The luxurious carriages raced through the city at great speed. The people of Affluentia had already learned that the royals were staying in the city and were just waiting for the day when they would want to tour it. Children were lifted onto shoulders, shopkeepers left their booths unattended, and nobles paused in their gardens, all hoping for a glimpse of the procession. But the carriages did not stop for a moment. The entire convoy advanced steadily, almost urgently, toward the southern gate.
There was only one place to look when leaving the southern gate of the city — the Creator Village.
At the head of the retinue rode two knights who were speaking to each other, their horses side by side, hooves striking the cobblestones with rhythm and force.
"You look uneasy," said Hypatia, her eyes fixed ahead, posture straight as always. "A knight cannot fulfill his duties if his mind is not focused," she scolded, not unkindly, but with the weight of authority in her voice.
"Do you think you have the right to tell me whatever you want just because you command a more prestigious order?" Oklan asked, the anger in his voice barely contained. "We both know that if we fought, you'd have no chance of winning."
She didn't look at him. She didn't need to. She had heard that tone before—many times—and knew it was not courage speaking but pride."We haven't fought since the School of Knights," she said after a pause, a slight frown forming as if remembering something unpleasant.
He snorted through his nose and gave her a side glance. "Do you think time changes the fact that you never should've been a knight in the first place?"
She didn't answer him immediately. The air between them thickened for a brief moment, but instead of taking the bait, she cut him off, sharp and cold.
"Oklan," she said, her voice like steel. She still didn't bother to look at him. "I'm still higher in rank than you, and I still have the authority—here and now—to inform the king of your immediate unfitness."
She let the words sink in, then raised her voice sharply."Focus on the task."
Oklan clenched his jaw and said nothing. He realized she was right—at least about this. He had been distracted. He had been unfocused. And he knew exactly why. His thoughts had been on Aetheriel.
The conversation with his sister had brought her name back into his head like a blade reopening a wound. He didn't understand what was so special about that merchant from Manthalia. At first, he assumed maybe it was something shallow—maybe Aetheriel was simply attracted to dark-skinned men. But even if that were true, it didn't excuse what she had done. She shouldn't have betrayed him. She shouldn't have made him look like a fool.
But this wasn't the time. And it wasn't the place. He shook off the thoughts with effort, forcing his focus back to the path ahead. They were approaching the outskirts now, the high city walls slowly receding behind them. He had never been to the legendary place where the Power Stones were created. Part of him still found it hard to believe that such a place truly existed outside of myths.
Behind them rode several more knights, chosen carefully to lead the front line of the escort. Their armor marked their status—some gleamed in gold, others shone in silver, all equally polished and pristine. They had witnessed the exchange between Hypatia and Oklan but paid it little mind. Everyone in the group already knew that their two commanders were natural rivals. They had been rivals since the earliest days of their training. And so, they merely smirked and whispered to each other. Some laughed outright, and though no words were spoken openly, Oklan could feel the burn of humiliation rise to his face. His expression tightened. His grip on the reins firmed. His shame only made their silent amusement louder.
The convoy stretched far behind them. In total, there were thirty-two large carriages traveling in the procession. The one carrying the royal family was positioned near the center and was by far the most luxurious of the Nakmarov family's vehicles. Its wheels were reinforced with golden studs, and the curtains had been embroidered with rare silk. The second most prominent carriage held the other members of the Nekmalov family who had been asked by the king himself to accompany the journey. And finally, at the rear, rolled the last of the important carriages—the one carrying Gordon, the royal secretary, and a small handful of trusted servants responsible for the daily needs and logistics of the royal household.
After about two hours of travel, the royal entourage finally arrived at a strange place. It sat quietly on the side of the road, almost forgotten by time—a solitary monastery, old and silent, yet not abandoned. Etched into the stone walls were symbols that clearly marked it as a holy site belonging to the religion of the Sun Goddess—symbols so ancient and worn that they looked more like scars than carvings.
The sound of hooves came to a gradual halt. The creaking of carriage wheels slowed to silence. Without warning, the king raised his hand and gave the order: "Stop."
