Chapter 7: In the Grip of the King

Deep beneath the surface, in the stone-slick walls of Welch's underground capital, the air was always damp, always dark. But tonight, it was strangely quiet.

Inside a modest inn room, lit by a flickering lantern, Nagi Kawamura sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the creature perched across from him.

Pupa, the white owl, stared back lazily.

The two of them exchanged blank expressions like statues in a silent duel.

Nagi tilted his head, “No?”

Pupa blinked slowly and shook its head, feathers rustling with the motion.

Nagi narrowed his eyes in confusion.

A moment later, Pupa hopped off the table and waddled over to the toilet door, then stood in front of it, unmoving.

"...You don't eat," Nagi said in his usual deadpan tone. “And you don't... poop.”

Pupa let out a long, soul-weary sigh.

Nagi continued staring at him, expression as flat as ever.

Just then, a knock echoed through the wooden door.

Nagi stood up, silently walked over, and opened it.

Standing there, panting lightly and looking like he had just sprinted down the entire district, was a boy with messy red hair, freckled cheeks, and wide, nervous eyes.

“U-Uh… hi!” he said, voice cracking. "I mean—hey! It's me, from yesterday—uh—the kid you helped! I'm Ray!"

He rubbed the back of his neck, blushing a little.

"I... I just came to thank you again. I didn't get the chance yesterday but, like, everyone's been talking about you. So... I thought, maybe I could, y'know... introduce you to the kingdom? Show you around?”

Nagi didn't respond right away. He blinked slowly, and silence fell between them.

Ray's smile faltered.

“A-Actually, never mind, you probably don't want to hang out with a dumb kid, it's fine, I just—”

“...Okay,” Nagi said.

Ray frozen mid-sentence.

“...Wait, really?!”

Nagi nodded, faintly.

Ray looked like he had just been given a crown and a cake on the same day.

"Yes! I mean—cool! Uh—let's go, then! I'll show you everything!"

The streets of Welch were busy today, lanterns swaying in the underground breeze. The city's structures were carved into the cavern walls, homes built atop homes, all stacked vertically in uneven layers. Crystals embedded in the ceilings provided soft glows, painting everything in hues of blue and violet.

As Nagi walked beside Ray, something unexpected happened.

People stopped to look at him.

They whispered behind their hands.

They bowed slightly as he passed.

One woman offered him a warm bun stuffed with honey meat for free.

“To Welch's unkillable savior,” she said with a smile.

Another vendor handed him sugar-dusted sweets without asking. A child tugged at Nagi's coat just to touch it and whispered, "Thank you for helping the prince..."

Nagi said nothing through it all, just accepted the food or quietly stared at the ones who greeted him.

Beside him, Ray beamed with pride.

“Told you you're famous now,” he said. “They think you're some divine messenger or something.”

Pupa, riding Nagi's shoulder, let out a tiny grunt.

From a rooftop in the shadows, a pair of red eyes followed Nagi's every step.

Cerys Cronabelle, short, bratty, and full of mischief, sat cross-legged with a sweet lollipop in her mouth. Her little black wings flicked once as she smiled widely.

The gleaming gates of Crestoria, Kingdom of the Celestial God, opened slowly, revealing marble roads and towering spires bathed in golden light. The city shimmered beneath a sky was so clear, it seemed touched by divinity.

The city has towering spires, polished marble streets, gold and blue banners, a sense of order and nobility.

People wore simple linen with sashes and robes, while nobles wore ornate, form-fitting gowns and coats with metallic accents.

The atmosphere looked majestic, disciplined, almost intimidating and bells and choirs echoed through the streets.

From the carriage, Lyon, Louille, Kinana, and lastly Neema stepped down. Crestoria's capital was pristine, yet rigid. Every corner polished, every guard upright, every movement watched.

Neema stood frozen for a moment, her white hair shifting slightly with the breeze. Her pale fingers trembled at her side. It had been over a year since she vanished.

Lyon, standing just beside her, browsing sideways.

“You're alright?”

Neema blinked. She tried to steel herself, raising her chin slightly and pressing her lips into a firm line.

“I'm fine.”

But Lyon knew better.

He didn't say anything for a second… then softly said,

"Don’t worry, I've got your back."

