A month had passed since the young green-haired girl had started living with Mayor Rannold of Jarustum City. Quickly enough, she had brightened and cheered up, enjoying her life as the little princess of the city.
Elena was introduced to many faces as the days went by—Rannold's kind and motherly wife, the various guards who patrolled the mansion, and the busy, cheerful servants who always greeted her with a smile. Even Captain Boros, ever the quiet sentinel, became a familiar sight. She often saw him crossing the mansion's halls with scrolls under his arm or whispering brief reports to Rannold before disappearing again into the city's duties.
She also met Aaron a few times too.
Their first meeting had been awkward, with Elena unsure how to act around him. But by the second time, something softened. She started getting comfortable in his presence. He was warm and gentle, always greeting her with that lopsided smile and often bringing small gifts—nothing grand, just little things that made her eyes light up. A shiny rock he'd found near the river. A ribbon for her hair. And a few other things.
Sometimes he'd play tag with her around the mansion's garden, laughing as she darted between hedges and flower beds. Other times, he'd sit with her under the big willow tree and tell stories about his childhood, about the little village he came from and the strange traditions they had there.
He'd also speak of his dreams—though when he did, there was a distant look in his eyes, like they belonged to someone else now.
One of those dreams was to travel to Pantos, to see Market City, the grand place where Rannold himself had once lived. Aaron would always smile when he spoke of it, but Elena noticed something in his voice… a kind of quiet sadness, like he didn't truly believe he'd ever go.
For most people, traveling the world was nothing more than a dream.
After all, journeys could take weeks, months, sometimes even years. The roads were treacherous, and safety was never guaranteed. Even if you managed to get enough coin and had the courage, the path ahead was always uncertain.
The greatest threat of all? Monsters.
From the ever-persistent Goblin packs that plagued trade roads, to mountain trolls that crushed wagons with a single swing, to the dreaded Golden Bears whose pelts shimmered like coin and claws could tear steel—there was no shortage of horrors roaming the wilds. And monsters didn't obey borders or reason. They appeared where they pleased, and they killed without hesitation.
Even hiring a group of Iron-Ranked Adventurers, or if one was rich and desperate enough, Silver-Ranked, didn't guarantee your survival. A well-armed caravan could still vanish in a night.
Then there were the bandits.
And worse—the gangs.
They were everywhere in Rosendar. In the woods. In the valleys. In the cities. Some were just starving thieves with rusted blades. Others were well-organized syndicates, armed to the teeth, with spies in every town and ties to darker things than coin.
And suppose you did survive all that. Suppose you made it out of Rosendar with body and soul still intact.
You'd still have to cross the sea.
The great, cruel ocean that separated Rosendar from Pantos—a voyage just as dangerous as the land behind you. Pirates, storms, sea beasts… and the sheer unpredictability of the deep.
And even then, even if you reached Pantos, you still had to make your way to Market City, passing through foreign lands, strange customs, and all the dangers that came with them.
Yes… for most, travel was just a dream.
And yet, when Aaron spoke of it—even if his voice carried sorrow—Elena could still hear the fire beneath his words.
He wanted it.
But for someone like Aaron, who wasn't even a proper Fighter yet and had only just begun learning how to wield a sword, it wasn't just a dream—it was an impossible thought. A foolish one.
Something better left untouched.
To dwell on it too much would be wasting precious time, time better spent learning how to defend himself, how to survive in this world. Dreams were beautiful, but in a place like Rosendar, they were dangerous distractions.
So instead, he read books. He listened to travelers and adventurers who passed through Jarustum—those rare few who had dared to cross from one continent to another and live to tell about it. He soaked up every detail, every story, as if by doing so, he could live a hundred lives he'd never touch with his own hands.
Mayor Rannold could travel between Market City and Jarustum, sure—but that was because he could afford to. He was a merchant. He had wealth, influence, and connections. He could hire guards—good ones—and make the long preparations needed to ensure the journey was as safe as it could be.
And even then, Rannold rarely traveled now.
Even with all his advantages, he stayed put. Too many risks. Too many uncertainties.
In truth, only Nobles, Kings, or Emperors could move freely across the world, carving paths with gold or power. Or… those rare people who were strong enough to protect themselves without anyone's help.
Those people—their names were whispered, respected, or feared.
And Aaron knew… he wasn't one of them.
