The two who were called the Sun and the Moon were adored not only for their divine stature but also for their striking beauty.
Though romantic love between a Tither and a Guide was tacitly forbidden by royal decree, it had never been formally consummated—but Ressas was not one to be bound by inherited customs or the rigid traditions of the royal household.
In contrast to his fair and virtuous nature, he possessed a stubborn determination that ensured he always achieved what he set his mind to. Despite his upright and rational appearance, which suggested he’d follow only common sense, he occasionally acted in ways that defied convention—and such eccentricity only made Ressas shine brighter. For everything he did inevitably led to good outcomes.
The prince who inherited the founding ancestor Raman’s power, and the southern sage who wielded the light, were beloved by all, from idle gossipers to devoted citizens. Neither openly acknowledged their relationship, but unlike with other Tithers, Ressas never kept a distance from Zion.
It wasn’t Zion, but Ressas, who flared up in anger when Seiyad insulted him. The memory of that moment remained vivid—how the normally gentle and amiable face that relayed royal commands had turned cold and sharp.
Unlike usual, when he would simply ignore Seiyad’s provocations, Ressas had lashed out with rare venom.
“You are always selfish. How long do you plan to carry words that wound even yourself? Even a serpent’s fangs would hurt less than your tongue.”
Seiyad hadn’t considered it venomous at the time, but given Ressas’s nature, those were unusually harsh words.
As he ruminated on an unpleasant past and a future no more promising, his tongue felt dry and rough. Something tugged at the back of his mind, though he couldn’t grasp what it was.
“Did you cough, Your Grace?”
At the voice calling him, Seiyad turned to the window. The dark veil of a night that seemed it would never end had lifted, and far off, a red sky came into view. The dull blue hues of dawn crept into the horizon.
He splashed some water on his face, pushing his hair back along with it. His hands, dry and rough, felt cold. At some point, the firewood had burned out. He stared absently at the charred remains in the fireplace, twisted and blackened, until he snapped back to awareness.
“You may come in.”
The door creaked open, and Kellaran appeared, carrying the washbasin usually brought by Quilly. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen Quilly since returning. A faint worry crept in, and Seiyad’s expression hardened.
“Where’s Quilly?”
The Quilly he knew should not have perished before yesterday passed. He had forcibly kept the boy here, convinced that meant he was safe, but unease crept in nonetheless. At Seiyad’s question, Kellaran’s face darkened.
No… surely not.
“I ordered him to remain at the estate, didn’t I?”
As if responding to his unstable emotions, a surge of aura burst from Seiyad. The peaceful shadows of morning that had stretched languidly across the floor now bristled like thorns. Seeing that, Kellaran hurriedly spoke in alarm.
“He followed Your Grace’s orders and stayed in the mansion. However, the boy got into a fight with a few of the servants… so I placed him under house discipline for a day. It was a necessary measure to quell the disorder. My apologies, Your Grace.”
Seiyad narrowed his eyes at the unexpected report.
“A fight?”
“Yes. I’m not sure of the exact cause, but apparently some quarrel broke out. I was planning to summon everyone this morning to gather the facts and report to you directly.”
Quilly wasn’t the type to get into fights—cheerful and easygoing by nature, he was far removed from such trouble. Judging by Kellaran’s tone, he too found the incident troubling and uncharacteristic, enough that he added a personal remark.
“I hesitated to bring it up, embarrassed to admit my failure in educating him properly. My apologies, Your Grace.”
“No, it’s fine. Was he badly hurt?”
At that question, a faint trace of pride flickered across Kellaran’s face.
“Fortunately, he wasn’t seriously injured. In fact, the other servants came out worse.”
As long as he wasn’t dead or critically wounded, that was enough. Seiyad fell silent for a moment before changing the subject.
“Once breakfast is over, we’ll hold a meeting. Prepare the eastern chamber. Don’t hold back on any supplies needed to treat the wounded.”
“Understood.”
After setting down the washbasin, Kellaran approached to assist with washing up. Seiyad waved him off.
“That’s all right. I’ll manage.”
Kellaran’s eyes briefly landed on his hand.
“You’re injured… and you won’t summon a physician?”
Following his gaze, Seiyad examined his hand—it was in poor shape. A dried scab of blackened blood crusted over a wide wound. Since it was a gash he had inflicted upon himself, he had no intention of showing it to a physician.
“It’s a trivial wound. No need to fuss. You may go.”
Normally, Kellaran would have withdrawn immediately. He was a capable butler who never opposed his master’s wishes or stirred discomfort. But for some reason, perhaps a sudden change of heart, he hesitated before cautiously speaking.
“Your Grace, you ought to take better care of your body.”
Seiyad paused, hand still in the basin washing away dried blood. His brow furrowed as he looked at Kellaran, who lowered his head.
“I know it’s impertinent, but… I wish you’d treat yourself with more care.”