The knights glanced at one another, puzzled, but obeyed instantly. They checked the area, hands instinctively resting on their weapons, uncertain of what exactly had prompted the command. No one seemed to understand the reason for the halt—no one except the king and queen, who remained inside their carriage, silent and composed.
Moments later, the royal couple emerged. Their presence alone brought a hush over the confused murmurs. The knights instantly straightened to full attention.
"Your Majesty," Hypatia and Oklan said in unison, standing on either side of the path like pillars of steel. They gave a formal bow, their eyes fixed ahead, as King Confiros walked past them with quiet authority. Everyone else waited for an explanation.
"Look to the horizon," the king said suddenly, stopping after a few steps. He raised his hand and pointed in the direction of the towering mountain that loomed in the distance. "You will see a purple barrier that extends along the entire perimeter of the mountain's base."
Heads turned. Eyes squinted. And sure enough, barely visible against the sunlit haze of the sky, was a faint shimmer of violet—a massive, translucent veil that stretched in a perfect circle around the foot of the great mountain.
"Why did we stop?" asked the crown prince, his voice tinged with impatience, as if the delay itself were an insult to his status. The king did not turn to face him. He simply said, "Wait and see,"
Before anyone could speak again, the heavy wooden doors of the monastery creaked open with a drawn-out groan. An old priest stepped out, leaning on a gnarled staff. His robes were sun-bleached and heavy, and his sandals made a shuffling sound as he stepped onto the monastery's stone steps.
He shaded his eyes from the light and peered at the commotion below.
"What's going on here?" he barked, clearly annoyed. "There are at least four more months until—"
He cut himself off mid-sentence. His expression shifted as he realized what he was hearing: the voices weren't common travelers. They were too measured, too cultured. There was laughter—controlled, noble laughter. Then he remembered. He had been warned long ago that nobles from the Golden Families would be arriving this year.
Still, old instincts took over. As a cleric, he was technically of a higher rank than most nobles, and he felt fully entitled to scold them for disturbing the peace of his monastery.
With slow, deliberate steps, he began walking toward the gathered nobles, the sharp rattle of his staff echoing with each step. He opened his mouth to speak, preparing to rebuke them sternly—but then, he saw the king.
And the queen.
He stopped. His face changed entirely.
He immediately bowed—though not completely. It was a respectful gesture, but not a submissive one. His dignity remained intact.
"Welcome, King Confiros," he said. There was little warmth in his tone, and he gave no elaborate greeting. "The last time you bothered to set foot in my humble monastery was... 3,012 years ago."
He let that number hang in the air.
His eyes drifted to the queen. Her gaze was cold—unreadable. She returned his stare without a word. He sighed, and then returned his attention to the king.
"I see you've managed to get married and have some children," he continued, his tone sharp with implication. He emphasized the word married in a subtle but unmistakable way. The king's posture stiffened slightly. The remark had found its mark.
"What brings you here?" Orimander asked, more directly now.
King Confiros responded with a formal nod, his tone measured and respectful. "I'm glad to see that you're still alive, Uncle Orimander," he said. "Although your hair has turned white over the years.".As he spoke, a soft wind passed through the area. Orimander's long white hair stirred gently.
"We are here to visit the Creator's Village," the king added. "After all, the Hero and the Saint came from there."
"If you're referring to the consequences of Aetheriel's actions," Orimander said suddenly, raising his staff toward the king as if drawing a line in the sand, "you'd best tread carefully. Everything she touches is cursed."
His voice was firm. His eyes blazed with something of anger
"I ask that you do not send her here again."
The queen's expression did not change, but her voice came swiftly, sharp, and commanding.
"Orimander, know your place," she said. "Aetheriel holds a very important position. She currently stands at the highest rank. Do you intend to defy the will of the Main Family?"
The crowd went silent. Not a whisper passed between the knights or nobles. They were stunned. Many of them had never heard the queen speak so much at once—let alone raise her voice in public. Her tone carried with it the weight of absolute authority.