At least not yet.
...
Other than Aaron, Elena had needed a few days to truly settle into the mansion of Rannold. It wasn't enormous or luxurious like the grand noble manors she heard about in stories, but it was still bigger—and fancier—than anything the little girl had ever lived in.
Back in her village, life had been small and simple. She had never traveled to a proper city before. The largest place she'd ever been was a nearby trade town, and even that had seemed big and noisy to her at the time.
Their village's mayor had just been a slightly wealthy farmer. A kind man… or at least, he had been. Before.
Elena's eyes dimmed as the memory came unbidden, and she quickly shook her head, forcing the thoughts away before they swallowed her again.
The Black Tower.
They had destroyed everything.
Now, after a full month in Rannold's home, Elena had come to learn some things—things she hadn't fully grasped in those first few days of shock and silence.
First, it hadn't just been her village.
Seven others had fallen that same night. Villages in Solfia, in Decartium, and even one all the way in the northern subcontinent of Maria. All struck in unison. All burned.
The incident had been given a name.
The Black Fire.
A coordinated massacre. An act of cruelty and terror so vast it shook the foundations of trust across nations. Rannold hadn't told her all of it directly—he was careful with what he said around her—but Elena wasn't stupid. She listened. She watched.
And she understood more than most expected from a child.
Many people had died that night.
Too many.
And of her village… Rannold hadn't been able to find any other survivors. No travelers rescued from the roads, no injured brought in by nearby towns, no names on the registry of the living.
No one.
So for now, it seemed like Elena might be the last person from her village still alive.
And that thought broke her in a way nothing else could.
She had friends back home—kids her age, or a little older, or younger. They'd played tag in the fields, shared fruit, giggled during the harvest dances. She'd known good people too: gentle aunts and uncles who'd helped her mother, neighbors who gave out sweets on festival days, even the farmer who served as the mayor. He had been kind and always smelled like wheat and smoke.
Now they were all gone.
Not missing. Not traveling.
Gone.
Never to be seen or heard from again.
And it was all because of them.
Because of the Black Tower.
Because of the monsters who called themselves Arts Users, who used power to destroy, not protect. Who had taken her mother, her friends, her home. Her world.
Elena's hands clenched in her lap, small fingers curling tight around the fabric of her dress.
They had taken everything.
That name—Black Tower—confused her.
Because it didn't just fill her with hate.
It also filled her with fear.
The kind that made her chest tighten and her legs curl up against herself when she thought too hard about it. The kind that made her eyes dart to shadows and the back of alleys even when she knew she was safe.
Whenever she remembered the flames consuming her village, the screams, the smoke—she would shake and shiver, forcing the images away, burying them deep.
And when she thought of him—Eric—using her brother's name, Lance, to perform that terrible Air Lance… when she remembered her mother's final moment...
She would cry.
But not always.
Because sometimes, after the tears and the memories and the fear, something else came forward—another memory. One that burned not with pain… but with something else.
That day. The day the bandits were defeated. When she had been in the cage, small and helpless… until she wasn't.
She remembered it clearly.
The Green Savage. That's what one of the bandits had whispered.
For a moment that day, something inside her had snapped. A beast had awakened. She remembered the taste of blood in her mouth. She remembered biting—a man's finger, then his ear—until the flesh tore loose.
She remembered the way it clung to her teeth afterward. How she had scrubbed and scrubbed them raw.
But lately… she wasn't sure she felt disgusted anymore.
Or even afraid.
She still didn't want to believe it was her who had done it. She wasn't a monster. She wasn't.
But there was something inside her. Something wild. And when she chose to, she could let it out.
And that... gave her power.
Because power was what she needed most. Not kindness. Not pity.
Strength.
If the Black Tower existed to bring suffering to the world…
Then she would exist to end them.
No matter what it took.
...
Warm sunlight filtered gently through the sheer curtains of Elena's room, casting soft gold on the freshly painted pink walls. The room smelled faintly of roses and soap, the kind of scent that clung to polished wood and freshly laundered sheets.
The space was large—far larger than anything Elena had ever called her own. The bed alone could fit three of her, maybe more, and it was covered in soft velvet blankets and silk pillows. The pink theme wasn't just on the walls—there were flower-shaped cushions, a little dresser with a mirror, and even a rug with embroidered stars.
