2412, Xavem 20, Velpa

Rhys hefted a dusty sheet to block out the morning sun when a pane from the nearby window snapped. Rusting metal and glass shards clattered to the moldy wooden floor in an audible crash resounding around the house. His throat constricted as he whirled to his sister, sleeping on the only mattress he could find. A sigh of relief tore from his lips when she stayed still, her back to him.

He faced the damaged window and cursed it with all his might. His entire vocabulary spilled out of his mouth like a torrent. This was the only time his sister got to sleep in three days and it dared disturb her by clattering to the ground? Rude.

If his mother was here, she would pinch his ear and twist it, all the while ranting at full volume about the bad effects of swearing. Ha, as if he's going to listen to his mother. The memory brought forth a small smile to his lips. It also reminded him of everything that he had lost in the past days, months, and years. His amusement vanished, replaced with a wave of searing anger coiling at his heart.

It's bad enough that he had a father who wanted nothing but to hoard power enough to hate his wife. Then, his sister just had to see their mother murdered by a mysterious voice and be blamed for it. As if that wasn't the final straw, his father went crazy after being given emergency authority over the kingdom before the Council could agree which one of the royal children fit best to replace the deceased Queen.

It's also bad enough that their father hated the idea of women being in power and took it out on Reeca. His sister, unfortunately, has a weakness in accessing intangible trails and their father took this as an opportunity to drag her down. Rhys saw it first hand—how it affected Reeca and how triumphant their father had felt when the Council declared his sister unfit for the crown.

Then come their mother's murder. Their father saw it as an escape to get rid of Reeca for all eternity. Rhys had been watching behind the curtains of the dais, clenching and unclenching his fists at that apparent abuse of power. All these years, Rhys understood why the King would hate Reeca. It's all a matter of conviction and beliefs.

What Rhys didn't understand was why their father had been willing to go to great lengths to host a trial and public humiliation of a traumatized girl. Who, in their sanity, would do that to his own daughter?

Rhys had always been favored by the King, just as Reeca was by the Queen. It didn't get into his head, thank the gods. He doubted he ever would. His family deserved his love—equally. After seeing what his father had done to his sister, he couldn't stand by and watch. Not anymore.

So, he stepped out from behind the curtains, knocked the King off his throne with a mighty blast of weaving energy, and proceeded to wreck the throne room. Back then, there's only one thought on his head—if they didn't want his sister, then they would lose him, too.

His father had been furious.

Days after they fled Arcole, the King had sent countless soldiers, court officials, and even personal slaves to beg Rhys to come back. Rhys would give them the same answer—pardon Reeca's court-imposed "crime" and he would come back.

Just like he predicted, the King refused to cease his tantrum and couldn't let go of his pride. The summons stopped, setting both Reeca and Rhys free from royal obligations but that also alienated them from a comfortable life at the Palace. Rhys scoffed. Who would want to go back to that stuffy castle? Certainly not him. After years of travelling and experiencing everything, he could conclude that the outside world was brighter, livelier, and more...real.

It's a bit ironic that they're learning about governing the real world and how to make reality better when they were in some sort of artificial bubble of wealth and finery. Pointless, wasn't it?

Because of those travels, both he and his sister found their mission, their purpose. It's something Rhys had his eyes on accomplishing until the day he turned into a thousand butterflies.

He clipped the blanket to the window, twisting a metal wire to lock it in place. His thoughts raged as he turned back to his sleeping sister. Reeca didn't complain when he told her what they were about to do. Now that Rhys thought about it, his sister never really did complain about anything.

It sometimes led him to sleepless nights. What was Reeca thinking and feeling about their situation and about his choices? Was she upset? Tired? Angry? She never did say nor did they have enough time to talk about those things.

Throughout the years, they were always about mission, mission, and nothing but the mission.

Rhys sighed and stared at the muted sunlight flowing from the blanketed window. What were they even fighting for in this war now that the thing they wanted to protect had been razed to the ground?

He strode and settled on the edge of Reeca's mattress. His eyes traced every curve of Reeca's face. When did his sister look more like a woman now and not a stubby-faced flower-child she once was? The innocent glow on her face had been replaced with a dark mist of maturity.