The princes lowered their eyes. Their bodies tensed. Even the king shifted uncomfortably beside her.
But Orimander did not yield.
"You don't scare me, Sarneth," the old priest said with a quiet chuckle. He gave a tired but sincere smile. "I've known you since you were little."
The queen wanted to respond, but stopped herself at the last moment. Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out. After a breath, she regained her composure.
"We'll discuss this another time," she said coldly, her tone firm but restrained. Then, turning her attention back to Orimander, she continued, "In any case, call the villagers to open this damn barrier already."
Orimander stared at her for a long moment, his eyes narrowing. The silence between them stretched uncomfortably before he finally spoke.
"I have something to show you," he said at last, his voice quiet but heavy with meaning. "Though I didn't expect you to come here for another thousand years."
Without waiting for her reaction, he turned on his heel and walked slowly toward the monastery, his staff tapping rhythmically against the ground as he went.
Behind him, among the group making their way out of the carriages, were Victor and Diana. Diana was the only woman in the party allowed to come this far, since Thalia was deep into her pregnancy and Alice had volunteered to remain behind to care for her and manage affairs.
Walking beside Diana was Sophie, her steps light but quick, trying to keep pace. Though Diana was not her biological mother, Sophie addressed her with the same affection and respect.
"Mother?" Sophie asked, her voice soft but curious.
"Yes, Sophie?" Diana turned to her, smiling gently.
"Why did that old man speak to the king and queen like that? Isn't he afraid of them?"
Marie, walking close behind, leaned in slightly. She, too, seemed curious to know the answer.
Diana's expression shifted subtly, her eyes thoughtful.
"It may seem like a minor detail, but it's actually very important," she said. "Do you know where the royal family really comes from?"
Sophie and Marie exchanged a quick glance and shook their heads.
Diana went on, her voice quiet but steady. "Usually, the crown princes become kings. The second-born princes are made into their deputies or advisors—but in exchange, they are forbidden from marrying. The rest of the family—those not needed in court—are sent to serve in the Monastery of the Golden Goddess. That means all of the priests and nuns you've seen, like Orimander, are part of the royal family. And by tradition, that gives them a higher rank than us."
Marie furrowed her brow as she absorbed this information, while Sophie's eyes widened slightly in realization.
"Is it possible," Marie asked after a moment, "for the crown prince to take a wife who isn't a nun?"
"It is," Diana answered with a nod. "In fact, it's happened several times throughout history. Some princes have taken wives from many different levels of society—nobles, merchants, even villagers. But never from the white families."
Sophie tilted her head, confused.
"Why not the white families?" she asked. "Isn't that the highest class?"
Diana paused before replying, choosing her words carefully.
"Their blood is too strong," she said. "Too dominant. If a royal marries into a white family, the child loses the royal trait. It's... impossible to turn them into true royalty."
Just then, the sound of footsteps returned their attention to the monastery entrance. Orimander stepped out again, the same wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. In one hand, he held what appeared to be a long, narrow piece of metal. He approached the queen and held it out, not offering it but showing it to her deliberately.
Her eyes fixed on the object, and a flicker of unease passed over her face."Where did you get this?" she asked, her voice low and sharp, her expression turning cold.
"The man who met you then stopped by for a visit," Orimander said calmly.
The king, standing just behind the queen, immediately understood what that meant. His face went pale in an instant, as if the blood had drained from it."Is he still alive?" the king asked, his voice barely audible.
"Yes," Orimander replied. "He is still alive."He slipped the metal back into the folds of his cloak with practiced ease, as though it meant little to him. Then, looking directly at the queen, he added, "And he said that you—and especially Sarneth—are not to enter the village."
The queen froze. Her expression went blank, and she said nothing. For the first time in a long while, she seemed genuinely shaken. Not another word left her mouth.
"But," Orimander continued after a moment, his tone lighter, "the villagers still wish to meet with you. I told them you were here. They will be arriving shortly."
Those in the group exchanged glances. It was clear now that this would be their final stop. There would be no grand entrance into the village—at least, not yet. The air felt heavier with the knowledge.