It had all been redone on Rannold's orders. Repainted, redecorated, refurnished.
For the little princess of Jarustum, he had said.
And Elena loved it.
She loved it so much that sometimes, when no one was looking, she'd bury her face into the soft blankets and giggle, just to remind herself it was real.
Today, like most mornings now, she awoke to the soft, graceful voice of Mariel, one of the mansion's maids—a kind-faced, middle-aged woman with soft brown curls and warm eyes.
"Time to wake up, little princess," Mariel said gently, drawing the curtains open just a bit more to let in the light.
Elena stirred under her blankets, blinking her sleepy green eyes open as the golden warmth of morning lit up her world.
She stretched with a tiny yawn, the sleeves of her silk pajamas slipping back just enough to show her small arms. The outfit was soft and decorated with tiny blue birds in flight. It was the kind of clothing she'd once only seen nobles wear during festival visits to nearby towns.
Now it was hers.
And she couldn't be more glad.
Elena sat up with a sleepy smile, rubbing her eyes as she looked toward the maid.
"Good morning, Mariel," she mumbled, her voice still heavy with sleep.
"Good morning, little princess," Mariel replied with a warm smile, smoothing out the bed sheets as Elena slipped off them. "The sun's already waiting for you."
Elena nodded and padded across the room on bare feet, heading to the small side door that led into her private bathroom—a modest, clean space with polished tiles and a little stool just for her height. She washed her face with cool water, the splash waking her fully now as she stared at her reflection.
Still the same green hair. Still the same eyes. But… maybe a little brighter.
When she returned, Mariel was already waiting with a change of clothes folded neatly on the bed.
With the maid's help, she changed out of her pajamas and into something more suited to her style—loose trousers tucked into soft boots, a light shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and a short vest. Not noblewear. Not stiff dresses or glittering sandals.
She knew what princesses were supposed to wear. Lance had told her all about it once—how they walked slowly, raised their chins, and rolled their eyes whenever someone said something beneath them.
For Elena, that was as good as fact.
But she didn't want to be like that.
She wanted to jump. To run. To climb trees.
And so, dressed like the kind of princess who could swing from a branch, she followed Mariel down the polished halls toward the dining room, skipping slightly with every few steps.
The doors to the dining hall opened with a soft creak, and Elena stepped in with Mariel right behind her. The scent of warm bread and honeyed tea filled the air, and the long table at the center already had a place set just for her—small, with a high chair and a carved wooden cup.
"Good morning, Uncle Rannold!" Elena chirped as she skipped toward the table.
Rannold looked up from his cup with a wide grin, still in his house robe and wearing that ever-present merchant's hat—even during breakfast.
"Well, well, if it isn't the sunshine of Jarustum herself!" he said, opening his arms in welcome. "Good morning, little princess."
"Good morning, Elena," came a softer, elegant voice from the other side of the table.
Elena turned and smiled wide at the woman seated beside Rannold—his wife, her honorary Aunt Haseena.
Unlike her husband, who hailed from Market City with his big laugh and ever-busy days, Haseena was Al-Barkien. That meant she had green hair and green eyes—just like Elena.
Her hair was long, braided down one shoulder with golden beads woven into the strands. She was beautiful, with a noblewoman's poise, soft-spoken but sharp-eyed.
A real noble.
And somehow… she had married Rannold, the plump, ever-haggling merchant who'd become the mayor of Jarustum not by birthright, but because the people had voted him in.
Elena didn't fully understand how all that worked, but she liked it.
"Good morning, Aunt Haseena," Elena said as she took her seat between the two of them.
"Did you sleep well?" Haseena asked, pouring her tea sweetened with rosewater.
Elena nodded eagerly. "Mhm! Mariel woke me up like always, and today I get to go inspect the market!"
Rannold chuckled, chewing on a bite of flatbread. "The youngest inspector in city history! I should make you an official sash."
"Nooo," Elena groaned, giggling. "That's what real princesses wear!"
"Ah," Haseena said with a sly smile, "and what are you then?"
Elena puffed up her chest proudly. "I'm a tree-climbing, market-spying, monster-biting princess!"
That made Rannold laugh so hard he nearly spilled his tea, and even Haseena let out a graceful chuckle behind her cup.
Breakfast continued in a happy rhythm, filled with chatter and warmth—the kind of morning Elena never thought she'd have again.
