"Thirty silver!"
"Fifty silver!"
"One hundred silver!"
"Oh! We got a gold for the cow! Lady Benereth really was one lucky cow!"
Keiser leaned against the cool stone wall of the alleyway, arms crossed as he watched Lenko gleefully count the earnings. The teen had chosen this little nook—tucked just behind the village's main road—as the perfect place to tally their gains.
Lenko sat on a low crate, coin pouch in his lap, eyes glittering as he recited each sale like they'd won a fortune.
Earlier that day, Lenko had looked heartbroken. Somber, even, as he marched out of the open field with the livestock in tow, leading them one by one to market. Keiser half-expected him to cry when he said goodbye to the cow. The way he clung to that rope—like parting with an old friend.
Keiser hadn't intended to sell everything, just a few supplies—maybe a horse or two. Enough to last them until they found a wagon or some way to travel through the neighboring villages and onward to the capital. Something practical.
But Lenko had other ideas.
Keiser hadn't stopped him. Let the boy do as he pleased. After all, this wasn't his life—not really. He was still adjusting to it, to the feel of this new body, the strange tension in his muscles, the soft ache in his bones. Still figuring out where Muzio ended and where he began.
At least now they had coin.
Enough to move forward.
And they would.
No matter how unfamiliar the path felt beneath his feet, Keiser intended to walk it all the way to the end.
But as Keiser walked away from the Sheol border, he could already feel it—the pull of the sigils, the runes etched deep into the land. The ones Muzio had apparently carved, woven with purpose. They clung to him, tugging faintly, like invisible threads trying to reel him back in.
They were protective markings. Designed to shield them from both monsters and men. From those who might hunt them. Or from something worse.
But Keiser knew the rules of magic—at least the basics.
Sigils and runes only held power while their caster remained nearby. The farther one strayed, the thinner the mana stretched, like smoke unraveling in the wind. Belief, too, weakened with distance. Eventually, the magic would fade entirely.
So, by the time they emerged from the tree line and onto the open plains—where wagon tracks crisscrossed the grass and ruts etched paths into the dirt—Keiser felt the last threads of protection slip from his skin.
That's when Lenko pulled up his hood. Swiftly. Purposefully.
"This is your first time here, my lord," he said, voice low but urgent. "I suggest you don't speak to anyone if we can help it. The people here are kind, but… your eyes…"
Keiser understood immediately. Without a word, he pulled the hood of his cloak up even more over his head, shadowing his face.
Eyes like the King's—sharp, piercing, unnaturally red—were the sort that would let people know his identity. The kind that invited questions. And Keiser had no answers he could give.
Not yet.
They reached the village sooner than Keiser had anticipated.
Still, he was drenched in sweat and panting heavily the entire way. He wasn't even the one pulling the livestock—Lenko had insisted on doing that—but his body, this body, felt like it was barely holding together. Weak, underfed, untrained. Not his.
Before they left the woods, Lenko had stopped to draw sigils on the animals with a stick of charcoal, explaining that it would keep them from wandering too far. Then he turned to Keiser, holding out the charcoal. "You should mark a few too, my lord. Just enough to keep them calm."
Keiser had hesitated. He didn't want to raise suspicion—Lenko was already starting to notice his strange behavior—but drawing sigils? That was not something he could do. Not him. Not Keiser.
And yet, faced with Lenko's expectant look, he relented.
He scribbled words on the livestock—not-get-far, simple and blunt—and watched, stunned, as the crude lettering twisted, shimmered, and folded in on itself. The letters rearranged into loops and lines, then curved again into runes. Into sigils.
Keiser stared.
He blinked, rubbed his eyes, but the change was real. The sigils pulsed faintly on the animals' hides. Working.
It wasn't knowledge he had. He could read some runes—basic things, remnants of training and necessity—but he had no mana of his own. As a knight, he'd relied on relics and weapons imbued with cores from mana-rich beasts. Magic had never flowed through his veins.
But now...
The letters became sigils. The mana wasn't his, but it had responded to him anyway. The meaning behind the markings resonated, shaping magic from intention.
It wasn't him, he realized.
It was Muzio.
Keiser pressed a hand to his head. His breath caught.
Maybe Muzio wasn't entirely gone.
Maybe, somehow, he was still here—with him.
"Done!" Lenko chirped, his grin bright as he held up a clinking money pouch. "Let's go, Your Highness—we can probably hire a coachman to the next village now!"
Keiser frowned. That sound—the clink and clatter of coins—wasn't the song of success. It was a bell. A warning.
And sure enough, as they stepped out of the alley and made their way toward the guild hall—where Lenko said they could find a coach or a traveling mercenary—someone bumped into them.
"Whoa, careful—" Lenko stumbled back slightly, reaching instinctively to steady a small figure that had collided with him.
A girl. Young, hood pulled low, head bowed. She didn't speak. Just dipped her head and tried to slip past them in a hurry.
Too fast.
Keiser's arm snapped out, fingers clamping around her wrist. A jolt of pain ran up his arm immediately—his muscles stung, his whole limb trembled with the strain. This body was useless. Just holding her was exhausting.
The girl yanked, but he didn't let go.
"Young Lord?!" Lenko hissed, leaning in with a whisper-shout, "What are you doing?"
"Check your coin pouch," Keiser said, eyes fixed on the girl.
Lenko blinked, confused for a heartbeat—then his expression crumpled in shock. "Ahh!" he yelped, clutching at the now half-empty bag.
The girl's head snapped up, fury in her eyes.
