Morning light spilled over the palace like a reluctant visitor, pale gold slipping through stained glass and marble corridors. Yet the warmth never truly entered. Whispers crept instead, threading themselves through halls and servants' quarters.
It was a shutoff day.
A day when the palace sealed itself shut, when curtains were drawn thick and wards hummed softly in the walls, suppressing a violent surge of mana. A day meant to protect the kingdom from the prince, and the prince from himself.
"He would not eat, Your Majesty," one servant said, voice trembling as he bowed low. "He has not risen from his bed. Every time we try, he looks at us as if disturbance itself is a crime punishable by death."
Another swallowed hard. "His enigma pheromones are overwhelming. We could barely breathe. Our limbs went weak the closer we came, like the air itself was pressing us down."
Queen Eliza narrowed her eyes, worry sharpening her expression. "I will bring him food myself."
Before she even reached his chamber, the weight of Nikolai's presence pressed against her senses. The pheromones were thick, bitter, almost metallic, clinging to the air like smoke after a fire. Each step made them heavier. By the time she reached his door, her breath had grown shallow. She covered her nose and mouth with a cloth and pushed inside.
The room was dim, curtains drawn tight, light reduced to thin slashes across the floor. Mana pulsed faintly in the air, restless and unstable, like a heart beating out of rhythm.
"Nikolai," she said softly, approaching the bed. "Eat. At this rate, you will destroy yourself."
A muffled voice came from beneath the heavy blankets. "Let me be."
He did not move.
"At least eat the sandwiches I prepared," she pleaded. "Just a little."
Silence answered her.
Then, slowly, the blankets shifted. Nikolai sat up, hair disheveled, eyes dulled and unfocused. His skin was pale, almost gray, as if the color had been drained from him overnight. He looked hollow, like someone left behind in his own body.
For a moment, he simply stared at his mother. No anger. No warmth. Just emptiness, vast and suffocating.
Then he lay back down, turning away, retreating once more into the dark cocoon of his blankets.
"Leave them on the table," he murmured, voice flat, already distant.
Queen Eliza hesitated, her hand tightening around the tray. She wanted to say more. To scold him. To comfort him. To pull him back from wherever his mind had sunk.
But she knew this state well.
Quiet. Heavy. Dangerous.
She placed the food down gently and withdrew, the door closing behind her as the room sank back into silence, broken only by the faint, unstable hum of mana and the slow, uneven breathing of a prince drowning in his own mind.
....
Aster hummed, a quiet sound of pride lingering in his chest as he thought about how Everanth had answered his call. With that thought still warm in his mind, he headed to the local library, hoping to learn more about weapons like his.
The library smelled of wax and old paper, a comforting mix that clung to the air. Morning light spilled through tall windows, blending with the soft glow of candles placed along long wooden tables. It was enormous, with shelves spiraling upward toward the ceiling like a maze of knowledge frozen in time.
He dragged a wooden ladder across the stone floor. Every step creaked as he climbed, the sound echoing faintly in the vast hall. Moving the ladder into a shadowed corner, he scanned the shelves until his fingers brushed against a gray, timeworn book.
Ancient Weapons.
His eyes narrowed with focus as he opened it.
The text stated that these weapons were forged by Ferradon, the god of steel and blacksmithing. They were created using birthstones, rare cores capable of housing a conscious mind. Through this, the weapons could choose their rightful wielder.
The pages explained that such weapons reflected their owner's mana and abilities.
The stronger the mana, the stronger the weapon became.
He flipped through the pages scanning the letter
The he found it but was surprised some of them were smugged and torn off
The twin weapons Everanth and Evangelion ( then there was a huge smudge)
They were forged by Ferradon, god of steel and blacksmith, at the dawn of fractured realities, when the first tear between worlds screamed open and something vast crawled through.
That something was Aethryx the World Bound, the first dimensional dragon he came from the big rip the big hole in the mana realm
Aethryx did not breathe fire alone. It folded space. Its wings scraped against the seams of existence, and its shadow fell across more than one world at once. No single blade could reach it. No single will could bind it.
So Ferradon forged two.
Everanth was made to pierce what could not be reached.