And yet, here she was.
Living it.
...
Later that morning, Elena skipped happily along the cobbled streets just outside the mayor's estate, her boots patting against the stone in a playful rhythm. She still wore her comfortable clothes—loose trousers, soft boots, and her short vest fluttering behind her with each jump.
Flanking her were two young guards in their early twenties, clad in the standard colors of Jarustum's city watch—gray and green tunics over chainmail, each carrying a tall spear in one hand, with swords sheathed at their belts for close combat.
Their helmets were off, slung behind them to enjoy the morning sun, and both wore easy smiles as they followed their unusual charge.
"Can't believe we pulled escort duty again," one of them muttered, though he sounded more amused than annoyed.
"At least it's better than gate watch," the other replied. "Standing in one place for six hours while old folks argue over toll prices? No thanks."
Elena spun on her heel and walked backwards for a few steps, grinning at them.
"You know you love it!" she chirped. "I'm the Inspector Princess, remember?"
The guards exchanged a look and burst out laughing.
"Aye, you are, Miss Inspector Princess," the first guard said with a grin. "Lead on, then. We're just the muscle."
"The handsome muscle," the second added, puffing his chest.
Elena giggled and turned back around, skipping ahead of them again.
They were headed to one of Jarustum's main markets—the largest, in fact. There were other smaller ones scattered across the city, but this one stood out. Located just a ten-minute walk from the mayor's estate, it was the heart of local trade, packed with stalls, carts, and the constant hum of voices and movement.
They were going on foot, of course.
Because they were guards.
And because Elena insisted she didn't want a carriage. She liked the city streets. The smells. The people. The noise.
It made her feel alive.
And as they neared the market's outer edge, where colorful awnings peeked between alleyways and the air grew thick with spice and smoke, Elena's grin widened.
Today, she was on official business.
And she was ready.
...
The moment they stepped into the market, Elena's senses lit up.
The smells of spices, grilled meats, and freshly baked bread danced in the air. The sounds of haggling, laughter, and the distant clang of metal on metal blended into a chaotic but comforting rhythm. Stalls of every color stretched down the wide street, draped in cloths and banners that flapped gently in the morning breeze.
Elena's eyes sparkled as she scanned the rows, skipping slightly ahead of the guards.
"There she is!" she said, pointing excitedly.
At the corner of a small vegetable stall stood a young woman, no older than her early twenties, with sun-kissed skin, a simple green scarf tied around her head. She was busy arranging a basket of turnips when she noticed Elena approaching.
"Well if it isn't our little Turnip Duchess!" the woman called out, smiling wide.
Elena giggled. "Good morning, Miss Tela!"
Tela grinned as she leaned over her stall, hands on her hips. "Back for more inspections? Gonna shut me down for overpricing potatoes again?"
"That was one time!" Elena said, puffing up dramatically. "And I had reason to suspect foul play!"
"Mmhm," Tela teased, winking. "So, what'll it be today, your grace?"
Elena stepped up to the stall and tapped her chin thoughtfully. "How much for a carrot?"
Tela leaned in with a playful squint. "For you?"
Elena nodded.
"Absolutely free."
The little girl blinked. "Wait, no—"
"Ah ah ah!" Tela interrupted, raising a finger. "You're our protector, aren't you? Inspector Princess of Jarustum?"
"I—well, yes, but—"
"Well then, it's tax time," Tela declared proudly. "And this carrot... is your official vegetable tax."
Before Elena could protest further, Tela grabbed one of the brightest carrots from the bunch and dipped it quickly in the wash basin behind her, giving it a little scrub and wiping it dry on a clean cloth. She held it out like a precious gift.
Elena took it, eyes wide, then let out a small, happy laugh.
Behind her, the two guards were definitely not staring at the carrots.
Not at all.
Tela noticed.
"Oh come on, I've got enough tax for you two as well," she said, tossing each of them a carrot with practiced ease.
The first guard caught his with a grin. "Much appreciated, Miss Tela."
The second gave a short nod. "Tax well paid."
Tela chuckled, already turning back to rearrange her onions. "Stay safe, Inspector Duchess."
"See you later!" Elena called, holding her carrot like a trophy as she continued down the lane with her guards in tow.
And just like that, the inspection had begun.
Elena led the way deeper into the market, munching happily on her carrot, the two guards trailing behind with amused looks as they took bites of their own.
