Igfrid remembered the last time he had seen her. Canaria was smiling, happy and serene, on the beaches of Shattar in the new continent; that day, the greenish waves, the same hue as Canaria's eyes, swayed gently, and she, bathed in the light of the setting sun, looked radiant. The reflections of the dying sun on her silver hair made her appear like a fairy, supernatural and beautiful.
"I will bear your child."
"With those words, I was so happy... in that moment, I held your hand tightly, guiding you to where our people awaited us, joyous. We all were. Back then, I couldn't ask for anything more."
He recalled the congratulations, the feast, the joy of that sunset… until the pleasant moment shattered when the wine cup he held fell due to the convulsions the poison triggered. He had believed himself cautious about who could remain in his inner circle of allies, yet his overconfidence blinded him.
On the floor, bound by the agony of the poison coursing through his body and disrupting his magic circuits, he watched as Canaria, the woman carrying his future child, was seized and brutalized by someone they once called a friend.
Presumed dead, Igfrid survived by sheer will. His magic was gone, his wife torn from him, and as if divine punishment for his past deeds, his body was left so damaged he could barely stand.
"His magic circuits are burned out…" August, his most loyal man, confirmed his condition after finding him near death.
He spent half a year recovering enough to travel to the Lothien Empire, where the tides of social unrest churned so violently that only a single spark was needed to ignite chaos.
And that spark was Igfrid.
The self-exiled Prince of Justice, unknown to the public, returned to lead the people and dethrone the tyrant. His golden hair and crimson eyes —marks of his divine lineage —were proof enough in an empire where rulers descended directly from the gods.
Yet his magic had not fully returned, forcing him to wield it as the wild demihumans did: taking it from the environment's force rather than generating it within.
He leveraged his life as a merchant in exile, bringing magical tools even commoners without magic could use. Weapons from the isolated nations of the new continent became an overwhelming advantage.
The revolutionaries soon seized the southern cities, where the coast supplied resources from the new continent; the bloody war raged on for over a year.
A year and six months without seeing Canaria, without any news of their child.
Amid battles and armed uprisings, rumors spread that Silvine had borne the empire's heir. By then, the Lothien Empire was split in two: the south controlled by revolutionaries, the north by the current emperor, Sigurd Regulus D'Tyr.
A letter was delivered after capturing the town nearest to Lörien, the capital. The messenger was a low-ranking noble, not even old enough to be called a man, with magical power comparable to a commoner with slight talent. The boy trembled as he was escorted by two revolutionary soldiers who carried the unfamiliar magical weapons Shattar had willingly supplied, crafted from an unknown metal shaped like a tube attached to a mechanism. These weapons glowed
when environmental mana charged them sufficiently, triggered by a button press. After a brief delay, they fired a burst of light powerful enough to pierce an unarmored noble's heart or even penetrate low-quality armor. In skilled hands, these weapons were precise and deadly even against high-ranking nobles' armor, targeting gaps or the head.
The boy's name was Vesseror, shaking like a leaf in the wind as he was sent to deliver the missive to the revolutionaries. He had been chosen as a sacrifice by a father who saw no value in a son with such minimal mana and no divine blessing by the late age of fourteen. Unable to serve as a proper page or squire, he was discarded and sent atop an aging griffin with a surrender flag to the south, tasked only with delivering a message.
Whether Vesseror returned or died at the revolutionaries' hands mattered little to his father, though it was clear he preferred the latter.
Upon dismounting the griffin, he endured a humiliating search by a man twice his height. Yet, accustomed to abuse from his father and the knights he assisted, Vesseror was grateful it wasn't painful. Beatings, shoves and verbal
attacks for merely existing as a 'stain on nobility' were routine, so the invasive inspection, though shameful, felt mild.
Other revolutionary soldiers watched intently, their strange weapons in hand. Vesseror sensed pity rather than mockery from these men clad in leather chest armor and tattered clothes devoid of magical protection.
"Pathetic!" spat one man, his sticky saliva staining the town's white stone streets. "They sent a mere squire with an old griffin that can barely fly."
The soldiers nodded, and their pity wounded Vesseror more than his former superiors' cruelty ever had. He hated being seen as helpless and pitiable; especially by commoners.
