They were back in the antique shop.
No tremor. No echo. No sign that reality itself had just been torn apart moments ago.
The broken clocks still lay scattered across dusty shelves, their hands frozen mid-tick. Outside the grimy windows, Talagra bustled on—merchants shouting, boots clattering against stone, life continuing uninterrupted. Time had not moved an inch.
As if none of it had ever happened.
Princess Urillia slowly walked through the shop, her fingers gliding across shattered hourglasses and rusted pendulums. Her golden eyes traced the warped space with keen interest, as though peeling back layers invisible to the unblessed.
"So this shop..." she murmured, "...is a gateway."
She turned in a slow circle, examining the walls, the ceiling, even the dust floating lazily in the air. "A remarkably elegant concealment. A pocket realm anchored to mundane space—no wonder no one noticed."
Asuma stepped forward, still shaken by how easily reality had snapped back into place.
"Princess... how did you find us?" he asked.
She glanced over her shoulder, reptilian pupils flickering faintly beneath the gold. "Magic of that magnitude cannot hide from my eyes. Even within a fractured dimension, clashes like that leave scars." She paused, then added coolly, "Especially chaotic ones."
Asuma nodded. That made sense—but not entirely.
"I see," he said carefully. "But I assume that wasn't the only reason you intervened."
Urillia stopped walking.
Her expression darkened—not with anger, but with calculation.
"No," she replied. "It wasn't."
She turned to face him fully. "My original intent was to meet the Great Sage Fionalla. However..." her gaze sharpened, "...it seems I am not the only one searching for her."
Asuma's jaw tightened. "Balak mentioned killing her. That's what I don't understand—why? Why would someone hire a berserker like him to assassinate a sage?"
Urillia exhaled softly, though there was no relief in the sound. "The Four Sages are living repositories of forbidden knowledge. Secrets buried since the Age of Gods. Power invites envy, fear... and hatred."
She looked at the broken clocks again. "Many desire the sage's head. It is not surprising that someone finally made a move."
Her voice lowered. "What is concerning... is the timing."
Amira, who had been silent until now, stepped forward, fists clenched.
"Princess," she said firmly, "there's something I need to ask you."
Urillia turned her attention to her, eyes narrowing slightly—not in hostility, but interest.
"And what would that be?" she asked.
"I understand you're searching for the sage to identify who poisoned the garden," Amira said slowly, her eyes never leaving the princess. "But why would the empire send royalty instead of a lower-ranked official or a bureau agent?"
Urillia paused at the threshold of the antique shop.
A faint smile tugged at her lips—not warm, not mocking, but knowing.
"Are you suggesting suspicion toward the royal family, Lady Balar?" she asked calmly. "That is... ironic, considering your lineage."
She turned fully to face Amira, her golden eyes gleaming beneath the dim lantern light.
"But to answer your question—each member of the imperial family is assigned dominion over a vast region of Azel. Talagra falls under my authority. Any matter involving a legendary sage, ancient magic, or threats capable of destabilizing an entire city demands someone with power equal to its consequences."
Her voice hardened.
"A lesser official would hesitate. I cannot afford hesitation."
The explanation was logical—too logical.
Even so, Amira felt a knot tighten in her chest. Fionalla's warning echoed in her mind. Royal involvement in Talagra may change how you view the empire itself.
Reason did little to quiet suspicion.
Asuma broke the silence. "Then what will you do now... since you can't meet the sage?"
Urillia didn't answer immediately.
Instead, she turned away, her cloak flowing like liquid gold behind her.
"You will see tomorrow," she said flatly, as if the matter no longer concerned them.
She stepped outside. The sound of armored boots followed. Moments later, the rumble of a royal carriage echoed down the street.
Before entering it, Urillia glanced back once more.
"It would be wise for you to leave the city," she said. "Talagra will soon become a battlefield."
Then she was gone—carriage vanishing into the winding streets, guards closing ranks around her presence like a moving fortress.
The antique shop fell silent again.
"A battlefield...?" Amira murmured. "What does she mean by that?"
Asuma exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. "The princess moves pieces without showing the board. And that attack—Balak, the twins, the timing... none of it feels random."
His gaze drifted to the warped clocks lining the walls. "The deeper we get involved, the more this city feels like a trap layered atop another trap."
Amira nodded, unease crawling up her spine. "This isn't just about the garden anymore."
She looked down—
And froze.
"...Leon?" she whispered.
At the far end of the shop, slumped against an overturned grandfather clock, Leon lay unconscious. His breathing was shallow, his clothes torn, dried blood staining his sleeve. The clock beside him ticked faintly—despite being broken.
"Asuma," Amira said sharply, already rushing toward him. "He's here."
Something had followed them back.
And whatever it was, Talagra was no longer just on the brink of chaos.
It was already bleeding.
How the princess had found them so easily remained a mystery.
That mystery unsettled Asuma more than the battle itself.
Magic traces alone shouldn't have been enough—not through layered pocket dimensions, not with wards crafted by a sage. And yet, Urillia had arrived precisely when she wished, seen everything, and left without explanation. The more Asuma thought about it, the more her presence felt less like coincidence and more like inevitability.
"She knew," he muttered under his breath.
"Knew what?" Amira asked quietly, adjusting Leon's weight against her shoulder.
"Where we were. What we were doing. Maybe even what was going to happen," Asuma replied, his jaw tightening. "I don't trust coincidences anymore."
He looked at Leon's unconscious face—pale, battered, breathing but unresponsive.
"Amira... we need to go back to the sage. Now."
She didn't hesitate. "Okay."
With effort, she hoisted Leon higher, looping his arm securely around her shoulders. Asuma stepped in to support his other side, steadying them both. The air around him warped as he reached for the spatial anchor Fionalla had woven into her pocket realm.
The antique shop vanished.
Reality folded.
The familiar sensation of weightlessness rushed over them as space tore open—and then—
Heat.
Smoke.
The smell of burning wood and scorched earth slammed into their senses.
They stumbled forward as the pocket dimension reformed around them, but the world they emerged into was unrecognizable.
The once tranquil plain was gone.
The grass had been reduced to blackened ash, the sky above stained an unnatural crimson, clouds twisting like wounded flesh. The great tree—the one that housed Fionalla's home—was engulfed in flame, its branches snapping and collapsing inward as embers rained from above.
"No..." Amira whispered.
At the base of the burning tree, a lone figure knelt.
Fionalla.
Her robes were torn and stained black with blood. A massive demonic blade—jagged, warped, and burning with cursed fire—was impaled straight through her abdomen, pinning her to the ground. Dark flames crawled along the metal, spreading into the earth beneath her like veins.
Her cane lay shattered beside her.
The air screamed with residual magic—ancient, desperate, and fading.
"Fionalla!!!" Asuma shouted.
His voice cracked as he broke into a run, panic tearing through him like a blade.
They were too late.
And whoever had done this hadn't come to silence a sage—
They had come to erase her.