The market was in full swing now.
Children ran between stalls with sticky hands and wide eyes, and a spice merchant was loudly boasting the healing properties of his "miracle dust from the sands of the Great Desert in Pantos."
Elena took it all in like she always did—eyes open, ears sharp, heart full.
She stopped occasionally to wave at familiar faces. An old man who sold dates and always called her "Little Commander." A pair of twins who ran a honey stand and liked to argue over who had the better smile. Everywhere she went, people greeted her—not with reverence, but with warmth.
They knew her.
They liked her.
And she liked them too.
"Any trouble today?" she asked a butcher with a heavy apron and a bloodstained knife.
"Only trouble is my back," he groaned dramatically. "These sheep are getting heavier every week."
"Maybe you're getting older," Elena teased.
The man barked a laugh. "Now you sound like my wife."
The guards laughed too, relaxed and at ease. It was easy to forget sometimes that the girl leading them had survived horrors most grown men couldn't bear. In this moment, she was just Elena—cheeky, curious, bright-eyed Elena, the little princess of the market.
But even as she laughed and skipped and poked around for "suspicious vegetables," the guards kept watch. Their eyes swept the crowd. Their hands rested on their hilts when strangers passed too close.
Because even in this bubble of warmth and safety… danger still existed.
And protecting Elena?
That was a duty they both took seriously.
Still, the morning passed with joy. The inspection was less about rules and more about connection. Elena reminded people the mayor cared. That the city had eyes. That she herself was watching.
And somehow, that mattered.
As they rounded a bend near the end of the main lane, a sharp voice cut through the market's usual chatter.
"I told you, you didn't pay enough!"
"I did! I gave you a full silver and two coppers! You're trying to cheat me!"
Elena paused mid-step, her half-eaten carrot still in hand. Her two guards exchanged a look, and the taller one sighed.
"Hold up," he said, already stepping forward.
The commotion came from a small leather goods stall, where a heavyset vendor with a thick beard was standing behind a table of belts and coin purses. Across from him, a younger man—maybe twenty or so—stood red-faced, clutching a wrapped belt under one arm.
"Problem here?" the guard asked calmly.
"Yes, there's a problem," the vendor said, pointing an accusing finger. "This brat bought a belt and says he gave me a silver and two coppers, but I only found one silver in the till. He still owes me."
"I don't owe him anything," the young man snapped. "I even told him to keep the two coppers for his time!"
"Which I never got!" the vendor shot back.
Elena stood quietly to the side, watching and listening.
The other guard leaned toward her, whispering, "Typical. Happens more often than you'd think. Nobody ever counts what they hand over."
But Elena wasn't so sure.
She squinted at the vendor's table, her eyes narrowing a little as the man slammed his hand on the counter to make a point—and that's when she saw it.
Tucked just behind the coin tray, partially obscured by a strip of leather, were two copper coins wedged between the wood and the folded cloth mat covering the table.
She tugged at the guard's sleeve and stepped forward.
"Excuse me," she said politely.
Both men turned to her—one surprised, the other clearly not expecting the Inspector Princess to get involved.
"I think…" she pointed gently behind the tray, "you might want to check behind that cloth."
The vendor frowned and leaned over, lifting the edge of the mat.
His face changed.
There, just as Elena had seen, were the two missing coppers, slid off the tray by accident when he'd rushed the payment earlier.
"Oh," he muttered, face reddening. "Well. Looks like… that's my mistake."
The younger man looked half-vindicated, half-annoyed, but didn't gloat.
"Told you," he said simply, and tucked the belt under his arm again.
The guards chuckled as the tension dissolved, and Elena took a bite of her carrot with a satisfied smile.
"That was quick thinking," one of them said, patting her gently on the head.
Elena shrugged with a small grin. "It's an inspection, after all."
And with that, the little princess of Jarustum turned and skipped ahead once more, her guards falling into step behind her.
The market had been calmed.
Saved by the little princess once again.
...
The rest of the day passed much the same.
Small incidents here and there—a stall owner and a customer arguing over a missing melon, two merchants bickering over who had the right to set up in a corner, a child who had lost her way and was crying near the spice carts—all handled with surprising ease by the little girl leading the guards.
Elena didn't always speak first. Often, she stood back, watching and listening as the adults vented or complained. But more often than not, she spotted something the others missed—a footprint in the wrong direction, a miscounted basket, a word someone let slip too easily.