It had been a long time since anyone had scolded him like that.
Kellaran had stopped voicing such concerns ages ago—perhaps ever since Seiyad, obsessively assisting Aster, became consumed with hunting down Nir’a and drove his own sister away in disgust. Kellaran, too, had grown quieter since then.
Though the words felt presumptuous and vaguely intrusive, oddly, they didn’t anger him.
The same discomfort that had been clinging to his chest since yesterday reemerged and lingered near his heart.
“I’ll go fetch fresh water. Bathwater has already been ordered, so someone will attend to you shortly.”
Kellaran, having fulfilled his duties, stepped back.
As the sound of the door closing echoed softly, Seiyad silently gazed down at the hand submerged in the blood-tinged basin for a long time.
It was a strange feeling.
***
The emergency council included members of the Ritual of Invocation, as well as Count Landry, who had joined that very morning.
Count Landry, a distant collateral relative of Duchess Vetria, was a half-blooded Tither who had inherited only a faint trace of eastern Tither power. Yet, what he lacked in strength, he made up for in utility. He could imbue objects with will, enabling those who possessed them to see what the Count saw.
His ability served like a proxy messenger, allowing him to attend meetings in place of the King when His Majesty could not leave his post.
There were many such individuals in the royal court. Most notably, there were messengers who could traverse space but only to locations etched in their memory. Thanks to them, Guides could travel swiftly to the remote territories of the Tithers in times of crisis.
When Seiyad entered the council chamber, the others had already taken their seats.
The moment he stepped inside, Aster greeted him with a bright smile.
“Come here, Eid.”
With that gentle beckoning toward the seat beside him, there wasn’t a trace of concern about the events of the previous night.
And whenever Seiyad saw that expression, it made him wonder if everything he had experienced had merely been a dream.
Just as he was about to take the seat next to Aster, his gaze met Ressas’s across the table.
His face had grown noticeably gaunt overnight. His complexion was pale, and faint scratches marked his otherwise fair skin. A bandage was wrapped around his left wrist.
“Ah, forgive me. It must’ve startled you to see my younger brother like this. I hope you all understand—Ressas doesn’t possess healing powers, so it takes time for him to recover.”
Sensing that Seiyad’s eyes had landed on Ressas, Aster spoke with a gentle tone.
Duke Bridehit, wearing an expression of sympathy, added in agreement.
“If only Solias’s sacred power could work on those outside the Tithers.”
Though the concern was genuine, Ressas’s expression remained grim.
The very act of being pitied reminded him that he lacked the power of Solias.
Healing was one of the most potent abilities granted to Guides—a power capable of restoring an injured Tither to a certain extent.
As Duke Bridehit had noted, it was a power that could only be used on Tithers, and though limited in scope, it was a power of particular significance. It also applied to the Guides themselves.
So, the fact that Ressas’s wounds hadn’t healed was proof of his unworthiness.
The bandaged hand resting atop the table quietly slipped beneath it. Hiding his flaw, he offered a serene smile and thanked the duke and Aster calmly.
He didn’t appear like someone who had just been humiliated. In fact, he looked completely accustomed to it.
“I sincerely appreciate your concern.”
There was a sharp, catching sensation, like a hook scraping across the inside of Seiyad’s chest.
He forced himself to look away from Ressas.
Facing Ressas like this—powerless, before his awakening—always left him unsettled.
He knew full well that Ressas had spent far longer as an incompetent prince than as a Guide, and yet, he had completely forgotten what this looked like.
“Well, it’s not his fate. What can we do?”
Aster nodded as if truly lamenting it.
Duchess Vetria, who had been quietly listening, spoke curtly.
“Your Highness’s compassion never ceases to amaze.”
Her tone was icy. Aster gave her a lingering glance before his smile deepened.
“I do appreciate how consistent you always are, Duchess.”
With that cryptic remark, he turned to Count Landry.
“Make the connection, Landry. His Majesty is waiting.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Landry pulled a mirror from within his robes.
The glass inside the round bronze frame first reflected the chamber, then slowly began to morph into a different scene.
Soon, the face of Cyfrid Raman Solias, the King of Solias, appeared within.
“We greet the Sun of the Kingdom.”
All present lowered their heads in unison.
The King’s gaze swept across the room.
The straight furrow fixed in his brow and the firm line of his mouth revealed his unyielding temperament.
Once King Cyfrid set his mind to something, he rarely changed course and pursued it with relentless drive.
Since his coronation, Solias had undergone significant changes.
He had assembled the strongest royal knights in the kingdom’s history and worked tirelessly to build a realm no longer reliant on the Tithers.
His golden eyes, identical to Aster’s, scanned each face until they finally landed on Ressas.
The King’s composed, stately expression contorted the moment it settled on him.
The crease between his brows deepened.
And with a sharp tsk, he clicked his tongue.
