​Roland didn’t truly remember how his feet managed to drag his body toward the garden.

​After the wooden door behind him closed with a final, echoing click, he merely stood frozen in the castle corridor. Cold. His hands still retained a strange, lingering chill. "We cannot be together." The sentence spun around in his head, as noisy as a gramophone needle snagged on a cracked vinyl record. Repeating the same tone, slicing into the same wound.

​He stepped outside, inhaling the fresh, dewy morning air. Iron Hearth was always cold, but today, the chill felt like thousands of needles piercing through his diplomatic jacket.

​The castle garden was silent. The Snow Seruni flowers—his mother’s pride—appeared to wilt, their white-blue petals closing tight as the temperature continued to plummet. Roland slumped onto a wooden bench near the fountain. The surface of the water within it was frozen still, reflecting a crimson sky that was slowly being torn apart by deep violet.

​He stared blankly at the flowers. His mind was still left behind in that room. Why didn’t Seraphina explain? Why did her somber eyes seem to plead for him not to chase her with questions?

​Or... am I actually just a coward who’s afraid to hear the answer?

​Crunch... crunch...

​The sound of footsteps on gravel broke Roland’s reverie. He didn’t need to turn. The rhythm of those steps—steady, heavy, and devoid of hesitation—belonged to only one person in this castle.

​"Hmm, so this is where you are."

​Rianor Sudrath stood a few paces behind him. Roland remained mute, his eyes fixed on the reflection of the sky in the fountain. Rianor walked closer and sat at the edge of the bench. He left a wide space between them, as if knowing that the air around his younger brother felt suffocatingly cramped right now.

​"Can I be alone? Just for a moment," Roland murmured, his voice hoarse.

​"No."

​Roland let out a long sigh, his shoulders sagging. "Tsk, you really know how to comfort someone who’s having a bad run."

​"I didn’t come to comfort you. I came because Father is looking for you," Rianor replied flatly. His eyes stared straight ahead, as if he were analyzing the broken mechanics of the fountain.

​"It can wait."

​"It can. But you’ll keep sitting here until you freeze if someone doesn’t drag you away. You’ll keep replaying dead things in your head."

​Roland finally turned, looking at his brother’s face, which always seemed as flat as a steel plate. "You don’t know what just happened in there."

​"I know Seraphina rejected you," Rianor cut in bluntly. His eyes now shifted to meet Roland’s. "I don’t need to be a genius or use a scanner to read that. You’ve been waiting at the gate since dawn, and now you’re huddled here. Simple logic."

​"I didn’t lose anything. She... she was never mine to begin with."

​Rianor adjusted his glasses and looked forward again. "Hmm. You don’t need to own something to feel its loss, Roland. Loss is a matter of feeling, not possession."

​Roland was stunned. That sentence struck his solar plexus harder than any of Riven’s punches. It was true. They never had an official status. Yet, the gaping void in his chest right now was real. Terrifyingly real.

​"She didn’t explain anything," Roland finally whispered. "Just said we couldn’t be together. That was it. I wasn’t even given a chance to negotiate."

​"What did you want to negotiate? Feelings?" Rianor snorted softly. "Wait, do you think she made this decision because she no longer cares for you?"

​Roland fell silent.

​"You’re a diplomat. You’re used to reading the emotions behind the masks of nobles. Did you see hatred in her eyes today?"

​Roland closed his eyes. He pictured Seraphina’s face again. The weary eyes, the faint dark circles, and a gaze that seemed to apologize over and over in silence. "No. She... she looked broken. More broken than me."

​"Then this isn’t purely her decision. There are other variables pressing down on her." Rianor stood up, brushing imaginary dust off his trousers. "Something happened in Draconia. Something big enough to make a Dragon Princess give up. You’re not going to let her give up alone, are you?"

​Roland looked up. "I don’t even know where to start anymore."

​"Start by getting off this bench. Father is waiting. And I suspect this is far more important than your messy love life."

​Roland rubbed his face, trying to force his diplomatic mask back into place. "Does Father know?"

​"I didn’t tell him. But he’s Father. He usually knows before we even speak."

​Roland stood, adjusting his jacket with stiff, mechanical movements. Sret. "Fine. I’ll go there."