And then she'd speak.
Gentle. Calm.
But firm.
By midday, both guards were grinning more than guarding, and even the usually gruff vendors had started greeting her not just as a curiosity, but with respect.
"Well done, Inspector!"
"Wish our real officials worked half as well!"
"That's a princess for you!"
Each time she heard it, Elena blushed, a proud little smile tugging at her lips.
By the time the sun began its descent behind the western walls of Jarustum, casting long golden rays over the busy market, the crowd had thinned, and the air had cooled.
Elena let out a soft yawn as she finished the last bite of her second carrot—courtesy of the grinning pickle vendor who insisted she needed balance in her diet.
The guards exchanged a glance.
"Alright, Princess," one of them said kindly, "I think it's time we got you back before Mayor Rannold sends a search party."
Elena nodded, a little slower now, her energy finally beginning to wane.
And so, with the sun at their backs and the market's laughter echoing faintly behind them, the two guards escorted the little princess of Jarustum home—back to the mayor's estate, back to warmth and safety…
…unaware that tomorrow, her world was about to change again.
...
That evening, the dining hall was filled with the rich scent of roasted deer, seasoned with herbs. The long table was set simply, as it always was when no guests were present, but the food was warm, plentiful, and comforting.
Elena sat in her usual seat, her legs swinging slightly beneath the chair as she cut into it with practiced excitement. Her eyes sparkled after each bite, and her cheeks puffed as she chewed, humming with delight.
"This is amazing!" she said between mouthfuls. "It's even better than yesterday! What did you do to it, Aunt Haseena? Did you use that red spice again?"
Haseena gave a soft smile. "Just a little. I'm glad you like it."
"It's soooo good," Elena said again, her tone practically singing.
Across the table, Rannold chuckled, but it was a small, distracted sound.
And he wasn't eating much.
In fact, Elena noticed he kept glancing sideways—at his wife—every few bites. The same went for Haseena, who responded with small nods or tiny sighs. Something unspoken passed between them, over and over, like they were both thinking the same thing but waiting for the other to speak it aloud.
Elena slowed her chewing for a moment, watching them both.
She wanted to ask… but she didn't.
Instead, she took another bite of the deer and smiled. "This is definitely the best one so far. If I had to rank all the dinners, this one would be number one! But only if you promise to make it again next week."
Haseena chuckled softly, brushing a stray lock of green hair behind her ear. "If you say so, little one."
Rannold smiled too, but it was thinner than usual.
The silence after that dragged on a little longer than it should have.
Elena narrowed her eyes, then finally, her fork paused in mid-air.
"Okay… what's going on?"
Both adults looked up at once.
"Hm?" Rannold blinked.
"You two are acting weird," she said bluntly. "You're doing the... the glancing thing again."
Rannold let out a long breath through his nose and looked at Haseena one more time. She gave him a small nod.
And then, finally, he set his fork down.
"Elena," he said gently, "we didn't want to bring it up too suddenly… but we received a message today."
Her eyes widened slightly. "A message?"
He nodded. "A reply, actually. From someone I've been trying to reach for a few weeks now."
Elena leaned in slightly, her curiosity growing by the second. "From who?"
Rannold's gaze softened, and his voice lowered just a bit—just enough for the weight of his words to settle into the air.
"We found him," he said. "We made contact. And he's coming here… tomorrow."
Elena blinked. "Who's coming?"
Rannold gave a small, almost emotional smile.
"Lance."
...
Elena sat curled up in her bed, her arms wrapped around her knees beneath the covers.
The room was dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of the moonlight seeping through the curtains. Even with the thick fabric drawn, she could still see the faint shimmer of the stars outside. The mansion was quiet, the kind of quiet that made every heartbeat, every breath, feel louder than usual.
She couldn't sleep.
How could she?
Her eyes stayed wide open, staring at the wall. At the ceiling. At her hands, fidgeting in her lap.
Lance was coming.
Tomorrow.
Her big brother.
Her voice caught in her throat just thinking about it. It felt like a dream. Like something her mind had made up just to comfort her. But she knew it wasn't. Rannold wouldn't lie. Not about something like this. Not to her.
Which meant… it was real.
