan Caelestis," she said, her voice steady. "Since his actions took place under the framework of the Royal Selection and within the regulations of the Inherited Trial, there is no reason he should not join the pilgrimage immediately. I expect him to meet us in the Kingdom of Vhalmir."
Dren looked at her as if she'd just invited a dragon to dine at their table.
"You're inviting him here? So he can take us out one by one?" he asked, wary.
Elizabeth returned his gaze—not proud, not defiant.
Urgent.
She wore the look of someone who had already seen the battlefield before the war began. Dren frowned, but he understood. Not because he knew politics, but because he recognized the face of someone who had tasted the smoke of battle in their dreams. He looked to Mayron. Then to Narel. They understood as well.
"If we don't act now," Elizabeth continued, "war is inevitable. And between the two most militarized empires on the continent... what kingdom lies in the middle?"
Dren swallowed hard. He wasn't a tactician. He wasn't a diplomat. But even he knew the answer.
"Tharnhold," he murmured, as though the name itself sealed a fate.
"Correct," Elizabeth said. "Your kingdom, Dren. It will be the battlefield. And with your kingdom's current condition... you wouldn't even have the chance to choose a side. You'd be destroyed before you could blink."
Silence fell again. But this time, it wasn't fear. It was silent agreement.
"If we shelter Azrael with us," she said, "if we keep him close under the banner of the pilgrimage, then we might slow the flames. Just long enough to think. To negotiate. To save what can still be saved."
Vincent nodded.
Veldora narrowed her eyes, already running the political math.
Narel, who had remained quiet, finally spoke.
"Vereon's assassins are precise, silent... and ruthless. If we don't act quickly, we won't just have a war—we'll have a martyr. And that will make them unstoppable. Princess Elizabeth, allow your best guards to depart immediately to bring Azrael to Vhalmir. I will receive him personally."
Elizabeth turned to her steward.
"You heard him. Follow Prince Narel's instructions. Have them leave at once."
"At once, Your Highness."
Mayron watched the scene unfold, quieter than usual. Not out of lack of opinion—but out of awe. A girl, a foreign princess who had barely arrived... had read the political board in seconds and made her move before any of them.
"She's not acting to keep her throne," he thought. "She's acting to stop the collapse of six kingdoms. Maybe... maybe that girl is more of a queen than anyone ever expected."
Elizabeth descended with a swift, purposeful stride toward the meeting point. She had never spoken to Azrael in this life. But in the fragmented memories of her other selves, she recalled exchanging a few brief, almost formal conversations with him. He wasn't a psychopath, as many feared. Nor an uncontrollable monster. He was more like… a block of ice with eyes.
"Prince Azrael. Narel."Her greeting was measured, courteous.And though she hadn't meant to, her tone made the level of familiarity between them abundantly clear.
Azrael bowed with almost choreographed precision."Princess Elizabeth. An honor."
"Hey, Eli," Narel chimed in with a mischievous smile and a teasing glint in his eyes. His informality echoed like a deliberate challenge, and Azrael noticed it. He glanced sideways at Narel, the corner of his mouth tightening in restrained irritation.
"I received your magical summons the moment it was cast," Azrael began, his voice carved from polished marble. "Having settled my personal affairs, I believe now is the proper time to join the Pilgrimage. Especially concerning your... particular interest in the satellite that graces our night skies."
Narel let out a short laugh — not joyful, but mocking.
"Interest, huh? I'm surprised to hear you speak of our neighboring moon like it's worth investigating… considering you rule one yourself."
"Indeed," Azrael replied, with icy calm. "On my satellite, there is a kingdom. Yours, if I recall correctly, is a failed experiment. An accident. A reminder of what happens when magic overreaches."
The tension became thick enough to slice with a dagger.
Narel's fists clenched. Only Elizabeth's presence kept him from throwing a punch right then and there. It had been centuries since someone had gotten under his skin so effectively.
"Well, Elizabeth believes that so-called 'failed experiment' hides a secret worth uncovering. That's why we're going. And you"—he locked eyes with Azrael—"are coming with us."
Azrael didn't even blink. He tilted his head slightly and replied:
"Of course. From now on, I'll follow the princess wherever she goes. After all, she's to be my wife."
Elizabeth blinked.
Actually, she mentally blacked out for half a second.
Then she looked at him. And found him even more insufferable now that he had opened his mouth.
"And here I thought the silence made him interesting," she thought with growing annoyance.
Fortunately—or not—Dren burst in at that very moment. He was fully armored, cape billowing behind him, gauntlets gleaming, eyes sharp like someone expecting an ambush at any turn.
—Your Highnesses and Majesties and all that... —Dren grumbled without the slightest formality—. Everything's ready. We can depart whenever you give the word.
Elizabeth nodded.The outer court of the floating castle pulsed with tension and purpose. Over forty individuals—elite soldiers, battle mages, healers, alchemists, and scouts—stood in neat formations, prepared for departure. The banners of each kingdom flapped in the high-altitude wind, embroidered with shimmering mithril thread, while magical transport beasts beat their wings at the edge of the stone docking platforms.The expedition to the moon—officially labeled a "diplomatic observation mission"—was in truth an unprecedented military deployment.
From afar, Elizabeth approached.
She walked with calm poise, her stride unhurried but driven by the certainty of someone who had left doubt behind. She wore a long white cloak that trailed like mist over the polished marble. Her hair was tied in a high braid, adorned with a black onyx tiara. Every noble and officer turned to watch her as she passed.But they hadn't seen anything yet.
Upon reaching the center of the embarkation platform, Elizabeth raised one hand and softly spoke an arcane incantation. Her cloak dissolved like stardust, wrapping her in a shimmer of protective enchantments. Beneath it, her armor revealed itself.
A dark tactical suit, form-fitting and seamless, reinforced along the arms, ribs, and legs. Sleek yet efficient. There were no unnecessary embellishments, but each strap and clasp felt like a declaration of purpose.The suit outlined her figure with precision—a slender waist, long legs, and a stance straight as a spear. Though still young, her body bore the grace of one shaped by discipline and quiet strength. There was a subtle beauty to her—unpretentious, magnetic—made all the more striking by the confidence in her gaze.Elizabeth was just a teenager… and yet, utterly impossible to overlook.
The three princes watched her transformation and, without meaning to, fell completely silent.
Mayron cleared his throat and looked away, his cheeks flushed.Narel smirked faintly but lowered his gaze out of rare respect.Even Azrael—ever stoic and impenetrable—turned his eyes elsewhere, clearly uncomfortable, as though her magic had unveiled something he wasn't ready to confront.
Elizabeth noticed the silence.
And sighed. Just faintly.
—Is it so strange for a princess to be ready for battle? —she asked, not turning around, as the short tactical cape fastened itself across her shoulders.
—No —Vincent replied, having just stepped forward to the front of the ranks—. It's extraordinary. That's why no one says a word.
Elizabeth gave no answer.
She simply moved to the head of the formation, halted, and with a clear, commanding voice, declared:
—Open the portals. March forward. We're going to the moon.