[Aethel]
[The Grand Colosseum]
The Grand Colosseum roared with untamed fervor, a sea of voices melding into a deafening blur of awe, excitement, and frenzied emotion.
The festival had reached a fever pitch, and yet, above the chaos, seated within an extravagant, elevated balcony reserved for only the most esteemed figures, three men watched in silence. Their vantage point afforded them the best view.
Percival sat with his hands elegantly folded, his long silvery-blue hair cascading over his shoulders like threads of moonlight. His gray eyes bore into the largest Illusora screen, analyzing every movement, every explosion, every desperate clash. A thoughtful hum left his lips before he finally spoke, his voice carrying the kind of calm that suggested he had long since anticipated the events unfolding before him.
"Mikoto Yukio is quite powerful. More so than I even imagined," he mused, tapping a slender finger against his chin. "To contend with three Inheritors using only basic enhancement magic... most would consider that suicidal."
There was no shock in his voice. No awe. Just recognition. His gaze sharpened ever so slightly, his thoughts drifting inward.
("No wonder you chose him, old friend.")
A deep, amused chuckle rumbled from beside him, breaking the solemnity of his thoughts.
Leaning against the armrest of his seat, his cheek lazily propped upon a gloved fist, Emperor Aerious of Vel'ryr watched the battle unfold with thinly veiled fascination. His posture was deceptively relaxed—one leg crossed over the other, his immaculately tailored dark coat unruffled despite the sheer intensity of the moment. His red eyes gleamed in the light of the Illusora screen, betraying the amusement curling at his lips.
"A monster indeed," he echoed smoothly, his voice dripping with an almost serpentine charm. His gaze flicked toward Thordan, his smirk widening. "Tell me, should I start growing fearful of Galadriel? First, you have a spawn of Octavia, and now a monstrous boy who swats away Inheritors as if they were mere gnats. It hardly seems fair, does it not?"
The sarcasm in his tone was palpable, but there was something deeper beneath it—a curiosity that danced at the edges of his words, as if gauging just how much of a threat Mikoto truly posed.
King Thordan leaned forward, his piercing blue eyes never leaving the screen. He had little patience for the Emperor's theatrics. His focus was solely on the battlefield.
"If it's fairness you seek, perhaps your concerns would be better directed at Verdantis," Thordan said, his deep voice tinged with mild irritation. He barely spared Aerious a glance before turning his gaze to Percival. "Not only do they have the Inheritors of the Goddess of the Depths and sea and the Songstress Goddess, but now they've an additional three more in their ranks. That puts their military might leagues ahead of both our nations."
The tension in the air sharpened, like a drawn blade hovering just before a killing strike.
Percival, however, remained utterly unshaken. He merely tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable.
"Indeed," Aerious hummed, his fingers drumming against the armrest. "With such an overwhelming advantage, one might think Verdantis has little to fear from war. But I must ask, Archbishop—does your nation truly have no ambitions beyond its borders? There are many who would see such power and..." He exhaled, tilting his head. "Interpret it differently."
A fleeting smile ghosted across Percival's lips—so faint, so fleeting, it was almost as if it had never been there at all.
"Fear is an unnecessary thing," he said smoothly. "Verdantis has no interest in conquest, nor do we wish to overrun weaker nations."
Then, with deliberate slowness, he turned his gaze to Aerious, his gray eyes betraying nothing—no hostility, no amusement. Just cold, unwavering neutrality.
"That," he added, "is more Vel'ryr's style, no?"
For a split second—just a single fraction of a heartbeat—Aerious' smirk twitched. It was an almost imperceptible reaction, but Percival caught it.
A chink in the Emperor's otherwise impenetrable composure.
Thordan, uninterested in their verbal sparring, finally spoke. "And what of Vel'ryr?" he asked, his voice like steel. He turned his burning gaze toward Aerious. "First, there are whispers of you conspiring with demons, and now these beings calling themselves 'Ancestors' have appeared." His fingers tightened over the armrest, his knuckles white. "Two of them attacked Galadriel's capital. Should I consider this an act of war?"