The man called over another, slightly shorter, who carried a rope made of a dark material that seemed to absorb light. Vesseror could only stare in fear at the freckled face of this new stranger, knowing he couldn't —and
shouldn't —resist. He was a weak noble, lacking physical or intellectual merit, making him easy prey for commoners wielding those strange weapons.
His hands were bound with the eerie rope, and he felt his meager mana flow severed instantly. Nausea struck immediately, and his trembling legs gave out, collapsing him to the ground.
"He can't have much mana if just collapsed. Lift him and take to our kral!" barked the giant man who had searched him earlier.
Two revolutionaries hoisted Vesseror roughly but without injury. His legs steadied as he walked, though the nausea lingered, whether from the rope or his anxiety about the future, he couldn't tell.
Shoved toward a house in the town center, Vesseror passed signs of war: buildings pocked by magical explosions. Griffins circled above and faun-like demihuman blue-skinned women with antlers and leaf-adorned hair, directed revolutionaries tending flying mounts. In Lothien, demihumans were rare, mostly slaves. Vesseror had only seen half-elves from colonies, but these fauns captivated him briefly before he was forced inside.
The building, once a decent inn for low nobles, was now grimy. Bloodstains on the stairs made him shudder. Upstairs, a revolutionary guard knocked twice, and the door opened.
Vesseror stared at the dusty floor until pushed forward.
"He came under a white flag, claims to deliver an urgent message." said the freckled escort.
When Vesseror looked up, he met piercing red eyes, blood-colored, hypnotic like the War Goddess's, and golden hair fit for the Creator God. This was Igfrid, the self-proclaimed prince and revolutionaries' kral.
Nobles dismissed Igfrid as an impostor, but Vesseror's knees buckled instinctively. Noble blood recognized imperial authority.
A soldier named Fürter handed Igfrid the letter. Igfrid broke the royal seal cautiously, mana-stone amulets ready for traps. The message, penned not by his brother Sigurd but by Silvine, proposed a hostage exchange: Lothien would recognize the rebels' territory. Among the hostages: Canaria Von Lancet.
Igfrid frowned. Lothien's magical defenses were crumbling, its borders vulnerable. Sigurd and Silvine, cornered, sought peace, for their newborn prince to inherit a stable realm.
A prince the same age Igfrid's own child would be.
Canaria had been hunted for a sin she did not commit, pursued even years later in a remote land due to Sigurd's lingering hatred and thirst for vengeance over his father's murder.
Over the past year, Igfrid had regretted countless times not returning sooner to expose the true killer of the former ruler. Now, he had the chance to do so, but Canaria's life hinged on whether he accepted the hostage exchange.
Silvine had been clear: if the missive was rejected, the hostages would be executed for high treason, the south's independence would be denied, and after the revolution's collapse, every noble and commoner who had opposed the crown would be put to death alongside their families —without exception.
Igfrid knew the last two threats were empty because his army was poised to win. The letter boiled down to a blunt ultimatum: "Take your wife and accept peace terms, or watch her die."
The proposed peace treaty, tied to recognizing the south's independence, was what Silvine sought. An 'unbreakable' pact, enforceable by divine retribution, a relic of rituals abandoned centuries ago.
Igfrid crumpled the parchment in his hands. Silvine had shrewdly revived ancient rites, using Canaria as bargaining chip to force compliance.
His stoic, noble face betrayed no anger despite his furrowed brow; to any observer, he seemed deep in thought. Only August, his loyal attendant, recognized the fury beneath.
August, a half-elf born into poverty and once enslaved, managed every aspect of Igfrid's life. His loyalty to the prince and Lady Canaria was unwavering. He had tried to rescue her despite impossible odds, saved Igfrid from death, and oversaw his commercial ventures during his recovery.
"Take him to a room to rest. He'll deliver our reply tomorrow. Keep watch but do not harm him," Igfrid ordered. Vesseror nearly kissed his feet in gratitude for sparing his life. Though anxious about returning to his family, he hoped better treatment awaited if peace prevailed.
The soldiers left with the messenger, leaving Igfrid and August alone. Igfrid strode to the desk where he signed orders for the revolutionary army. The nobles who joined his cause were mostly farmers or low-ranking lords crushed by Sigurd's taxes and Silvine's absurd demands.
The temple had decayed: sacred rituals halted, harvests dwindled, and divine relics were discarded under Silvine's pretext that the gods demanded new tools... tools that never arrived.