That simple line made her glance at him and for the first time in days, she smiled. Just a little.

Kinana gave a quiet yawn behind them, stretching her arms.

"Ugh, this place is way too clean. Makes me nervous."

Louille chuckled, “Welcome to Crestoria, don’t forget your manners in front of the King.”

The group proceeded through the shining city streets, greeted by the respectful nods of citizens and guards. Crestoria, unlike Luminette or the twin underworld kingdoms of Reuben and Welch, did not choose its ruler through strength or divine choice.

Here, the monarchy ruled.

King Doherty Mischiella and Queen Ariston, regal and stoic, ruled as the final authority, entrusted by generations to uphold order and serve the Celestial God's law. Their will was law, and their image was everything.

At the heart of the white-stone palace, in a grand hall beneath stained-glass windows of divine symbols, the king and queen waited on their twin thrones.

King Doherty sat upright, his square jaw stiff with anticipation. His dark silver hair was cropped neatly, and his cloak of white and blue draped over broad shoulders.

Queen Ariston sat beside him with grace carved from ice. Her beauty was timeless, her eyes sharp as blades, and her hands rested neatly on her lap.

Between them… silence.

The court held its breath.

And then, the grand doors opened.

The herald announced loudly,

“Announcing the return of Her Highness. Princess Neema Mischiella!”

The grand hall of Crestoria's palace was silent, the air heavy as Neema stepped forward. Her boots clicked softly against the marble floor, but her eyes never met her parents.

Behind her, Louille and Lyon dragging a muttering Kinana by the wrist, followed and lowered themselves into a bow before the twin thrones.

The queen's breath hitched as her daughter stood there for the first time in over a year. Her fingers twitched slightly on her lap, and she opened her mouth to speak—

—but a single motion stopped her.

The king's hand rose, firm and commanding, barring her words. His face remains carved from stone, but disappointment radiates from his deep-set eyes. The silence felt like judgment itself.

Then, a soft footstep echoed.

A girl emerged from the side hall, her long white hair swaying like moonlight. Curtain bangs framed a face that seemed perpetually drowsy, her eyelids shut as if she was sleepwalking.

Her voice was slow, almost like a sigh.

“Big sister…”

She sounds happy. Genuinely happy. The weight crushing Neema's shoulders eased slightly as her younger sister's presence reached her.

For the first time since entering, Neema's eyes trembling, even if just a little.

The girl's eyes drifted sideways and fixed on Louille. Without hesitation, she waving her hands slowly, greeting.

“Louille...” A faint smile curved on Jorelle's sleepy face.

Louille raised his head slightly, his voice reverent, "Jorelle Mischiella… second princess of Crestoria. The next heir of the throne."

Then the king's voice cuts through the hall like a blade. Deep. Heavy. Commanding.

“Neema...”

Neema frozen. Her hands clenched at her sides.

"You will remain in this palace. You will answer for what you have done... for abandoning this place… for running."

The words struck harder than any weapon.

Behind her, Lyon's breath hitched. His mind drifted back to the first time he had seen her—on a street in Luminette. A girl wrapped in a hood, sitting on a cold stone, hugging her knees as if to vanish from the world. Her face buried, her shoulders trembling. Alone.

That same girl was now being judged.

Something inside Lyon twisted. His fists clenched.

And then, without a word, he moved.

He stepped forward, placing himself between Neema and the throne. Louille's eyes widened. He hissed under his breath,

“Lyon—stay down!”

But Lyon didn't listen. His sharp gaze locked with the king's. The king's cold, commanding eyes met his, unflinching.

For a heartbeat, the grand hall held its breath.

From the side, Jorelle's sleepy eyes opened, just a fraction, revealing a glitter of silver-gray beneath her lashes. Her lips curved in the faintest, knowing smirk as she watched the boy stand against the throne.

Lyon didn't bow. He didn't even hesitate.

“You're putting too much pressure on her.”

The words cut through the hall. His tone wasn't loud, but steady andfirm. His eyes burned with quiet confidence as they locked onto the king.

Louille's blood ran cold, “Lyon—!”

The king's gaze sharpened, a quiet, dangerous anger in his voice.

“...And who,” he said slowly, “is this insolent boy?”