Aerious merely shrugged. A dismissive, almost indifferent motion.
"I have no control over the Ancestors," he said lightly, almost bored. "And as for evening the playing field… well, Galadriel and Verdantis have their monsters, do they not? It would be most unfair if Vel'ryr did not have its own."
Percival, who had been quietly observing, finally spoke. "You speak as if these Ancestors are not a threat to you as well. Their mere existence is a danger to all." His voice was mild, but there was a distinct weight behind his words. "It is said that the strongest of them once fought both the Goddess Octavia and God Vagnir to a standstill. An entity like that... well." His lips curled faintly. "It does make one wonder what your 'trump card' is, Emperor."
A chuckle—low and knowing.
Aerious slowly lifted a hand and gestured toward the screen. "My trump card? Well despite what you may think it's not my son." His smile widened. "Why, he's already there."
As if on cue, the Illusora screen flickered, and suddenly, General Grimm's ominous form dominated the display.
A sudden, unspoken tension filled the air.
Percival's expression remained neutral. "Ah. General Grimm. The reaper of battlefields. Even with the combined forces of entire nations against him, he reigns supreme."
Thordan tensed. His eyes locked onto Astrid's form.
("Someone stronger than Selwyn?")
A chilling thought.
Aerious chuckled, leaning back in his seat. "And is that not your crown princess fighting him? I do hope he takes it easy. After all, she still has a wedding to attend."
The rulers continued watching as the battlefield unfolded.
"Hm, it does not seem as though he aims to kill the princess nor the other woman—General Mai, correct? He has been prioritizing avoidance rather than offense, and..." He paused, tilting his head ever so slightly as if listening to something beyond mortal perception. "I can feel no hostility from him."
He continued watching Grimm lazily avoid attacks while his lieutenant ran around like a dumbass.
Aerious arched a brow, turning his gaze from the battle toward the Archbishop. "Feel no hostility, eh?" His voice carried a trace of amusement, but his words dripped with skepticism. "How exactly would you be able to tell? He is on an entirely different battlefield, an entirely different world even."
A subtle smile ghosted Percival's lips, his fingers idly tapping against his armrest. "Merely my intuition," he admitted, voice laced with mystery. "However, I can say this much—he does not seem motivated to battle."
Aerious exhaled, his expression unreadable for a long moment before he sighed, rolling his shoulders lazily. "A fault of his," he mused, though his tone lacked true disappointment. Instead, it was a mere observation—an acknowledgment of an imperfection in an otherwise flawless weapon. His crimson eyes flickered with amusement as he leaned forward, fingers interlaced before him. "But despite that, I have every confidence that Vel'ryr shall emerge victorious."
His words carried absolute certainty, as though he were not merely speaking of probability but foretelling an inevitable fate.
Then, his gaze flicked back to the screen, where Grimm's ominous form loomed amidst the battlefield, and a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips. "Though, I must admit…" His fingers drummed against the polished wood of the table between them. "I am most curious to see how this 'monster' of mine fares against the other two."
The tension in the room thickened.
Thordan's fingers curled against the armrest of his seat. His mind was already racing, already analyzing the possible implications of Grimm's presence. A man whose very name was spoken with dread, a figure who had led Vel'ryr's legions to crush smaller nations without hesitation or mercy. If a man like that stood at Aerious' command—and was stronger than Selwyn—then Vel'ryr's military might was far more terrifying than they had previously accounted for.
Percival, however, merely closed his eyes, the ghost of a knowing smile lingering on his lips. "A monster, is he?" he murmured, half to himself.
Aerious merely chuckled, gaze locked onto the battlefield below.
--------------------
[???]
