"What do you need from us?" Asuma asked, keeping his voice steady but eyes cautious.
"Simple," Urillia replied. "Just like before at the garden—I want the sage. Help me find her, and I'll help you find your friend, Leon."
Asuma hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Latriys!" he called out.
Like before, a portal swirled into existence inside the antique shop, the air warping and spiraling as the signature magic of the sage's pocket realm activated. In an instant, the group was transported to the mystical glade where the colossal ancient tree loomed high, its branches like reaching arms against the twilight sky.
Waiting beneath it was Latriys, the sage's apprentice. She stood like a sentinel, eyes sharp, arms crossed. But the sage herself was nowhere in sight.
"Latriys, this is—" Asuma began, but she cut him off sharply.
"I know who she is," Latriys said, her tone cold and clipped. Her eyes were locked on the princess. "Why is she with you?"
A sudden ripple of tension surged through the air. Denias, ever-vigilant, stepped forward slightly, his hand slowly drawing the ornate hilt of his sword.
"Princess," he said quietly, "she's radiating hostility. I suggest—"
"Stand down," Urillia ordered, raising a hand calmly. Her expression remained composed, though her golden eyes shimmered with restrained annoyance. "You are the apprentice of the great sage. I'm not here to start a fight. I only desire to speak with your master."
Latriys narrowed her eyes. "You abandoned her. When she was no longer convenient, you turned your back. And now, you come crawling back because you need something."
Urillia's lips pressed into a thin line. "Abandoned her? She was the one who severed contact with the empire. As the former head of the Department of Intelligence, the sage held an invaluable position. But when the other sages started to fall, she vanished—cut ties with everything. How can you blame us for her withdrawal?"
Latriys's fists clenched. Her voice shook—not with fear, but fury. "You abandoned her when she became the next target on your list. When her life was at risk, you chose silence and compliance. Don't pretend it was her choice to run. You made her run."
"List? What list?" Urillia asked, her brow narrowing in confusion, though a flicker of suspicion touched her golden eyes.
Latriys's voice cracked like thunder. "Oh, so you don't know? Your beloved brother, Prince Caius, ordered your precious Royal Guard to assassinate Sage Fionalla!"
A heavy silence followed her words, a silence so thick it stifled the air.
Urillia's composure faltered for a moment. She turned sharply to Denias, her voice low but fierce. "Murder? Denias, what is she talking about?"
Denias's gaze remained even, his face unreadable behind the mask of duty. "I have no information regarding that, Princess."
"You bastard," Latriys growled. "So you're going to stand there and pretend ignorance? You really are just another tool of the crown." Her voice trembled—not with fear, but fury. "You royals—all of you—use people until they're bled dry, and then toss them aside like they were nothing." Her aura flared violently, the ground beneath her feet cracking as magical pressure built around her like a storm ready to burst.
"I will never—never—let you breathe the same air as the sage again!"
Asuma stepped forward quickly, his hand gently reaching out. "Latriys, calm down. Please. She hasn't threatened the sage. If you lash out, Denias will cut you down."
Latriys didn't move, but her rage visibly trembled in her clenched fists. The wind began to whip through the glade unnaturally, stirring the branches of the sacred tree above.
Denias's hand rested lightly on his sword's hilt, not in haste, but with the certainty of a man who had ended lives before. "Princess, give me the command."
Urillia raised her hand, stopping him. "No." Her voice, cold as marble, cracked faintly beneath the surface. "We'll retreat—for now. I wasn't aware Caius ordered an attack on the sage. This... complicates things more than I anticipated."
She turned her gaze to Latriys. "If what you say is true, then we have a common enemy. But for now, I'll give you space."
Denias exhaled. "Very well. But next time she raises her hand against you, I won't hesitate."
"The next time," Urillia added, glancing over her shoulder, "won't be like this time."
A ripple split the air behind her, and the space folded open like a curtain. She stepped through without another word, her cloak swirling behind her. Denias followed, his eyes briefly lingering on Asuma—less a warning, more a silent understanding.
Then they were gone, the portal vanishing like smoke in the wind.
Asuma looked over at Latriys. Her shoulders were shaking—not from weakness, but from the weight of emotion, of bottled anger and old scars that hadn't healed.
He understood then: this wasn't just about politics, or power. For Latriys, it was personal. A wound deeper than words, hidden in the quiet moments no one dared to look at.
"How could you bring her here?!" Latriys's voice cracked through the ancient grove like a whip, her eyes burning with raw emotion. The leaves around them quivered in the hush that followed.
Asuma flinched slightly, stepping forward. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice laced with regret. "I wasn't aware of the situation between her and the sage... I didn't know."
Latriys closed her eyes, taking a shaky breath, trying to temper the storm boiling inside her. After a long pause, she finally spoke, her voice quieter but no less stern. "It's fine. Just... don't do it again."
She looked past him, her gaze landing on Amira. "Where's the other one—the guy who's always mouthing off? Leon?"
Amira's expression darkened. "He was taken."
Latriys's eyes widened in immediate recognition, and her tone shifted to dread. "Taken...? Ah... by that man."
Asuma's heart skipped a beat. "That man? Who is he, Latriys?!"
She didn't answer right away. Her face hardened. Then, without a word, she turned and walked into the massive, tree-carved home that served as the Sage's sanctuary.
"Follow me."
They obeyed in silence, stepping once again into the heart of the timeless haven—its wooden walls covered in glowing glyphs, old scrolls, alchemical vials, and countless relics from across Anorak and beyond. The scent of aged books and moss filled the air.
They returned to the familiar round wooden table carved from the roots of the great tree—where truths were often spoken and masks stripped away.
Latriys sat at the far end of the table. She didn't speak for a moment, simply gazed down at the polished surface, tracing a symbol with her fingertip.
Her face was unreadable, her aura somber. The fiery girl he once knew—the one who used to run barefoot through Lyon's gardens—was gone. In her place sat a woman tempered by pain brought by the empire.