Chapter 12: The Weight of a Name

The morning sun spilled over the Crestoria palace courtyard, its warmth tempered by the cool stone beneath Neema and Kinana's seats.

"Come on, Lyon! You can do it!" Kinana shouted, cupping her hands around her mouth.

Beside her, Neema said nothing. She simply sat with her legs crossed, her sharp eyes tracking every move, her gaze were watchful, monitoring.

Across the courtyard, Louille twirled his massive claymore with a flourish. His red hair ignited into living flame as he barked, "Get ready!"

Before Lyon could steady his stance, Louille charged. The heavy blade came down in a blazing arc, the force rattling through the courtyard stones. Lyon's tried to blocked it, but his sword flew from his grip, clattering far away, and the flaming claymore stopped just in front of his face.

Louille exhaled through his mouth, letting the flames die down. “Partner, you didn't see it coming.” he said, voice calm but edged with disappointment.

Lyon lowered his head, breath quickly. “Sorry… I still don't know how to activate my power.”

Louille, resting the claymore on his shoulder. "You have to reach deeper and draw it out. Your power could save lives. You need to trust it."

Lyon's eyes flickered with thought, the weight of the words sinking in. He nodded slowly.

From the shaded palace corridor, Jorelle appeared, her expression unreadable as always, eyes still shut. “Don't wear yourselves out,” she called. “You'll need that energy tomorrow.”

Her voice carried to Neema, who stiffened at the reminder. Tomorrow's journey, the one she wouldn't be part of. Without a word, she rose from her seat and walked away, her steps brisk but her shoulders tight.

Jorelle's lips tightened ever so slightly as she watched her younger sister go, just enough to betray the concern she wouldn't voice.

Neema's steps echoed down the debris-strewn streets of the half-rebuilt town. Behind her, the faint tap of another set of footsteps followed in rhythm. She didn't need to turn, she had known from the moment she left the courtyard.

She stopped abruptly. "What do you want?" Her voice was cool, cutting through the air.

The footsteps stopped. Jorelle froze mid-step, startled. For a moment, her eyes usually closed, now fluttered open, revealing glimmers of silver-grey. She hesitated, her lips parting as if the words might slip away if she didn't grab them quickly.

“I… I just want you to listen.” Jorelle said, her voice trembling.

in the sunlit palace courtyard,

Two young girls stood on the training grounds, one brimming with confidence, the other with her eyes closed to the world.

The elder, Neema, stood tall, white hair catching the light. She twirled her elegant white umbrella and, with practiced grace, summoned a bolt of magic that struck a dummy dead-center.

She turned with a proud smile, “Your turn, Jorelle.”

The younger sister hesitated, “Me?” her lashes still resting against her cheeks.

But she lifted her hand and focused. Shards of mirrored crystal bloomed in the air, then shot forward in a burst of force that shattered the dummy into splinters.

Neema's eyes widened. “That was amazing!” she said, stepping forward with genuine awe.

Jorelle allowed herself a big smile. "Am I?"

“Of course,” Neema replied without a doubt.

From the shadows, the King watched, his expression unreadable as his daughters shone together.

Sometimes later...

A younger Jorelle wandered the castle halls, clutching her stuffed bear. "Neema? Where are you?"

She noticed and led herself to a door opened small. She peeked inside.

The King's voice carried through, "Why can't you be more like your little sister?"

Neema stood there, silent, shoulders tense, taking the words without reply.

That night, Neema lay in her room, sobbing quietly. A soft knock came at her door. She hurriedly wiped her tears before opening it.

Jorelle stood there, bear dolls in hand, her small brow furrowed in worry. "Big sister, are you okay?"

Forcing a smile, Neema nodded her head lightly. “I’m fine.” Then, seeing the worry in her sister’s face, she softened. “Do you… want to sleep with me tonight?”

Jorelle’s face lit up. “Yes!”

They lay side by side, facing each other, hands clasped between them.

“Big sister, no matter what anyone says,” Jorelle whispered, “you’re incredible.”

Neema laughed softly. “And no matter what anyone says, you’re the best little sister ever.”

They laughed together in the dim light, as if nothing in the world could pull them apart.

But that closeness doesn’t last long until they grew up.

In the grand throne room, the King's voice rings out, "From this day forward, Jorelle Mischiella shall be the heir to the Crestoria throne."

Jorelle knelt at the King's feet, but her eyes flicked over her shoulder. Neema stood there, frozen in disbelief, before turning and running from the room.

Back to the present

Jorelle's voice shook. “Big sister, I—”

“Don’t call me that!” Neema cut her off, “It would be better if I didn't have a little sister.”

The words hit like a blade to the heart. Jorelle's hand flew to her chest, breath catching.