​Roland didn’t remember how he passed through those cold stone corridors. All he knew was that he was now standing before the heavy teak door. His father’s study.

​Knock. Knock.

​"Come in."

​Lucian Sudrath’s deep voice echoed from within. Roland pushed the door open. His father wasn’t sitting in his high-backed chair. Lucian stood by the large window facing south—toward Luminara—even though all that could be seen was a sea of industrial soot. In his hand was a teacup still emitting wisps of steam.

​"Sit," Lucian commanded without turning around.

​Roland sat in the wooden chair across the desk. Lucian turned, poured tea into a second cup, and pushed it toward Roland. Roland accepted it, but his hand trembled slightly, causing the liquid to ripple. Clack. He set it back down without taking a sip.

​Lucian sat, watching his son in silence. "Grimm said you’ve been standing at the gate since the crack of dawn."

​"Grimm seems to have developed a hobby for reporting."

​"He is simply doing his duty. Much like you were doing... whatever it was at the gate earlier."

​Roland looked away, staring at the dancing steam of the tea. His usually confident face appeared wilted.

​Lucian sipped his tea slowly. Gulp. He allowed a long pause, letting the silence fill the room. "I won’t ask what that princess talked about. That is your privacy. But, as your father... are you capable of continuing with this day?"

​Roland took a deep breath. "I don’t know. But I will keep moving forward."

​Lucian nodded slowly. "Good." He pulled out a black leather folder with peeling corners. He placed it on the desk with a firm thud. "Because there is a task that cannot wait for your heart to heal, Roland."

​Roland straightened his back. His instincts as a Sudrath began to take over. "What is it?"

​Lucian opened the folder. Inside were copies of the Project Legion data—recordings of Orion and Elias, ancient system logs, and the maps Rianor had brought from the depths. "This is the truth we have uncovered."

​Roland stared at the documents. He remembered Rianor’s story in the workshop that night. "What do you want me to do with this, Father?"

​"Take this to Luminara."

​Roland jerked so hard his chair creaked. "Luminara? The center of the Church of the Goddess of Light? You want me to walk into the lion’s den and tell them that their ancestors were mass murderers?"

​"Exactly."

​Roland shook his head in disbelief. "They’ll burn this data before I even open my mouth, Father. They’ve already branded us devil-worshippers. This will only give them a reason to strike us harder."

​"Perhaps." Lucian leaned back, appearing remarkably calm. "But we cannot keep letting them write history with our blood."

​Lucian leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "The Church holds influence over the entire continent. Every week they preach that our technology is a sin. If we remain silent, the world will believe we deserve to be annihilated. We need someone to plant a seed of doubt there."

​"And if I speak? Will they even believe me?"

​"Truth is a slow weapon, Roland. But once it is planted, it never misses its mark. Someone there will surely start to wonder: ’What if Northreach is right?’"

​Roland looked down at his hands—the hands that had just been released by the woman he loved. "Father... I just lost..."

​"I know," Lucian cut in, his voice softening. "I know you are hurting. And I am sorry for having to ask you to do this now. But it is precisely because you are broken that you will be the sharpest observer. You no longer have the burden of trying to be pleasant."

​Roland looked at his father. "Why are you so sure I can do this?"

​"Because I have watched you grow. I saw you humble the pride of the Dragon Emperor. I saw you stand tall before the Council of Draconia. You may not be as strong as Riven with a sword, or as brilliant as Rianor with machines. But you have a voice. And right now, Northreach needs your voice more than anything."

​Roland went silent for a long time. He stared at the black folder, then gave a slow nod. "How much time do I have?"

​"Three days. Rianor will accompany you to explain the technical data. You both depart together."

​Three days. Three days to bury his pain. Three days to whet his tongue back into a blade.

​"Very well," Roland said firmly. "I will go."

​Lucian stood, walked around the desk, and placed his hand on Roland’s shoulder. A firm squeeze. "You will be fine, son. Not because you never fall, but because you always know how to stand up again."

​Roland stared at the folder in front of him. Inside his chest, amidst the ruins of his heart, something began to pulse. Small, yet burning hot.

​Perhaps, he thought, this is the only way to keep myself from going mad.