Louille quickly stepped forward, dropping to one knee.

"Your Majesty, forgive him! He means no disrespect—"

“I am not speaking to you, Louille Gabrieg.”

The king's voice thundered, silencing the hall. His piercing eyes bore into Lyon's.

“I am speaking to the man standing in front of my throne.”

The weight of his authority pressed down like a storm. Even Neema, who had been frozen in shock, felt her knees weaken, breath caught in her throat.

Lyon didn't flinch.

“...My name is Lyon,” he said, voice steady. "I'm the one who took Neema in. For the past year, she's been under the same roof as me. She is my friend."

A hush fell over the court.

Jorelle's half-lidded eyes widened a fraction, a spark of fascination glimmering there. A lazy smile curved at the corner of her lips. Interesting...

But the king's eyes hardened like steel.

"So. The one responsible for her disappearance stands before me."

Lyon's eyes widened.

"What—? No! That's not—!"

The sound of clanging iron cut through his words.

In an instant, the scene shifted. Lyon blinked and found himself gripping cold, rusted bars. His mind lagged behind the reality in front of him. A cell. Stone walls. Dim light.

He was in prison.

“What just happened…”

Louille stood outside the bars, rubbing his forehead with a heavy sigh.

"Do you have any idea what you just did? I'll find a way to free you, but gods, Lyon..."

Behind him, Kinana leaned against the wall, smirking.

"Wow. One day in Crestoria and you're already in jail. New record."

Lyon sank against the wall, still processing, disbelief painted across his face.

Moments later, soft footsteps approached. Neema appeared, her cloak trailing faintly behind her. She stood quietly for a moment, then spoke—not with anger, but with a weary calm.

“Don't ever talk to my father like that again.”

Lyon looked down, embarrassed, and nodded slowly.

"...Yeah. I'm sorry."

For a moment, there was silence between them.

Then Neema leaned closer to the bars, her voice dropping to a whisper only he could hear.

“But thank you, for standing for me...”

Lyon blinked, his eyes flicking up to meet hers. She was embarrassed, cheeks faintly pink, her gaze shifted away.

Night draped the cells in shadows.

The cold stone walls holding a damp chill. Lyon lay flat on the rough wooden mattress stuffed with straw, staring at the ceiling.

“I should've just stayed in Luminette.” he muttered to himself. "Selling oranges. Nice, quiet... safe..."

“...You sell fruit?”

The voice came softly, almost blending with the silence.

"W-wait, No, that's a misunderstanding!"

He scrambled to his feet, fumbling for words. But as his gaze met hers, his breath was caught.

Lyon shot up, heart skipping. A figure stands just beyond the faint light spilling into the cell. Long white hair cascaded over her shoulders, curtain bangs shadowing her face. Her eyes were closed, yet she saw him somehow.

“You are…”

“You're Louille's bodyguard, aren't you?” She asked again.

Lyon crossed his left arm to rest over his right bicep and nodded confidently.

“I am! And he even called me his partner!” Louille declared.

A soft sound slipped past her lips, a laugh as though she rarely let such a sound escape.

She stepped closer, dipping her head in a small bow.

"Jorelle Mischiella. Second Princess of Crestoria."

Lyon blinked, then bowed awkwardly in return.

"Lyon. From Luminette."

“Today, you declared my big sister was your friend.” Her expression didn't change, but her tone softened faintly.

Lyon looked up, “Eh?”

“Did she ever speak of me?”

The question lingered between them, fragile, almost hopeful.

Lyon rubbed the back of his neck, element of how to answer.

"No. She...never talked about her family."

For a heartbeat, Jorelle's closed eyes searched him as if looking for something beyond his words. Then, very faintly, a tiny smile curved her lips.

"I see. That... makes sense."

She turned, steps slow and make less sound. At the doorway, her voice drifted back, quiet but clear.

"It was nice to meet you, Lyon."

She took another step, then paused. Slowly, her head tilted back, her lashes lifted just a fraction.

For the first time, Lyon saw her eyes half-opened, glimmering like silver-gray moonlight.

His breath hitched.

“Don't tell anyone that we spoke.”

And then she was gone, swallowed by the shadows of the palace corridor, leaving Lyon staring after her, the echo of her voice lingering in the cell.