Seeing Jorelle’s reaction, Neema turned and walked away, her footsteps fading into the noise of the rebuilding town, leaving Jorelle alone in the middle of the street, her chest aching with the memory of laughter that now feels like a lifetime ago.

From afar, two figures peeked from behind a crumbling wall.

Kinana leaned closer, poking Lyon's chest with her elbow.

Lyon exhaled quietly. “Alright, alright…”

He stepped out from cover, crossing the street toward Jorelle, who still stood frozen in place, eyes glazed with hurt.

"Hey," Lyon said softly, stopping just in front of her. "Are you okay?"

She didn't answer immediately.

Lyon tilted his head, giving a faint, knowing smile. "Neema's not really like that. Trust me, I've lived with her for years. She's colder with her words than she means to be. She cares more than she'll admit."

Jorelle's lips trembled. “I just… want her to listen,” she whispered. “To understand me.” Her voice cracked, and the dam broke. "I really love her. I want the best for her, even if she doesn't see it. I've always looked up to her. Always."

Tears stream freely now, her breaths hitching. "But it's like... no matter what I do, I can't reach her anymore."

Lyon stepped closer, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. "Then don't stop trying. Neema's not the kind of person you give up on."

What neither of them realized was that Neema had not truly left. Hidden behind a corner just a few steps away, she listened, her back pressed against the wall.

Her gray eyes sharp just moments ago were now shadowed with conflict.

Her lips pressed into a thin line as the weight of Jorelle's words sank in.

Evening fell over the palace.

Jorelle walked the long corridor, her steps slow, her expression heavy with lingering sadness.

She stopped as she reached the courtyard.

There, under the fading orange sky, Neema stood in the center, sweat dripping from her brow, breath ragged, her umbrella gripped tightly in both hands.

In front of her, rows of wooden training dummies stood untouched. But behind them, dozens more lay shattered and splintered across the ground.

She's been here for hours.

Neema raised her umbrella without hesitation and unleashed a volley, countless sharp projectiles piercing through the standing dummies in a single strike. They crumbled instantly.

Jorelle's eyes widened. Neema lowered her weapon, glancing over her shoulder.

Their eyes met.

Jorelle froze, startled. But Neema, instead of speaking, lifted her umbrella and pointed it straight at her.

“Have a spar with me.” Neema said.

"What?" Jorelle stammered.

“Don't make me wait.” Neema said, her voice calm but heavy with challenge.

Jorelle hesitated but, she stepped forward. In the next heartbeat, a sphere of blazing magic shot towards her, no warning, no countdown.

Neema’s not holding back!

A flash of silver light, Jorelle summoned a curved shield of mirrored fragments. The projectile slammed into it, but instead of shattering, the mirror bent the magic and sent it screaming back toward Neema.

Neema opened her umbrella, the projectile brushing past her in a streak of heat. The courtyard exploded into motion, Neema unleashing a barrage of magic from all angles, each projectile spinning, curving, or splitting mid-air.

The ground between them cracked from the force of deflected blasts. Kinana and Lyon burst into the courtyard, stopping dead at the sight.

"Are they trying to kill each other?!" Lyon muttered.

Kinana grinned. "Nah. This is family bonding."

Above, in a high tower, the King stood silently, his expression unreadable as he watched his daughters' strikes grow sharper, faster, and more desperate.

Finally, as the sun dipped toward the horizon, their pace slowed. Neema's foot slipped for half a second, enough for Jorelle to land the decisive hit, shattering the umbrella's magical barrier and sending Neema tumbling backward onto the ground.

Neema lay there, breathing hard, then laughed softly. “There's no way I can beat this talented kid.”

Jorelle stood in front of her, almost awkward. “You're not too bad yourself, Big Sister.”

Lyon and Kinana rushed over. Lyon knelt beside Neema, handing her a towel. “You did great.”

Kinana followed with a glass of water. "For you, Boss."

Neema drank deeply, then wiped her face.

Jorelle lingered, her fingers twisting in the hem of her sleeve, eyes darting between the ground and her sister. She bit her lip hard, like she was holding something in.

Then, all at once, it burst out of her, her voice breaking as it ranged through the courtyard.

"I love you, Big sister! More than anyone in this world!"

The sound of it seemed to stop the air itself. Lyon frozen mid-step. Kinana blinked in surprise. Even the late sun seemed to pause behind the clouds.

“I… I don't want you to hate me!” Jorelle went on, her words trembling, uneven. “Not now… not ever!”

Neema's gaze faltered. Her fingers tightened around the towel in her lap, and she turned her face away. "Sorry... for what I said earlier.” she whispered.

