The morning sun bathed the sky in pale gold as it rose over Lumisgrave. A faint mist still hugged the outer courtyards of the Mythic Base, the dew sparkling like scattered crystal across the stone path leading to the grand breakfast hall.
Inside the hall, soft murmurs filled the room. The sixteen Mythic-ranked warriors sat around a long carved table made from Duskpine wood. Warm light filtered through enchanted skylights, bathing the room in a subtle glow.
Platters of roasted meats, fresh fruits, warm pastries, and steaming jugs of herbal tea were placed across the table. The scent of cinnamon bread and fire-roasted quail drifted in the air. Nirela laughed gently at something Elyra whispered, while Tarric playfully jabbed his fork toward Caelis's plate, trying to steal a piece of fruit.
At the end of the table, Arslan quietly sipped his tea. His black messy hair hung slightly in front of his face, the early sunlight catching the crimson tint in his eyes. He looked relaxed, but his mind was still replaying the battle.
The mood was light, grateful. They were alive. They were victorious.
Suddenly, the doors creaked open.
All heads turned as a tall figure in silver and black armor stepped inside. The Royal Guard's crest glinted on his chestplate, a sunburst flanked by two lions.
With a respectful bow, he spoke.
"Arslan of Mythics, I bring a summons. His Majesty, King Farhan, requests your presence at the Royal Castle—immediately."
The hall fell quiet. All eyes turned to Arslan.
Arslan placed his cup down gently, rose from his seat, and nodded.
"I won't keep them waiting," he said simply.
Vaelith clapped his shoulder. "Go on, Arslan. We'll save some bread for you."
Arslan gave him a faint smile before following the Royal Guard out.
The grand corridors of Lumisgrave Castle shimmered with polished marble and violet crystal torches that floated gently along the walls. The guard led Arslan past a row of stained-glass murals—depictions of past wars, oaths, victories.
Arslan walked with quiet determination, his boots making soft echoes against the smooth floor. The warmth from breakfast still lingered in his chest, but his face was now focused.
At the far end of the chamber, in a high-ceilinged room adorned with blue and gold drapes, sat King Farhan. His presence was as commanding as ever—tall, dignified, his white and black hair flowing past his shoulders, his robe bearing the crest of Lumisgrave. His long beard was neatly braided, crown glinting in morning light.
Next to him stood Julious, leader of the Guardian Council, in a deep violet robe. His sharp eyes studied Arslan as he entered.
The room was silent except for the gentle crackle of the ceremonial fire.
"Ah, Arslan. You've come," King Farhan said, his voice calm but firm. He gestured to a velvet chair near him. "Please, sit."
Arslan nodded and took the seat. The guard bowed and quietly left.
"We heard what happened at the Arena in Kaivelle," King Farhan began, folding his hands. "A glorious victory, but... also unsettling rumors."
Julious leaned forward. "Arslan, is it true? We've received reports that the Eshalorn knights tried to kill you and your team?"
Arslan looked between them. "Yes," he said evenly. "Their motive wasn't to win. They came prepared to eliminate us—one by one."
A beat of silence.
Julious narrowed his eyes. "Eliminate? You mean assassinate you during the match?"
"Yes," Arslan nodded. "They moved with deadly intent. Coordinated, not in the spirit of the event. And... those five knights—they were far more powerful than the others. It felt... deliberate."
King Farhan's jaw tightened.
Julious sat back slowly. "That means... King Mamba refused our diplomatic gesture again."
Arslan's gaze remained steady. "It was never about peace from their side. He sent those knights not for sport—but to deliver a message."
Farhan let out a long breath. The fire beside them hissed as a log cracked.
"I believed Mamba might come to his senses. That there was still a path to coexistence. But I see now... he has chosen the blade."
Julious muttered, "And now the blade must answer him in return."
For a moment, no one spoke. The weight of what Arslan had uncovered settled between them.
Then the King softened, his gaze moving back to Arslan.
"You saved your comrades. You fought not only with strength but with wisdom. I am proud of you, Arslan."
Arslan bowed his head respectfully. "I only did what needed to be done."
Julious smiled slightly. "What needed to be done isn't always easy to do. You did it anyway."
Farhan stood, his cloak sweeping behind him. He stepped toward the window that overlooked Lumisgrave.
"Dark times may come, but we will not falter. Not with warriors like you."
He turned back. "You should return to the Mythic Base. Rest. There will be much to discuss soon. But for now... recover. You've earned it."
Arslan rose and bowed once more. "Thank you, Your Majesty."
He turned and left, the sound of his footsteps fading into the distance.
The journey back to the Base was silent. Arslan walked through the city's heart as common folk passed by—some recognizing him, some too busy in their morning routine.
As he neared the Base, the air grew lighter. Voices from within—laughing, debating, talking about food—reached his ears.
He stepped through the gates, and the rest of the Mythics looked up.
Vaelith called, "Back already? Did they knight you yet?"
Arslan chuckled faintly. "Not yet. Just a conversation."
Seris raised an eyebrow. "You look like someone who just got told to save the world again."
"Close enough," Arslan muttered, half-smiling.
And then he sat, for the first time that morning, letting the warmth of their presence surround him.
He was home—for now.