THE FACT.

Caelthorn — Starweave Mansion, Upper Floor

At the topmost chamber of the Starweave estate, the air was heavy with incense and starlight. Silken curtains floated on the windless air as if stirred by unseen tides, and the large crystal sphere at the center of the room glowed with quiet power.

Against the wall, arms crossed, stood an elf. His silver-blond hair caught the pale light, his eyes narrowed with irritation. Luce's gaze remained fixed on the vision within the crystal ball, where a boy, no older than fifteen, silently wiped blood from a silver sword onto the grass. Cold crimson eyes stared down at the blade without a flicker of emotion. The image alone made Luce's spine twitch.

"You've failed," came a cool voice behind him.

Luce turned slightly, but did not reply immediately. The one who spoke was seated before the crystal ball, hands weaving slowly through the air. Her robes, violet with golden stars embroidered across the sleeves, shimmered faintly with mana. Nymera Starweave, astrologer, archmage, and matriarch of the Starweave line.

She looked older than most elves dared to live, with silver hair that flowed like comet tails and eyes that mirrored constellations.

"Tch," Luce finally muttered, "They were nothing but a pack of F-rank vermin. I could've turned them all to ash in seconds if I had gone myself."

His tone was careless, almost mocking. But Nymera's expression didn't change.

Luce shifted his gaze to the parchment on the table nearby, which listed Liam's background and movements in Thornmere. Sparse. Clean. Too clean.

"Isn't that right, Grand-" he began with a grin.

But before he could finish, the air trembled. The furniture groaned. The polished floor cracked slightly beneath her chair as Nymera's presence surged.

"Say that word again," she warned, her voice as calm as ever, "and you will never speak another."

Luce raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. My apologies, Lady Nymera Starweave, greatest astrologer and legendary sage of Elyndra," he said with a smirk.

She snorted, unconvinced by his flattery.

"Do not insult me to distract from your failure. You underestimated him."

Luce's expression soured. "A boy no older than fifteen. He did nothing. They died like idiots, tripping over roots, slipping on mud, stabbing themselves with their own blades."

Nymera narrowed her eyes. "And yet he remained untouched. Fourteen grown men. Veterans, some of them. Not a scratch on him."

Luce remembered the reports. His men hadn't just died, they had been humiliated. One had tripped on air and broken his own arm. Another slid off a rooftop. One had burst into flames after falling into an alchemist's chimney. All of it ridiculous… yet all of it real, and he also getting diarrhea, always slipping his foot Time to time for no reason.

That was why he had come to Caelthorn. For shelter. For answers. For protection, if it came to that.

Nymera turned her attention back to the crystal ball, watching the still image of the boy.

"You saw it yourself. He did not fight them. They died around him."

Luce scoffed and turned toward the door. "I'll handle it myself. I'm not some spoiled heir living on borrowed glory. I climbed my way to the top alone, no noble title, no wealth, no legacy. Just me."

He began walking, the floor creaking under each step.

"You won't succeed," Nymera said behind him, her voice devoid of doubt.

Luce stopped, hand on the doorframe. "And why is that?" he asked coldly. "You think you can stop me?"

"I won't need to."

He turned, eyes narrowing. "Then what will?"

Nymera looked at him for a long moment, then spoke.

"You cannot defeat him. You cannot even hinder him. To try is to waste your breath."

Luce's jaw tightened. "Why? Because of some vague omen? Some twisted constellation?"

"No," she said, eyes fixed on the flame of the lantern beside her. "Because it is a fact."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Luce snapped. "Stop speaking in riddles. I hate riddles."

A flash of lightning illuminated the room, casting shadows that danced across Nymera's calm face.

She gestured toward the lantern. "Do you see the flame?"

Luce scowled. "I'm not blind."

"Good. Now tell me, can you wash that flame with water, clean it, and dry it afterward?"

Luce frowned at the absurdity, but answered anyway. "Obviously not. It's a flame. That's—"

"A fact," Nymera finished for him. "Exactly. That is what he is. A flame that cannot be washed, cleaned, or touched. Not because of prophecy. Not because of magic. But because fact itself does not allow it."

"You expect me to accept that?"

"I expect you to live with it," she replied. "The boy is not a threat to you. Not yet. But provoke him, and you will discover that inevitability is more terrifying than strength."

Luce's fists clenched at his side. "Then what should I do? Sit and watch while he grows for him to take revenge ?"

Nymera leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. "You do what you want. But remember this, some things cannot be changed. And the more you try, the more the facts will remind you… he is not to be touched."

For a long moment, Luce remained silent.

Then, without another word, he stepped through the door and disappeared into the hall.

Nymera looked once more at the crystal sphere.

And there, the boy remained. Sword in hand. Cold eyes like twin blades.

As Nymera observed the crystal ball, her gaze narrowed. The boy had finished cleaning the blade. His movements were calm, disturbingly so. There was no haste, no urgency, just a mechanical precision that echoed more of habit than necessity.

But then, as though he sensed the weight of her attention through the distance between them, he lifted his gaze.

Straight toward the crystal.

And for the briefest moment, his scarlet pupils met hers.

Nymera froze.

The boy's eyes were like polished rubies bathed in fire. They gleamed, not with fury or pride, but with a madness too carefully hidden, too deeply buried beneath calm composure. A small smile curved on his lips. Cold. Without any warmth. Devoid of intent.

It was a smile without soul.

Her breath caught.

Her fingers trembled.

And then, her body reacted on instinct.

Crack.

With a sudden motion she herself did not fully register, her arm swung violently. The crystal ball, centuries old, shattered against the stone floor, scattering fragments of scrying quartz across the chamber. Arcane threads collapsed into a silent void as the magic died instantly.

The room went quiet.

So quiet that even the wind seemed to have vanished from the world.

Nymera sat motionless in her chair, shoulders rigid, fingers clenching the armrests. Sweat streamed down the side of her temple, dampening her silver hair. Her breathing was shallow, controlled only by discipline and force of will.

Her voice finally escaped, hoarse and shaken.

"…What sort of devil… did this world give birth to?"

But no answer came.

Only silence remained.

The floating runes on the walls flickered once… and then stilled.

Even the stars in her chamber dimmed, as if unwilling to bear witness.