Chapter 32: Cheers to the future

I looked out over the endless stretch of rooftops far below, the city glowing with lantern light and streaks of magic drifting upward like fireflies. All of it waited—just as we did—for the moons. The twin orbs crept toward the blazing sun, their pale silver arcs shimmering brighter the closer they drew together.

All around me, nobles, professors, and students fell silent. Even the youngest children clutched at their parents’ sleeves and stared wide-eyed as twilight swept across the sky.

Then—darkness. The moons slid into place, framing the sun in a perfect eclipse. For a heartbeat, the whole world seemed swallowed in shadow.

And then the sky ignited.

Fireworks burst in waves of crimson, sapphire, and gold, streaking across the heavens. Great illusions shimmered into being—dragons of flame curling through the air, phoenixes reborn in radiant fire, blossoms of starlight falling from above only to vanish before touching the academy’s marble floors.

The crowd erupted into cheers, music swelling from unseen performers, laughter and applause mingling with the ringing thunder of fireworks. The Twin Moon Festival had begun.

For a moment, I let myself smile. Even after everything—the battles, the grief, the weight I carried—this sight stole my breath.

I didn’t notice my grandfather until I felt his hand rest lightly on my shoulder.

“Walk with me, Arthur,” he said.

His voice carried no command, only a quiet request. Still, I followed, weaving through celebrating nobles until we reached a quieter part of the school grounds. From here, Ikol shone like a constellation laid against the earth.

The Duke of Dival leaned against the railing, eyes fixed on the eclipse’s fading glow. For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Then he said, “You’ve been reading my letters?”

I nodded. “Every one.”

“Good.” His tone softened, but his gaze was sharp, measuring. “Then you know why I wanted to speak with you tonight.”

I swallowed, the pieces already falling into place. “The Dragon Kin.”

He inclined his head. “The Queen is sending her daughter to Dival. She will stay within the castle until the next school year begins. It is… an opportunity we cannot ignore.”

I turned toward him, searching his face. The lines of age and battle were deep there, but behind them, his eyes carried something I hadn’t seen before—hope, cautious and fragile.

“You want me to get close to her,” I said flatly.

“Yes.” The Duke’s answer was quiet, deliberate. “If peace is to come, it will not be through treaties or coin alone. It must be forged through bonds. If you and the Dragon Princess could…” He paused, exhaled. “If you could find a path together, it may be the key to ending centuries of war.”

My throat tightened. Elaris’s face flashed in my mind—her smile, her stubborn fire, the way her hand fit against mine. The memory of her and that night flooded back, overwhelming me with guilt. I can still feel her weight in my arms.

I clenched the railing. “You know where my heart lies.”

“I do.” My grandfather’s voice carried no anger, no reproach. Only regret. “And I will not tear it from you. I made that mistake with my son, your father. I will not make it again with you.”

I looked at him, surprised by the softness in his tone.

“But you must understand,” he continued, “our blood is tied to more than ourselves. To a kingdom. To thousands who suffer and die with every clash of steel against scale. I cannot force you, Arthur. But I ask—no, I beg—you to consider what your choice could mean.”

For a moment, the festival’s roar of laughter and music seemed far away. Only his words pressed against me, heavy as stone.

“I…” My voice cracked, and I hated the weakness in it. “I don’t know what I’ll do.”

The Duke’s hand settled against my shoulder, firm but gentle. “That is enough for tonight.”

We stood there together, grandfather and grandson, not Duke and prince. For the first time, I felt the weight of what it means to be a prince. The duty’s i must carry out even if my heart lied elsewhere.

My grandfather’s hand lingered on my shoulder one last time before he turned to leave. He gave me a look that was equal parts serious and teasing.

“Who knows,” he said with a faint smile, “maybe you’ll have two wives in the end of all this.”

I let out a short laugh, brushing it off as a joke. “Right. As if my life wasn’t complicated enough already.”

The night carried on without a hitch. The music slowed, the fireworks dimmed, and the celebrations began to wane. My gaze drifted toward the dais, where the King sat beneath the eclipse’s lingering glow. This time, he wore his crown—tall, jeweled, and heavy with history.

But something about him was… different.

From the moment I first met him, he had seemed frail, as though the weight of years and war pressed him closer to the grave. Yet tonight, under the glow of festival torches, that frailty was gone. His complexion was smooth, almost too perfect. His eyes seemed brighter, his stance stronger. To anyone else, he looked every inch a king restored.

But I wasn’t fooled. Whether makeup or an illusion spell, something masked the truth beneath. The thought burrowed uneasily in the back of my mind.

Eventually, the King was the first to rise and leave, the crown catching one last glint of torchlight before vanishing into the shadows. My grandfather followed not long after, then the rest of the nobles and guests.

The academy shuddered softly beneath my feet, the spell holding us aloft beginning to unwind. Slowly, the great citadel descended back toward its foundation within Ikol City. Professors ushered students into cleanup, decorations vanishing in bursts of stored mana, laughter fading into tired chatter.

By the time I reached my dorm, exhaustion weighed on my shoulders. It would be my last night here before the school break, and I half expected sleep to claim me the moment my head touched the pillow.

But then—

“Arthur.”

The voice was cold, yet familiar. It slithered through the air like smoke, curling inside my mind before I even turned.

The Goddess of Death.

Her presence filled the room, heavy and suffocating. Shadows bent toward her, the air itself recoiling. Her words came as a whisper and a decree, each syllable etched into me like ice on my bones:

**“When silver moons rise in solemn grace,

And silence grips the mouths of beasts,

Beware those brushed by crimson’s touch—

For red shall dance where loyalty dies.

One shall smile with fire on their crown,

Another will walk where blood once pooled.

A cloak, a ribbon, a strand, a stain—

All warn of promises poised to shatter.

They will not strike with sword or claw,

But with words sweetened by false memory,

With hands once held in friendship’s light.

The wound they leave will not be seen—

Until it is far too late to stop the fall.

Remember this:

Not all who wear red bleed for you.”**

Her voice faded, leaving only silence and the echo of my own racing heartbeat.

I sat frozen on the edge of my bed, struggling to piece meaning from the riddle. Crimson. Betrayal. Words instead of swords.

Only one face came to mind.

Anastella.

Her crimson hair had always been like fire—once warm, but lately cold. Before the attack, she had been sharp, even cruel, striking at Elaris with venom I couldn’t forgive. But since then… since everything fell apart, she’d vanished from my world. No confrontation, no apology. Just absence. Almost as if she were avoiding me.

My fists tightened.

What did the Goddess mean? Was Anastella the one to beware… or just the first shadow of a greater danger?

No answer came. Only the quiet hum of magic fading in the academy walls, and the memory of a voice that promised nothing but ruin.