And that thought sent a strange fluttering feeling through her chest. Like she'd swallowed a handful of bees, all buzzing and bouncing around behind her ribs.
Lance.
The person she longed for more than anything in the world.
The one who had promised to come back when she turned twelve. Who told her that one day, she'd come live with him in a big city. That she'd see towers taller than trees and drink honey-sugar tea from crystal glasses.
That was two years ago.
She was five the last time she saw him.
And then… the world changed.
The village was attacked. Her mother was… gone. The Black Tower had torn everything apart. Then came the bandits, the cage, the fear—and finally, the rescue.
Captain Boros. The Guards. The Mayor. Her new life.
She had become the "Inspector Princess," had laughed, eaten, played again.
But none of it—not even the love and safety of Rannold's home—could compare to what was coming tomorrow.
Him.
Her brother.
Lance.
She stared toward the window again, her chest rising and falling a little faster now.
Tomorrow.
She whispered it aloud, almost afraid it would vanish if she didn't.
"Tomorrow…"
And somewhere, deep inside her, she smiled.
Even if her eyes refused to close.
Even if sleep never came.
Because for the first time in what felt like forever…
Tomorrow was something to look forward to.
Still, Lance...
The name she once loved to say. The name that once brought her joy, comfort, pride. Now, it stung. Every time it passed through her lips, it left behind a bitter taste, like ash.
And all because of him.
Because of Eric.
Because he had used an Air Lance—an art named after her brother—to kill her mother. On purpose. He knew what he was doing. He had looked her in the eyes. He had taunted her with it.
And it had worked.
Every time she thought of Lance, her mind betrayed her. Her mother's final moment would flash behind her eyes. That sharp scream. That gleam of Arts. The silence that followed.
Over.
And over.
Again.
Elena sat up straighter in bed, clenching her little fists in the blankets. Her breathing trembled. She tried to shake the image away—violently, shaking her head like she could knock it loose from her mind.
No…
Lance didn't do that. Lance would never hurt their mother. He didn't even know what happened, not yet. He was far away. He was innocent.
But Eric…
Eric used her brother's name like it was a weapon. Like it was a joke.
The cruelty of it twisted something deep in her chest. A knot she didn't know how to untie. Her smile from earlier had long faded now, replaced by something far more fragile. Conflicted. Tired.
Her mother was gone.
Taken by an Art that bore her brother's name.
"Why…?" she whispered, her voice breaking in the still of the night. "Why did he do that? Why that Art…?"
There was no answer.
Only the soft rustle of curtains and the quiet creak of wood as the house settled around her.
She hugged her knees again.
Her heart was torn between joy and pain. Between the hope of seeing Lance, and the horror tied to his name.
Tomorrow couldn't come soon enough.
And yet… part of her feared it.
What if he forgot about her?
The thought crept in like a shadow under the door.
What if he wasn't the same Lance she knew?
Two years was a long time. For her, it had felt like a lifetime. She had changed—grown, been broken, been rebuilt. Hadn't he, too?
She was only five when he left. A tiny girl with scraped knees and a stubborn pout who used to chase him around and hide in his cloak. He used to laugh so much back then.
Did he still laugh like that?
Did he still remember her voice? Her face?
She hugged herself tighter, sinking further into the warm blanket cocoon, but the warmth didn't chase the fear away.
Did he still care for her as much as he used to?
What if he'd moved on? Started a new life? Had new people around him?
What if he didn't want her anymore?
A sharp shiver ran through her. Her throat ached, and her chest felt too tight for her little body. She was scared. Terrified, even.
Because Lance was the last piece of her old world still left.
The last thread connecting her to the life she had lost.
And if he didn't want her—
No.
She gritted her teeth and forced herself to remember.
His smile.
That soft, slightly crooked smile that always came when he looked at her.
The way his arms would wrap around her gently but firmly, warm and strong, lifting her into the air like she was the most important person in the world.
His voice, patient and steady, reading her stories by candlelight.
She wasn't making it up. She hadn't imagined any of it.
He had loved her. Deeply. Fiercely.
She knew it.
And maybe… just maybe… he still did.
That hope burned like a candle in the darkness—small but steady.
And with that, her breathing slowed, just a little. Her eyes stayed open, but the panic faded into something softer. Not peace, exactly. But something close enough to let her rest.
Please remember me, Lance, she thought.
Please still be my big brother.
—End of Chapter.