Kinana leaned forward with a teasing grin, cupping a hand to her ear. "Huh? Can’t hear you.”

A faint, frustrated huff escaped Neema's lips. She turned at Jorelle, cheeks flushed, and raised her voice. "I'm sorry, alright? I’m not mad at you. I was just... mad at myself. Because I can't do better!"

Lyon's lips curved into a quiet smile, a soft chuckle slipping out before he could stop it.

Neema narrowed her eyes at him. “What's so funny?!”

“Nothing,” he said, his voice low but warm. "Just proud of you."

Her blush deepened, her expression stiffened like she didn't know where to look.

Then, without warning, Jorelle's tears broke free again. She ran forward and jumped. Her arms wrapped around Neema with desperate force, like a child who'd been lost and finally found.

“Big Sister… Big Sister...” she sobbed, burying her face into Neema's shoulder.

Neema's arms hesitated in the air for a heartbeat before lowering and then slowly and firmly to return the embrace. And in that moment, neither of them seemed willing to let go.

The next morning, Louille, Jorelle, Kinana, and Lyon stood before the King and Queen in the grand throne room, sunlight streaming through the high stained-glass windows. The air was heavy with ceremony. Today, they would set out for Reuben and Welch.

The King rise from his throne, his figure stands tall as he addressed his heroes and his daughter.

But before he could ever speak, the great doors slammed open with a thunderous boom.

Every head turned.

Neema stood in the doorway, chest rising and falling, a determined fire in her eyes.

“Big sister…” Jorelle breathed under her breath, her hands curling over her chest.

The King's voice sharpened. “Neema… what are you doing here?”

“I'm coming with them.” she said simply.

His reply struck like a hammer. "No. Stay here."

Her shoulders stiffened, fingers curling into trembling fists. “No.”

The King's brow darkened. “No?”

She stepped forward, her voice wavering at first, but gaining strength like a flame catching wind.

"I've spent my whole life being told I'm not enough. That I'm not Jorelle. Every council meeting, every celebration, every glance from the nobles... it's a reminder that I'm the lesser daughter. And I've swallowed it. Endured it."

Her chin lifted, her eyes shining though her tears refused to fall.

"But I won't stay silent now. Not when Crestoria is in danger. Not when my friend is walking into dangerous journey." She turned her head toward Jorelle, her voice breaking just slightly.

"Not when my little sister leaves without me."

Jorelle's lips parted, her breath caught.

The throne room was deathly still.

Neema's gaze locked with her father's. "You speak of courage. Of loyalty. But when I offer mine, you push me aside. I am your daughter too. And if this is truly about saving Crestoria... you need every hand you can trust."

Her voice softened, but her resolve only sharpened.

"Let me be one of them, Father. Not for glory. Not for recognition. But because I love this kingdom as much as Jorelle does... and I will not watch it burn from behind palace walls."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

The King's expression wavered, just for a moment before he slowly rose from his throne. The Queen's brows knit in quiet worry as she stepped down, her boots echoing against the marble floor.

Neema moved to meet him at the center, her heart pounding so loudly it almost drowned the rush of the court. She looked up into his face, unflinching.

And then, without a word, he drew her into his arms.

"My children," he said, his voice roughened with emotion, "have grown far stronger than I ever dreamed. I am proud of you, Neema... more than you will ever know."

He released her just enough to meet her eyes.

"Go. And may the gods of celestial keep you safe."

The King's embrace lingered for a heartbeat longer before he stepped back, his hand still resting on Neema's shoulder.

"Father..."

“You leave as my daughter,” he said, voice steady now, “but return as my pride.”

The Queen descended from her throne, her gown whispering across the marble. She cupped Neema's face in her hands, brushing back strands of hair damp with nervous sweat. “Take care of yourself,” she said softly. "And take care of each other."

Neema nodded, fighting the sting in her eyes. “I will.”

The group turned toward the great doors where their packs and weapons waited. Louille bowed respectfully to the King and Queen. Kinana and Lyon simply smiled faintly, steady, and reassuring as they welcoming Neema.

Jorelle lingered a moment longer, glancing between her parents and her sister. Then she strode over to Neema and took her hand. “Let's go.” she said.

Neema squeezed back, her grip firm. “Together.”

They crossed the hall side by side, sunlight spilling through the open gates ahead.

Neema glanced back only once, catching the rare softness in her father's expression. Then she faced forward again, her chin high, her sister's hand still in hers.

The great doors closed behind them, sealing the echo of the throne room away. Ahead lay the road to Reuben and Welch, unknown, dangerous, and waiting.

But for the first time, Neema didn't feel like the shadow of anyone else.

She was walking forward as herself.

And she wasn't alone.