A dagger born of proximity and instinct, its narrow blade etched with a black serpent, coiled and waiting. Everanth was designed to slip between dimensions, to bite into the soft places where worlds overlapped. It answered only when its name was spoken with intent, releasing restrained mana in violent, unpredictable surges. Everanth was the blade meant to wound Aethryx when it descended too close, when reality thinned and breath turned to panic.
Evangelion was forged to judge what must be ended.
A sword of command and distance, engraved with fractured wings that symbolized dominion over thresholds. Evangelion did not chase chaos. It aligned it. Its mana flowed in deep, resonant currents, capable of anchoring collapsing space and cleaving through folded dimensions. Where Everanth struck, Evangelion decided.
Together, they were a system, not a pair.
Everanth tore the veil.
Evangelion sealed the wound.
Everanth listens for the will to survive.
Evangelion listens for the courage to choose.
Aster was awed. He couldn't believe the weapon he now possessed could kill a dragon, let alone a dimensional one. His mind raced. Where had the other half, Evangelion, gone? He returned the book with a sigh and leapt down to the cobbled street.
Outside, the guild request board caught his eye. A notice glared at him: Unregistered adventurers will only receive 45% of total payment.
He ripped the paper off, chest heaving, disbelief written all over his face. Completing a mission alone was already impossible. Now, not even half the merits?
"How could they?" he muttered, pounding the bulletin board. His fist throbbed.
He ran through the winding streets and narrow alleys, the city buzzing with the usual chaos. Thugs, thieves, and all sorts of shady characters regarded him with wary eyes as he passed.
He stopped at the wine shop. The bartender, a tall man polishing a glass, glanced up.
Aster let out a heavy sigh. "Two shots of rum. Lemon pepper and moondew," he said, voice rough.
The bartender handed him a card with a number and raised a brow, clearly amused. Aster didn't care. He went upstairs. The rooms smelled strongly of Capishna, a hallucinogenic plant that made the mind waver and the senses float. He covered his mouth and stopped in front of Room 185, knocking thrice.
The peephole slid open. A scarred eye stared back.
"It's me. Aster. I'm here to see the Mad Dog your pathetic little boss."
The door swung open. Inside, the room was thick with smoke and the chatter of courtesans. A massive man dominated the space, scarred up to his neck, a bulldog tattoo rippling down his arm. He leaned back on a chair, cigar smoke curling around him, and chuckled.
"Aster... it's been a long time since you paid me a visit."
"What do you want?" Aster asked, trying to mask his unease.
The man leaned forward. "I know you had a word with the guildmaster.
Purposely left me out, just like you always do when you need my help."
"Well, guess what...I'm not doing dirty work for you."
The Mad Dog's grin widened. "Really? After two years, that's how you greet an old friend?"
"Friend is the least I would call you," Aster said, eyes narrowing.
"Oh, Aster," the Mad Dog purred, waving a hand lazily. "We just need a little help. No blood. No screams. Just a simple lookout."
"N.." Aster started, but the words died in his throat.
"Eloise makes wonderful bread," the Mad Dog continued, smiling as he exhaled smoke. "And Rowan… such a cheerful kid these days."
Something in Aster snapped.
He surged forward and grabbed the man by the collar, hauling him up with raw fury. His eyes burned red, murderous and unblinking.
"Don't you dare drag my family into this," Aster growled. "If you value your life, stop talking."
The Mad Dog only laughed, low and amused. "I'd keep your hands off me if you still want to see your sister selling bread instead of herself."
Aster froze.
Slowly, painfully, he released his grip.
"This will be our last deal," Aster said, voice tight. "No killing women. No children. No innocent men."
"I told you," the Mad Dog said, spreading his hands. "I just want you as a lookout."
He leaned forward, eyes glinting. "The palace is hosting a welcome party for the new Duke Crimore. Nobles everywhere. Music. Wine. Chaos."
They produced a jewel that caught the light. A green sapphire, carved and polished to perfection.
"The Eye of the Forest," he said reverently. "Crafted for Princess Elodie herself."
he revealed a stone, identical in shape but dull, lifeless. A cheap imitation.
"You watch the halls. We switch them. I walk away rich."
Aster's jaw clenched. "And who does the stealing?"
The answer came without words.
The thugs stepped aside.
Catherine stumbled forward, wrists bound, eyes blazing with fury and fear.
"Hi, Aster," she said weakly. "They said they'd burn down the Patch Up Shack if I didn't cooperate."