The planet wept beneath the weight of its impending demise. The very air trembled, saturated with raw, chaotic mana, the echoes of destruction reverberating across the scorched, fractured wasteland. The ground quaked, split apart, widening fissures that spewed molten fury. A deluge of radiant fire cascaded from the sky, unrelenting, consuming everything in its path. The sky—if one could still call it such—was a swirling maelstrom of dread, streaked with iridescent scars where reality itself unraveled.
The world was dying.
Aegraxes stood upon a jagged cliffside, his boots firmly planted on a slab of rock that barely held together against the planet's trembling protests. The winds howled like the wails of the forsaken, kicking up clouds of dust and embers that shimmered with residual magic. His crimson eyes remained fixed upon the devastation unfolding in the distance, an expression of cold indifference upon his face.
This was not the first time he had witnessed such a sight.
("The Great War,") he mused in silence, a flicker of something unreadable flashing in his gaze.
That conflict had been much the same—divine forces clashing with unfathomable monstrosities, rending the heavens asunder, obliterating all in their wake. A cycle of carnage, a battle waged not only between Gods and dragons but against the very fabric of existence itself. The realm had collapsed under their ceaseless war, shattered into countless fragments, reduced to nothing more than cosmic debris floating in the abyss, only to become this forsaken realm.
And now, history threatened to repeat itself.
"Atheros was such a wonderful place," he thought to himself, recalling the once-thriving world he stood on before its demise. The memory was brief, fleeting, and ultimately irrelevant. Nostalgia was a weakness. The present demanded his attention.
Then, from behind him—
A shift in the air. A disruption. A presence unlike any other.
Aegraxes did not move. He did not flinch. He merely let out a quiet exhale, eyes half-lidded as he recognized the unmistakable voice that followed.
"Reminiscing, are we?~♥"
The voice was a melody of madness, a singsong tease that dripped with unrestrained amusement. The moment it reached his ears, the world itself seemed to sway, as though reality bent and twisted under the weight of its owner's presence.
Without so much as a glance, Aegraxes knew who it was.
Verence.
The telltale rhythm of skipping footsteps echoed against the brittle earth as she approached, the playful bounce in her gait betraying not a single ounce of tension despite the apocalyptic scenery surrounding them. The very essence of calamity loomed overhead, yet she moved as though she were merely prancing through a field of flowers.
The contrast was sickeningly absurd.
Aegraxes frowned but said nothing at first, allowing the jester to take her place at his side. His peripheral vision caught a flash of vibrant color—her absurdly styled pink hair, streaked with wild highlights of various hues, bouncing with each exaggerated motion. Her makeup, a parody of innocence, framed her gleaming yellow eyes, her lips stained an unnatural shade of red.
Her presence was chaos incarnate.
"Jester." Aegraxes greeted her with nothing more than a curt acknowledgement, his voice as cold as ever.
Verence, undeterred, folded her arms behind her back and tilted her head with a whimsical smile. "Is it not truly beautiful?♣" she cooed, eyes flickering with an unnatural light as she took in the ruinous landscape before them. "This era truly holds so many powerful individuals♠ So much carnage, so much despair, so much untamed potential~!♥"
Aegraxes finally turned to look at her, his expression unreadable. "What of it?"
The question was simple, but there was an edge to it—one that made Verence's grin widen.
"Ohhh, nothing in particular~♥" she hummed, tapping her painted chin with a gloved finger. "I merely find it amusing, watching your little schemes unfold~♠ The calamities, the preparations, all so methodical, so careful… and yet, how sure are you that everything will go as planned?~♥"
Aegraxes narrowed his eyes. "My plans are already underway."
Verence let out a giggle, spinning on her heels before stopping abruptly, her gaze locking onto him with a glint of mischief. "Oho?~♦ That confident, are we?"
"There is no confidence," Aegraxes corrected, his arms folding over his chest. "Only inevitability."