Both of their faces have.

He had gotten back too late when he heard of the Sovereign's plans to destroy Narfalk. He had been immersed in his spying crusade in the Synketros that he's surprised when he saw his sister trudge in along with that shard fairy he had been keeping his eyes on for quite some time. He bided his time to reveal himself to Reeca but didn't get the timing right because a day later, Narfalk was burning to the ground with not one rimmon tree standing on its roots after.

It broke Reeca.

It broke something inside him too. Even with the bad blood between him and his father, he prayed to the gods that they were able to flee the destruction and were alive somewhere on the island.

And he felt it—how the souls fled this world into the Land of Wonders and the seared path they made through his soul. Even after days, he could still feel the burning cold it brought until now. Had Reeca felt it too? All this time, had she been feeling it too?

Dear old Reeca. Of course, she wouldn't complain about it or tell him anything, for that matter. A sigh escaped his lips and stood up. Time to look for any meal he could scrounge up in this hell.

He cast a baleful look at the gray sky beyond one of the windows. Cardina had been his last resort. He would do anything to keep Reeca away from this rotting place with its infernal decaying-corpse air and its apparent lack of anything useful. But, it had taken him merely hours to realize what kind of world had popped up on their island in a matter of days.

Cardovia and Synketros had sprung up overnight after the Heiress' successful inquisition of Dwanzeig and the conclusion of the Sovereign's raid on Alkara. It's as if they're only waiting for pieces to fall into place before rising from the ground up and taking absolute control.

Right now, the whole island was divided into two. The west side was controlled by the Synketros while the east, Cardovia. And the place with the most tension? Lanteglos.

Rhys had heard what had become of the once-glittering Junction City. It had been a place of wonder with no prejudice against any race. It's a safe haven for unity and security, even if it costs a ton to get anywhere near its estates.

Now, there's nothing on it but rubble. The Seelie Court was doing its best to hold the Junction City together and failing at it. The Unseelie Court had been dismembered with their members getting tired of the shame and going on to pledge their allegiance to the new authorities. Cardovia and the Synketros certainly took their time hand-picking armies and treasures from the ex-Imperial Court officials who had nowhere else to go.

There's no knowing if the Sovereign was still after Rhys and Reeca as survivors of the Narfalk raid and Rhys was not stupid enough to not assume it so. There's only one place the Sovereign wouldn't bother looking.

It's where no one would ever dare run to because chances of survival are low and where nothing ever grows and nothing ever survives—the Disfavored Region.

He had just gotten wind of the situation in this place yesterday when he not-so-subtly forced an old man to tell him what's going on. The old man, while hunched and bent-over with age and smelled strangely of lendarbe fruit, explained that the Human King had allied with the Sovereign and had ordered that all able people in the Disfavoreds be carted off to the Synketros base as servants.

While twisting his weathered cane that looked no more thicker than a broken branch of a dried tree, the old man told him that the only ones left here were the old ones and the sick. Rhys's gut churned with anger when the old man didn't even mention the children.

So, it had been the right choice to hole up here. The Sovereign, nor anyone, wouldn't take a second look at this rotting place as the hideout of two survivors from some raid.

But, two months in, he's starting to see the real problem.

Because this place had been technically deserted, no one has bothered to strive to live. So that means, no workers even just for food. No workers meant no shops. No shops meant no food. No food meant death.

Rhys had been doing his best to head towards the Carleon forest by the border and hunt. That didn't make it easier for him to leave his sister alone in a rotting house that could crash on top of them in a matter of seconds.

He couldn't trust his sister would stay put and not slit her throat the first chance she gets. It has been a gamble every time he would leave the house for food. In fact, it had been a gamble every time he would take his eyes off his sister. It certainly didn't help that she stays awake for days on end and only sleeps when she's tired of staying awake.

Currently, the vigil streak was three days—two days less from the past streak. Rhys had been on the edge all the while, barely getting any sleep for himself. Now that Reeca had finally collapsed on the mattress, he stole an hour of nap before heading off to get some meat. He's been craving for some meat lately.

