"I still know you" said Mika, staring at my tattoo for a long time before raising her eyes to me. "I cooked food for you, didn't I?"
The question caught me off guard, but I nodded, slowly.
"Yes."
She tilted her head slightly to the side, as if trying to pull some distant memory from her fingertips.
"And who am I?"
I felt my mouth move before I could think.
"You're my girlfriend"
As soon as those words escaped my mouth - half without thinking, half on impulse - an awkward silence formed between us. It was immediate, as if the air had suddenly become denser. I realized right away that perhaps I had said more than I should have... or in the wrong way.
For a second, she just stared at me, unblinking. Then she frowned, pressing her lips together.
"No... maybe... I don't know. I don't remember exactly."
I hurried to fix what I'd said.
"Just kidding, just kidding" I said, raising my hands in a gesture of surrender, trying to lighten the mood with a crooked smile.
"Hey! None of that!" she retorted, with a sudden firmness in her gaze. "You can't get out of this now. Take responsibility!"
"What do you mean?" I laughed. "I was only joking! What if I have some bad plan for you?"
She crossed her arms, looking away for a moment, as if in deep thought.
"Plans that are born in your head never work out the way they should," she said, turning back to face me. "I remember that. So... now I'm calm."
I stared at her, feeling my face heat up. Offended? Maybe a little. But there was something comforting in that teasing, like a ghost memory that still knew how to make me smile.
Mika was... different. Her hair, which had once been a soft yellow, was now a gleaming white. And her eyes - God, her eyes - seemed bluer than I remembered. A sharp, almost ethereal blue. As if she'd stepped out of an old, forgotten dream.
Before I could say anything, or react in any way, the crowd around us began to move. A generalized pushing and shoving took over the hall. People talking, complaining, laughing, stepping on each other's heels.
We were carried along by the human current without a chance to resist, like leaves in a merciless river.
The last thing I heard before I lost sight of Mika for a moment was her voice, very low, close to my ear:
"Even if I don't remember everything... I still trust you."
And it stayed with me. Hammering like an echo, as we were pushed out of that magical hall, into a world that still made no sense at all.
***
- Elkaten. Throne Room, Royal Palace. Day Zero of the 134th Call. -
The king sank into the dark stone throne with a harsh sigh, the heavy crown slipping slightly over his forehead, as if even it refused to stay in balance. Her countenance bore more than fatigue - it was bad humor in its rawest form. Not the kind that dissipates with a good wine or is relieved after a successful hunt, but a dark mood, the kind that calls for something more... something that bleeds.
In his right hand, he held a glass goblet sculpted with almost surgical precision. The finely cut edges captured every flicker of light from the torches and multiplied it into ephemeral sparkles - tiny stars caged in crystal, shimmering with a fragile, cruel beauty. The surface of the goblet seemed alive, breathing under the reflection of the fire, as if every detail had been sculpted not by human hands, but by eternal time and patience.
Inside, the wine oscillated in slow, almost lazy movements, tinged with a deep red, dense as velvet and dark as unfulfilled promises. Liquid ruby. A mirror of freshly spilled blood. The king watched in silence, absorbed, as if he saw more there than just a drink. It was a memory. A guilt. An omen.
The color pulled him in, reminded him of the heat of past battles, the weight of irreversible decisions, the muffled cries of those who fell for his will. Bright red. Hot. Final. The kind of end that leaves no visible marks, but remains stuck in the soul.
At his feet knelt a pathetic creature, humanoid in shape, but with deep-set eyes and curved horns that gave away its origin: a demon. A prisoner of the so-called - and worse - Taro country. It was a sworn enemy.
The creature cried. It sobbed. It pleaded in a guttural voice, in a language that didn't belong in that world. The king didn't listen. Or he didn't want to.
"Interrogate it. Then behead," he ordered, without taking his eyes off the wine.
The guards didn't hesitate. The demon was dragged across the room amidst muffled screams and fingernails clawing at the marble floor. The king didn't move. He just slowly turned the chalice between his fingers. The sound of footsteps moving away seemed to please his ears.
Just then Lias, one of the high nobles of the court, approached the throne. A slender man with a sharp face and a moustache so carefully trimmed that it was comical in contrast to his solemn posture. The king had always found that moustache ridiculous - and perhaps therefore comforting.
Lias bowed and announced in a mellifluous voice:
"Your Majesty, today's call was a success. The summoned cooperated... spontaneously." He held up a scroll of pulsating runes. - Here is the list of potential heroes.
The king nodded, bored, and accepted the document. He looked through it leisurely until he stopped at the first name. A mischievous glint appeared in his eyes.
The image of the young woman was projected into the air, created by an illusory rune activated in the seal of the parchment. The room plunged into a dense silence.
She was a girl of around seventeen, with hair as white as freshly fallen snow and large blue eyes full of confusion and astonishment. Her face was delicate, her features almost ethereal. Innocent. Untouched.
"That will be... interesting," said the king, and a crooked smile curved his lips. "Notify the Church. We have a new candidate for the succession to the Holy Sword."
"Immediately, Your Majesty," replied Lias, disappearing into the gloom with the lightness of a good servant.
The young woman's projection disappeared. The king leaned back on his throne, but his smile remained.
***
Some time passed. No one came in. No one dared to disturb him.
Then, in a moment of oppressive stillness, a dry, small and terribly clear tinkle was heard. The crystal goblet slipped from his numb fingers and shattered on the floor, spilling scarlet wine all over the steps before the throne. The red puddle slowly made its way to the hem of the royal robe, dyeing it as if it were real blood.
The king, half-bent over, his eyes ajar like a daydreamer, murmured in an almost childish tone:
"Interesting..."