Verence clapped her hands together, as if delighted. "My, my, such conviction!♦" Then, her eyes gleamed. "But you may suffer a loss, no? Losing the festival, mm?♥"
"That is an anticipated outcome." Aegraxes's tone did not waver. "Even with the Ancestors and Defier, at best, this would have ended in a stalemate. Winning the festival was never my true goal."
"Ohhh?~♥" Verence's curiosity deepened, a knowing smirk playing on her lips.
Aegraxes did not hesitate to elaborate.
"This festival serves another purpose," he stated. "An accumulation of mana."
A pause. Then—
Verence's laughter rang through the air, unhinged, whimsical, completely enthralled.
"Ahhh, so that's it!♣" she twirled, arms outstretched, before suddenly halting, a dangerous glint in her yellow eyes. "You're using this entire festival to harvest mana for the ritual to sacrifice Nihil, aren't you?♦"
Aegraxes did not confirm nor deny it. Instead, he glanced upward—to that which only he could perceive.
In the skies above, unseen by most, residual mana from the countless battles waged across the world and beyond swirled together, coalescing into a vast, growing orb. A limitless reservoir of energy, siphoned from those of immeasurable strength, all feeding into his grand design.
His expression remained unreadable.
"Mikoto has been particularly instrumental in feeding this process," he mused. "Though his death shall have to-."
That was when it happened.
The shift. The change.
The suffocating presence.
Aegraxes entire body tensed—not out of fear, but in acknowledgement of the overwhelming, inescapable force that suddenly flooded the space around them. A pressure that could not be ignored.
And it came from her.
"Now, now, Aegraxes~" Verence sang, her voice sickly sweet, yet laced with something darker, something dangerous. "Don't go saying anything that might mean your death~♦"
Silence.
Then—Aegraxes let out a quiet chuckle.
"Oh? I did not think you fancied the boy that much." His crimson eyes met hers, unreadable as ever. "I suppose given his soul, many once favored who he used to be."
Verence's expression shifted.
The playfulness did not leave her, but the intensity in her gaze became something far more… unwavering.
"I care not for who he once was~♪" she declared, her tone devoid of doubt, her conviction unwavering. "For I love Mikoto Yukio—the boy who stood untouched by the blessing of her!~♪"
Aegraxes observed her for a moment, before exhaling quietly.
("What a dangerous woman.")
Indeed, she was. And that made this game all the more precarious.
And all the more interesting.
------------------
[???]
[Location: ???]
The distant blur of destruction resounded like a mournful song: strength abusing the lands, spells crackling, and the earth itself quaking beneath the weight of conflict. And yet, despite the sheer devastation surrounding them, neither of them flinched.
For Guinevere and Lyra, such destruction had long since become familiar.
Guinevere stood at the edge of the ruined overlook, her lilac eyes gazing out across the ravaged expanse with a contemplative expression.
She inhaled slowly before murmuring, her voice touched with reverence:
"My, what a rowdy bunch. Tis a great pity that magic, something once so wondrous, has been reduced to naught but a tool for devastation." Her words hung in the air, carried away by the wind, disappearing into the distant battlefield where flickering embers danced against the sky.
Beside her, Lyra stood silent, arms crossed, her long raven hair billowing gently in the breeze.
Guinevere glanced sideways at her before adding with a wry smirk:
"The festival is, without a doubt, the most destructive one yet."
Lyra exhaled sharply through her nose, a ghost of amusement flickering across her dark-painted lips.
"That would be putting it lightly," she mused, shaking her head. The movement caused her flowing black locks to cascade over her shoulder.
A distant explosion illuminated the sky, yet neither woman looked towards it. Their focus was elsewhere—on something, or rather, someone more important.
Lyra tilted her head slightly. "How is Mikoto?"
Guinevere answered, a small smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. "He's currently locked in combat with three Inheritors, though his victory is all but assured."
There was a flicker of admiration in her voice, but also an analyst's detachment—an acknowledgment of a well-calculated outcome. Her eyes glimmered with something deeper, though, as she continued:
"And despite his current state, he's still going through with the plan. Hm, I may have underestimated him after all."