He edged towards the door and was about to yank it open when something creaked on the roof. He froze. This was a small house. The ceiling hung on his head in such a way that he could touch it if he stretched enough. Whatever was on the roof was close to the door.

If they're on the roof...

Rhys splayed his fingers before flexing them. His magic crackled to the surface, laying atop his skin like a warm coat. Bright, blue, weaving energy sparked in his fingertips. Whatever that was, it wasn't a natural phenomenon like a stray breeze. It sounded like feet.

Someone was here.

He whirled to Reeca who still slept on the mattress next to the window. The creaks on the roof turned louder. Apparently, the roof was also made of wood, and judging from the blackened edges of the planks, they wouldn't hold much longer. From the sounds of the footsteps, if it ever gave way, it would crash over the mattress. It would crash all over his sister.

He clicked his tongue in annoyance and cast a weaving shield over Reeca's frame. Something hissed. Muffled laughter rang. More creaks.

They're not alone.

Rudik's breeches. Rhys scanned his eyes around for anything to weave to his will. It's a cross-shaped house, with four adjacent rooms from one common area. He had stashed Reeca into the east corner, where there were fewer chances of them being seen when they're most vulnerable.

He kept his footsteps light and quick. The creaks above quietened into faint brushes. It seemed like the people above were doing the same. Maybe they sensed his magic and were being cautious. He cursed again, hissing with vulgarity he hadn't done in a long while.

Hurry. Find something to weave.

He crossed the barren common area in silent, long strides, his boots scraping away the molds that built a colony on the floorboards. There's no time to feel sorry for disrupting their little community as he trained his eyes on the kitchen, up north.

There's nothing there but utensils, a mercok-ridden dining table, four wooden chairs, and a cellar door.

Rhys's eyes widened. Cellar. That could do.

He froze. If he went to the cellar then he would have to leave Reeca out in the open. If the people on the roof entered the house while he's down there...

No. Forget the cellar.

He turned around and faced south, towards the garden and hygiene area. Nothing there could hide them. Attack with the rake or the shovel leaning against a wall. Maybe.

The footsteps came alive again. Rhys backtracked a bit to check on Reeca. She's still passed out on the mattress. He sighed and extended his hand. His sword flew to his waiting hand and it hadn't taken him long to unsheathe it and ready his magic at the surface.

If no other thing would be appropriate for him to weave then he'd use raw weaving energy, no matter how taxing or dangerous it was. The roof creaked, the ceiling croaking with the weight. The people on the roof began talking. More like, arguing.

The wind muffled their words; the space between the roof and Rhys seemed to silence them further. Rhys strained his ears. What were they fighting about? Who were they?

A voice. Feminine. It's high and a little shrill. It carried some sort of authority. Under normal circumstances, Rhys might have already liked her. Someone answered the woman. Masculine. Was it? Rhys narrowed his eyes as he stepped forward, listening for any signs to confirm his deduction. He knitted his eyebrows. It's soft, silky, but it contains the basic characteristics of a male voice. He listened again. Yeah, male. Then another replied. This one was obviously masculine.

Rhys waited for more voices to pop up but it's the woman who's talking again. He tightened his grip on the sword and his magic flared brighter in his other hand. Three people. He could handle that. But not quietly enough to let Reeca stay asleep.

Should he just go to the roof and try to talk it out?

He shook his head. No, not possible. The roof would break if he added to the weight. And if they're here to capture them, at least down here, he has the element of surprise and a huge amount of windows to jump into if he's forced to retreat. Better to protect his sister while they're not attacking.

He stalked back to the east room as Reeca stirred in her sleep, muttering about graspel and annoying blonde girls. It was almost funny if only Rhys wasn't preoccupied at the moment. The footsteps edged closer to the east room. Rhys raised his sword. He would start swinging as soon as something foreign appeared.

Right on cue, the voices rose to a crescendo. The roof and ceiling's moldy planks snapped free and with the splinters came a nature fairy dressed in green garbs. Before the fairy could even process where he was, Rhys leaped forward and aimed his sword at the neck.

It wouldn't be too long before blood would be spilled.