Keiser met her glare, his grip still tight despite the burning in his arm. Her hood had slipped just enough for her face to be visible—pale skin, flushed cheeks, lips small and tight with anger. Eyes dark as obsidian. Hair jet black, chin-length, framing her face like a shadow.
Keiser's eyes widened.
He knew her.
Not just from the court, but from portraits, from whispered rumors, from silent glances across grand halls and battlefields as well as during the trials.
That was her.
The First Prince's fiancée.
A royal betrothed. Caught stealing from travelers at the edge of Sheol.
What in all the sacred lands was she doing here?
Keiser's grip faltered. For a split second, surprise overpowered instinct—and Yona Hanaki bolted.
"Sh-she took it! Our money!" Lenko shouted, pointing after her with wide eyes.
Keiser stood stunned, mind reeling.
What is she doing here?
Isn't she the First Prince's fiancée?
Why is she stealing?
And gods—that was our only money to get to the capital.
Snapping out of it, Keiser surged forward. "Stay close!" he barked—though Lenko's squawk behind him was already fading into the chaos.
"Your highne—Muzio! She got our money!"
Keiser's breath was ragged, but his focus razor-sharp. He kept her in the corner of his eye, tracking her weaving silhouette as she darted into a busier stretch of the village road.
Yona ducked under a cart, spun past a stall, and yanked down a hanging rack of clothes to trip up anyone following her. A fruit vendor cried out as apples scattered across the cobblestone.
Keiser leapt over them, feet skidding. His joints screamed—this body screamed—but he pushed on.
She moved with precision. This wasn't desperate, flailing theft—this was practiced. She knew how to run. She knew how to disappear.
"Muzio, don't—!" Lenko's voice faded further, his feet clearly not as fast.
But Keiser wasn't listening. His mind raced alongside his feet.
He knew her—Yona Hanaki, the princess of Hinode. Youngest daughter of the reigning matriarch, promised to the First Prince as part of a political alliance meant to bolster his claim to the throne. She was a key figure in the Trials. Keiser had seen her before—in court, on the battlefield, during the trials—always poised, always silent, and just a little too unreadable for her own good.
But that was during the King's Gambit.
He hadn't known—or cared—how she ended up with the First Prince. He was likely too busy subduing beasts on the border at the time. Still, he remembered seeing her choose the prince during the final trial…
Only for Gideon to become King in the end.
What in the hells is she doing in a village near Sheol, stealing coin like a gutter thief?
Keiser gritted his teeth. That damn ache in his side was back—sharp and familiar, a bitter reminder that this body wasn't his, wasn't trained, and certainly wasn't ready for sprints. He had barely rested since they left Sheol's edge, and now here he was, sweating buckets and chasing a runaway princess turned thief.
This wasn't part of the training regimen he'd planned for this body.
His breath came in ragged gasps as the village thinned out around them. Dirt paths replaced cobblestones. Fewer houses, fewer people. They were nearing the border.
Keiser's legs screamed to stop. His vision blurred with heat and fatigue. And then—he saw it.
A stick. Half-buried by the roadside. Rough, thick, sturdy.
Desperate, he snatched it up, barely slowing. His palm burned as he gripped it, but he didn't stop to think.
"Stop… running," he muttered through clenched teeth.
He hauled the stick back and threw it with all he had.
It sailed—spinning fast—before smacking Yona square in the back.
She stumbled forward, collapsing with a startled grunt.
Keiser skidded to a stop, chest heaving, stumbling toward a tree for support. He leaned heavily against the bark, gasping, and looked down at his hand.
Smoke curled from his palm.
Right in the center—burned deep into the flesh—was a glowing sigil. Simple, sharp lines forming a rune that pulsed faintly with mana.
"Stop-running."
Keiser stared at it, jaw clenched. That… wasn't there before. He hadn't even drawn it.
He had spoken it. Wanted it. And it happened.
The mana wasn't just Muzio's.
It was responding to him.
"My—my lord, cough—are you alright?"
Lenko staggered up, clutching his knees, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. His eyes flicked from Keiser's burned hand to the girl still sprawled on the ground, twitching and writhing.
"What…?" he murmured, baffled.
Keiser didn't answer. He simply began walking again, slow and stiff, one arm wrapped tightly around his side. Each step aggravated the ache in his side, but he pushed forward, jaw clenched.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
The girl cursed under her breath, trying to sit up but failing. Her limbs spasmed subtly, as though something invisible bound them. "Why can't I—why can't I stand? What is happening?"
Keiser ignored her. Instead, he picked up the stick he'd thrown. The spot where his hand had gripped it now bore a charred imprint of his fingers—and etched within it, the same glowing sigil that had appeared on his palm.
A branch, yes—but heavier than it looked. And now, far more than a simple piece of wood.
Lenko, meanwhile, knelt beside the girl, puffing out his chest.
"Y-you! It's not nice to steal someone's money, you know! That was the result of my blood, sweat, and tears! You can't just run off with it!"
He snatched a coin pouch from where it had rolled near her feet and quickly retreated at the sharp glare she shot him.
"Thief," he muttered under his breath as he began counting the money again.
Keiser stood in silence, stick in one hand, mind still spinning with what had just happened. But then—
A sound split the air.
A long, shrill screech echoed from the sky above. Sharp. Inhuman. Hunting.
The three of them froze.
Keiser's eyes snapped upward.
Oh.
They had passed the village border. They were no longer within the wards—the sigils etched by village mages to repel what lurked beyond the safe zones.
They were exposed.
Lenko looked up, paling visibly.
"M-my lord…" he whispered, voice trembling.
Keiser narrowed his eyes.
No time to think.
The wilds of Sheol had found them.