Sensing their hesitation, Orimander gestured toward the monastery doors."Though I detest Sarneth," he said plainly, "I do not detest the rest of you. Come. Stay inside. You may rest here while we wait."
The group began to move toward the monastery, speaking in low voices among themselves, trying to make sense of what they had just witnessed. But one voice rose suddenly above the rest.
"The whole point of our coming here was to see the village from the inside!" shouted the crown prince, unable to contain his frustration. His face was flushed with anger. "You're delaying us for no reason!"
He was barely holding back his fury. More than anything, he just wanted to reach the village, eliminate the obstacles that stood between him and his goal, and win Liana's heart. All this felt like pointless obstruction.
"Calm down. Right now," came the queen's voice, sharp and unwavering.
It was the first time she had ever raised her voice at him. The air went still. Even the wind seemed to stop.
"We are not going in," she said with cold finality. "And if you want even the slightest chance of remaining crown prince, you will hold your tongue and not cause trouble."
Her words were like a slap. Everyone turned to look at her. The queen, who so rarely revealed her emotions in public, had just shouted at her son in front of the entire royal party.
It was clear: Orimander had shaken her deeply.Velupt looked down, ashamed and silent. He had no choice. He obeyed.
The entourage broke up and began to settle down. About an hour later, the distant sound of a cart being pulled over the rough road grew louder. Soon, a small wooden cart appeared at the monastery's entrance. It was driven by an elderly man dressed in simple, worn clothing that seemed at odds with the lavish surroundings. Alongside him walked a man in his forties, sturdy and holding a long spear firmly at his side. Next to him was a beautiful young girl whose light brown hair flowed down to her waist, catching the sunlight as she moved gracefully. Sitting quietly in the back of the cart were an old man and two other figures, all wrapped in heavy hoods that concealed their faces, adding an air of mystery to their arrival.
As they began to disembark, the old priest Orimander came out to greet them. "Welcome, Emilio," he said, his voice rough and scratchy, punctuated by the incessant chewing on a short, thick branch he held between his teeth. The unpleasant sound seemed to fill the quiet air around them.
"I see that you and your band of heretics have agreed to come," Orimander said with a sharp tone, his words dripping with disdain. Despite his advanced age — tens of thousands of years, or so it was said — his manner was as irritable and narrow-minded as ever. Age had not softened him in the slightest.
Emilio, the village headman, didn't miss a beat. "You still stink as always, you old rascal," he shot back with a sly grin. "Don't you ever feel like stepping down? Maybe it's time to resign from this world and leave it to those who have more sense." He gestured toward a large, sensual painting of the goddess that adorned the monastery wall nearby. "Maybe you should ask your perverted religion — that cult of horny people — to let you sleep with the goddess herself. Maybe then you'd finally become one with her."
Orimander's face reddened with anger. "How dare you—" he began to protest.
But Emilio cut him off with a casual wave of his hand. "Honestly, I'm a hundred percent sure you don't even believe in any of this nonsense yourself."
Their verbal sparring went on, old and bitter, as several knights stepped out from the monastery, their expressions ranging from mild amusement to quiet disapproval. Among them were Oklan and Hypatia, who had come out to ensure the knights maintained proper discipline. Their eyes briefly scanned the new arrivals, noting the unusual company.
Hypatia's gaze locked onto the man with the spear. A sudden rush of memories overwhelmed her. He was the strongest man she had ever known from their knight school — not a noble, not born into any famous family, just a man who had effortlessly outperformed every other student in their academy. But after graduation, he had vanished without a trace. No one knew what had become of him.
No matter how much Hypatia had searched, Simon had disappeared completely.
Without hesitation, she stepped forward quickly. Emilio and Orimander were too absorbed in their feud to notice. She stopped just in front of the man and looked at him uncertainly. "Are you... Simon?" she asked softly.
Simon studied her for a moment. He wasn't surprised that a knight remembered him, though he had only faint memories of his time at the academy. But then a flicker of recognition crossed his face, and a slow smile spread across his lips.
"You're the girl from the second class," he said warmly.