She let out a quiet chuckle, shaking her head.
"I assumed the 'phase' would cloud his judgment, make him reckless. I was fully prepared for an alternative plan." Her fingers brushed against the fabric of her sleeve absentmindedly. "Seems I was mistaken."
Lyra's lips curled into an almost proud smile, something rare for her.
"Seems even the 'phase' was not enough to dull his need to help," she mused, her voice softer now. She exhaled lightly, as if some unspoken weight had momentarily lifted from her shoulders. "That boy…" Her eyes softened, and for a fleeting second, warmth shone through her otherwise detached expression. "He really is extraordinary."
Guinevere's smirk widened ever so slightly.
"You have taken quite a liking to him," she observed, watching Lyra's expression with open curiosity.
Lyra, for her part, did not deny it. Instead, she simply let out a breath, her red eyes flickering with something unreadable. "I suppose I have."
Guinevere studied her for a long moment before humming thoughtfully. "Does he remind you of Mother that much?"
Lyra didn't answer right away. Instead, she turned her gaze towards the battlefield, watching the distant flickers of magic dance through the sky like falling stars.
Then, at last, she spoke.
"I suppose you could say that," she admitted, her voice quieter now. A ghost of a smile played at her lips. "Brash. Bratty. Stubborn beyond belief. And just… too much to handle at times."
Guinevere raised an eyebrow, tilting her head. "Bratty?"
Lyra chuckled, the sound light and reminiscent of a time long past.
"Oh, absolutely. More trouble than he's worth, really. But then again…" She turned to glance at Guinevere, amusement dancing in her gaze. "Much like yourself."
Guinevere's breath hitched. "I beg your pardon?"
Lyra's smirk widened.
"You were a rowdy child, Guinevere."
Guinevere coughed lightly into her hand, trying—and failing—to maintain her usual composed demeanor.
"I-I would not say I was that rowdy."
Lyra lifted an eyebrow. "Oh?"
The older woman chuckled, shaking her head in mock exasperation. "Honestly, you wandered so much that you nearly gave an ancient being like me a heart attack on far too many occasions."
Her voice was teasing, but beneath it, there was something warm. A fondness that she rarely let show.
"Suppose the world was just too enticing for you, hm?"
Guinevere's lips pressed together in a thin line.
"Well…" she muttered, almost sheepish. "Magic filled every corner of the world. How could I not have wandered somewhat?"
For once, the ever-composed court mage seemed almost flustered.
Lyra noticed immediately and let out an amused hum.
"Excuses, excuses, Guinevere."
Guinevere let out a slow sigh.
"Perhaps… but magic was different for me."
She lifted a hand, palm facing upward, and let a small wisp of violet mana swirl into existence, flickering like candlelight.
Her lilac eyes reflected the soft glow as she murmured:
"Most see it as a mere tool. I never could."
Her gaze lifted towards the sky, where darkened clouds swirled endlessly, untouched by moonlight.
"In a way… it made me feel closer to her."
Lyra didn't need to ask who she meant.
She spoke the name, gently. "Alyssia."
A silence stretched between them.
Then, Lyra exhaled.
"She was not meant to perish that day." There was no hesitation in her words. No doubt. Just raw, bitter truth. "I would give my very life to have her stand here once more." A small chuckle, tinged with sadness. "Though I'm quite sure she'd admonish me for such idiocy."
Guinevere let out a breath, a small, reluctant smile tugging at her lips.
"Me as well." Then, she smirked. "And if you ever did something so foolish, rest assured—I would drag your soul back just to talk your ear off about how ridiculous you were."
Lyra chuckled. Then, her red eyes burned with something resolute. She reached out, her hand firm yet gentle as it rested over Guinevere's.
"Then let us save your mother's soul." Her grip tightened ever so slightly. "Together, with Mikoto."
And for the first time in a long while, Guinevere felt like they could.