The clergy, outraged, withdrew support until relics were restored. Silvine ordered the Holy Pontiff killed, claiming divine mandate, and seized power but too late. The nation was impoverished, there are no blessings without relics and famine spread.
Goods from the colonies grew so costly even high nobles struggled. It was the poor, hearing rumors of Igfrid's survival, who rallied to him through intermediary noble Alsen Lindt. Igfrid cared little for the country or its people, only Canaria's safety drove him to lead the revolution.
He didn't know exactly why Canaria hadn't been executed upon arriving in Lothien, or perhaps he didn't want to know, deluding himself. He assumed it was due to the commoners' growing discontent.
Public executions of nobles required clergy and royalty, but by then, the Church had severed ties with the crown. Igfrid's revolution had emerged just before Silvine seized control of the Church.
Fate had dealt Silvine a winning card, but it also gave Igfrid a chance to reclaim his wife.
He began drafting his response to the peace proposal, his crimson eyes blazing with a determination August likened to possession by Igfër, the fire god.
"Shall I summon Miktar Lindt?"
"Yes. We must agree on troop numbers for the exchange and alert our coastal and eastern bases. Send a messenger on one of the enemy's requisitioned griffins... a five-day ceasefire begins tomorrow." Igfrid rose, leaving the unfinished letter on his desk. Behind him, a tapestry of the seven main gods' shield concealed a door. "I'll await Miktar Lindt in the laboratory."
Igfrid vanished through the hidden door without waiting for August's reply. Since youth, he'd been obsessed with magical research, leveraging his innate reader's blessing to steal knowledge from court mages who underestimated him.
The 'laboratory' was a dim, cluttered cellar. Most materials were low-quality, lacking a functional transfer stone, a risk he couldn't afford without sufficient mana.
Miktar Lindt arrived two hours later. A young, open-minded noble raised by his grandfather, a liberal scholar ostracized by the Chamber of Erudition, Lindt dressed plainly despite his status. Igfrid wore similar simplicity, save for his belt of precious metal hung with glowing vials and protective talismans.
Lindt's translucent blue eyes and moss-toned hair mirrored his agrarian passions. He'd rebelled after his lands withered under royal neglect. Igfrid had tasked him with reviving agriculture in Helm using drought-resistant wheat seeds from Shattar. Now, Lindt was one of three miktars coordinating the hostage exchange.
Lindt's face darkened as Igfrid outlined the terms.
"She wants to crush us from the outside."
"I know. That's why I've been here." Igfrid gestured to the matte parchment before him, inscribed with magic stones and circles. "I'm close to activating defenses strong enough to shield our territory without draining nobles' mana."
The hostage list was short, mostly high-mana nobles Silvine needed to recharge Lothien's magical defenses. Without them, the south's independence would be fragile, ripe for foreign invasion. But Igfrid had bargained for time, securing demihuman technology from beyond the colonies. Soon, those once-hunted beings would turn their growing prowess against their oppressors.
"You know Lothien's ambient mana is weak compared to Shattar's. You told me so the day we met."
"That doesn't matter. Lothien's technology can compensate if combined properly with Shattar's." Lindt's blue eyes gleamed with excitement.
"Can you do it?" Lindt stepped closer, gripping Igfrid's shoulders, a breach of decorum, but Igfrid had never cared for royal formalities.
"You're annoying." Igfrid shrugged off Lindt's hands. "First, we finalize the parameters for the next five days. After that… maybe I'll let you witness my research. I'm certain Silvine is scheming something."
"Undoubtedly, but I doubt she'll outright attack and discard the peace treaty."
"The treaty takes effect the moment hostages are exchanged and the ceremony is held in each territory. The treaty's light pillars will signal the exchange, but anything before or during won't void it. She'll likely try to kill me then. Without a royal leader, the south won't survive."
The light pillar ceremony —rarely seen —was the Supreme God's guarantee of an equal, unbroken pact. Both nations had to perform the ritual simultaneously; the pillars wouldn't rise otherwise. Igfrid worried about Silvine's wording: "effective immediately after the exchange."
Preparing protection circles and talismans, he ensured defenses against ambushes. Canaria's safety was set in stone, hostages couldn't be harmed before or after the treaty.
The next day, Vesseror was sent back with the response.