After Arthur and Yuna came back from the forest, the story spread faster than they could stop it.

Elizabeth listened once, took in the image of Arthur frozen in fear and covered in basilisk snot, and immediately burst out laughing.

"You—pfft—paralyzed by a snake and slimed from head to toe?" Elizabeth wheezed. "I wish I had recorded it."

Luna was even worse.

The little fairy rolled around in Erica’s hair, laughing so hard her wings buzzed uncontrollably.

Only Erica looked genuinely worried.

Her blue eyes checked Arthur from head to toe, relief flickering in them when she confirmed he was unharmed.

Arthur didn’t bother arguing.

He shot everyone a withering look and ran straight toward the river.

He stayed there for a long time, scrubbing off every last trace of basilisk snot until his skin felt raw. By the time he came back, his hair was still damp, and he had changed into a clean set of plain clothes.

A simple dark gray shirt with rolled-up sleeves, black trousers, and sturdy boots. There were no ornaments, no fancy embroidery—yet the clothes fit him well enough that his lean build and presence made them look better than any noble’s outfit.

The moment he stepped into the clearing, Black swooped down from a nearby tree and landed proudly on his shoulder, feathers now tinged with crimson.

Arthur grabbed the bird by the neck—not hard enough to hurt it, just enough to make a point.

"You think you’re funny, huh?" Arthur said in a low voice. "Use me as bait one more time, and I’ll see how well your meat grills."

The Flame Crow let out a strangled "Caw..." of protest, its wings flapping wildly.

Elizabeth snorted.

Yuna shook her head, trying not to smile.

Luna clung to Erica’s hair like a spectator in the front row of her favorite play, laughing softly. Even Erica’s lips twitched at the sight of the supposedly terrifying boy mock-strangling his own contracted beast.

The laughter faded as Erica stepped forward.

Her expression turned serious.

She raised both hands, palms facing downward, and mana began to gather around her like a gentle breeze turning into a focused current. Lines of light appeared on the ground beneath her, weaving outward in complex patterns.

A magic circle bloomed across the dirt.

Intricate symbols and geometric shapes locked together seamlessly, forming a large array that covered half the clearing. The lines glowed with soft silver light, pulsing like a beating heart as Erica fed more mana into it.

Her mana was unlike Arthur’s or Yuna’s.

It was refined and clean—no turbulence, no stray leaks. The energy flowed in smooth, controlled streams, each thread guided precisely into place. Not a single speck of power was wasted.

Even Yuna, who had seen countless mages in her life, raised an eyebrow.

’Her control is on par with high-level court magicians...’ Yuna thought. ’For her age, it’s impressive.’

Erica finally lowered her hands.

Sweat beaded lightly on her forehead, but her gaze remained steady.

"The teleportation circle is ready," Erica said with a small smile. "Is everyone ready?"

Arthur, Elizabeth, and Yuna exchanged looks.

Arthur adjusted his shirt, the Flame Crow still perched on his shoulder. Yuna checked the position of her sword. Elizabeth cracked her neck once, her crimson eyes gleaming with anticipation.

They all nodded and stepped onto the circle.

Light brightened beneath their feet.

The patterns flared, rising around them like translucent walls of radiance. For a moment, the world stretched, their vision distorting into streaks of color.

Then, in the blink of an eye, they were gone.

───────────────

Inside the royal palace of Elvania, the atmosphere was tense and suffocating.

A vast hall stretched beneath a high, arched ceiling supported by carved white-stone pillars. Sunlight filtered through tall stained-glass windows depicting ancient battles and towering trees, splashing colored light across the polished marble floor.

At the end of the hall stood a throne.

It was empty.

Once, it had belonged to the King of Elvania—a symbol of strength and stability. Now it sat vacant, cold, and heavy with the weight of what had been lost.

Before the throne, forty candidates stood in ordered rows.

They were clad in embroidered robes and fitted armor, each dressed to represent their house—leaf-like patterns, flowing green designs, or ceremonial armor forged from enchanted silverwood. Magic circlets and rings adorned their fingers and brows. Their faces wore polite smiles or unreadable masks.

Their eyes, however, were all turned in the same direction.

Toward the empty throne.

They studied it like hungry hawks, their gazes sharp and possessive. Behind each candidate stood one or more contenders—warriors, mages, or assassins chosen to fight for them in the upcoming trials. Their presence radiated power: bows strung with shimmering strings, blades humming with mana, and cloaks concealing hidden spell arrays.

Everywhere Arthur would have looked, he would have seen confidence and ambition—and beneath it all, a cold, calculating hunger.

An elder elf stepped forward.

He appeared to be in his fifties by human standards, but the depth in his eyes and the weight of his aura told another story—he was at least a century and a half old. His silver hair was tied back in a long braid. His robes were deep green with golden trim, and a staff carved from ancient wood rested lightly in his hand.

His mana pressed gently over the hall, reminding everyone who held authority there.

"All candidates have been gathered," the elder said, his voice echoing clearly through the chamber. "We stand here today to choose the worthiest king or queen, the one who can lead Elvania to prosperity, as our previous king once did."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd.

But beneath the formal respect, everyone in that hall knew the truth.

They knew who had really been behind the assassination.

They simply chose to keep their mouths shut.

The elder continued.

"Our late king had only one heir," he said. "But as she is currently missing, and as she has failed to prove her legitimacy for the throne—unable to prove that she is not a bastard—"

A few nobles smirked faintly.

Others looked away.

"We will now commence this glorious event without he—"

He never finished the sentence.

A massive explosion rocked the palace.

The sound was like thunder slamming into the walls. The floor trembled beneath their feet, and dust drifted down from the ceiling. One of the far doors shook violently as the sounds of shattered stone and splintered wood echoed from outside.

Gasps filled the hall.

An elven soldier burst through a side entrance, his armor scuffed and his breathing heavy. He ran up the central aisle and dropped to one knee before the elder.

"Great Elder," the soldier panted. "Princess Erica... is here."

The hall fell silent.

Dozens of nobles’ eyes turned cold at once.

Some narrowed in calculation.

Some flickered with annoyance.

Others flashed with a dangerous gleam—interest mixed with the instinct to remove a piece that had re-entered the board after they’d already decided the game.

The empty throne suddenly felt a lot less uncontested.