Chapter 17

The broken glass of the observatory's ceiling lets moonlight pour through like soft judgment. The wind has died down.

Kalt XVIII sits alone on a cracked ledge, one hand clutched over the burn where Chrysanthemum nearly cut his shoulder in half. His breath is unsteady.

XVIII:
(quietly)
He could’ve killed me. No...
He should have killed me.

Silence answers him.

He looks up at the empty stars.

XVIII:
Astera Flores.
The only son of the Floral Emperor, Azalea.
The fourth generation of Regenora’s line… and the vessel of two Primordial Sigils.

He lays back slowly, staring at the fractured architecture above.

XVIII:
(softly, to himself)
You’re everything I was supposed to be.
Royalty. Power. A future.
And yet… you walked away.
Why?

The wind rustles, carrying the scent of old gardenia from where Astera’s aura had bloomed moments earlier.

XVIII:
Was it mercy?
Pity?
...Or something worse?

He sits up, brows furrowed.

XVIII:
(softly)
Do you believe I still have something left to give?

He holds his hand out, watching faint trails of silver mana swirl around his fingertips—the dying embers of elven bloodline power, long suppressed under fear.

XVIII:
I wasn’t supposed to survive Raureif.
I was supposed to die alongside my father.
Instead, I became Givre’s chained relic.

(Pause)

XVIII:
Maybe...
Maybe Astera didn’t spare me because he saw a prince.
Maybe he spared me because he saw a pawn that could still move.

He grips the edge of the ledge and stares toward the skyline of Central City Minamo.

XVIII: (grimly) If that’s the case... then I need to decide what piece I’m going to be. Because I don’t want to die a footnote in someone else’s war.