84
Far above the world, where no winged creature dared fly and no map bothered to draw paths, the northern peak of Mistral slumbered in eternal clouds. A single cave—carved not by nature, but by divinity—opened like a silent gate into the heavens.
Its interior was cold, ancient, and impossibly vast.
At the center stood a statue.
An enormous circur relief, its stone the color of bone-white moonlight, depicting a hooded angel with wings lowered in solemn judgment. Armor covered its body from neck to feet, but the face was bare—calm, serene, inhumanly perfect.
Its presence was suffocating.
Just looking at it felt like staring into the eye of a star—something so holy the soul instinctively curled in fear of disintegration.
Before this divine monument, Vergilius Boyy knelt.
He was armored fully in white and gold, his hair disheveled from sleepless nights, his eyes shadowed by the weight of a thousand regrets. He carried no weapon—only conviction.
A shift of air…
And the real angel appeared.
Descending like falling light, it nded before him—nearly two times his size, armored in radiant white and gold, masked like a faceless judge. Its wings hung at rest behind it, yet power still rippled from them like suppressed storms.
Vergilius bowed his head, voice trembling but resolute.
“I need to use the holy water.”
The angel did not speak immediately.Instead, it circled him—slow, deliberate, assessing every inch of him like an executioner deciding whether the condemned deserved mercy.
“You seem decided, Vergilius,” it finally said, voice echoing like distant thunder.“For what?”
Vergilius lifted his head just enough to meet the masked gaze.
“For Elysia.”
The air cracked.
Power burst outward in a violent wave—Vergilius’ body was flung like a ragdoll, smashing across the stone floor. Before he even breathed again, a spear of pure light extended from the angel’s arm, its tip pressed to Vergilius’ throat. A thin line of blood trickled down his skin.
“Hm… the woman who refused,” the angel murmured, voice yered with bitterness older than kingdoms.“And yet you still love her so deeply.”
It saw the truth in his eyes.Unwavering.Dangerous.Human.
The angel stepped back.
“You truly embody your manta.”
Vergilius’s fingers curled against the stone. He had feared this moment for years—avoiding it, drowning himself in duty, anything to dey standing here. But after hearing Durante request the holy water… he knew. He knew what must be done. What he must pay.
Not only for Elysia.
But for what was coming—the Phoenix Reborn.
The angel watched him, unmoving.
“But everything,” it said slowly, “comes with a price.”
Vergilius’ breath shook. He nodded.
“In exchange for the holy water,” the angel decred, voice slicing through the cave like a bde,“you will be stripped of your manta.”
Silence.
Vergilius froze for the span of one heartbeat—just one—but enough for the angel to smile beneath its mask. Waiting to see if he would falter. Waiting for weakness.
There was hesitation.Then determination.
“I accept.”
“Very well.”
Light erupted from behind Vergilius.The eight-petaled wings imprinted on his back—the source of his strength, his divinity, his entire mantle—began to dissolve into white dust.
One petal vanished.Then another.And another.
Vergilius felt each loss—like parts of his soul being plucked one by one.
When the final petal disappeared, the angel turned into white smoke.
The cave darkened.
A small gss bottle, glowing faintly gold, rolled forward until it touched Vergilius’ knees.
The holy water.
Vergilius bowed over it, exhaling something halfway between a sob and relief.
He had lost everything.
But he had gained the one thing that might save her.
The Hall of Mistral was somber that evening.
Wind slipped through the pilrs, making the banners flutter weakly—faded, pale compared to their former brilliance. The divine aura that once blessed the pce was gone, leaving behind a hollow stillness.
Upon the polished floor stood three kings:
—Faerion Lumirien, King of Glory, tall and sharp as a bde.—King Alvin Reydan of Rose, fnked by two elegant knight-maidens.—King Orson Sundervine of Dore, his stag-crested knight behind him.
They had come seeking one thing:To convince the King of Mistral to abandon the holy water.
At the far end of the hall, Vergilius sat upon his throne, head bowed, face half-hidden in shadow. The kings felt something was wrong the moment they entered.
His presence…His aura…It was no longer divine.
It was mortal.
Faerion stepped forward, voice calm but edged.
“You know why we came, King Vergilius.”
For a long moment, Vergilius did not move.
Then he rose.
His footsteps down the stairway were heavy—like a man descending into his own grave. The kings watched in uneasy silence; Vergilius looked smaller now, dimmer, like a star after dawn.
He stopped before them.
“You should not have come, my kings.”
His voice cked the celestial echo they once knew.
“I have the holy water.”
Shock flickered across their faces—relief, fear, disbelief. They exchanged looks. Glory’s king exhaled softly.
Vergilius extended his hand slightly.
“How about the journal?.”His eyes lifted, hollow yet determined.“The journal. Queen Era’s.”
Faerion’s expression hardened—but after a beat, he nodded.
“It is already been prepared.”
Vergilius closed his eyes.
For the first time since losing his manta, the hall’s air stirred faintly around him—not divine, not holy…
But human.
And resolute.
The price had been paid.
And now, the world would feel the consequences.
