Ignarion slumped back into his obsidian throne, massaging his temples as a sigh escaped his lips.
"I don't think I can teach you anything, Orion."
His voice was low, worn. "You have no gift for brute strength. No natural instinct for swordplay. If not for Frieda's talent, you wouldn't have made it this far."
Orion's mismatched eyes narrowed. His lips curled into a faint pout as Frieda surfaced to speak.
"He and I are one now. You don't need to separate our talents."
Ignarion didn't respond right away. His gaze lingered on Orion—softened, perhaps, for a second—but it faded just as quickly.
"Maybe. But it still isn't enough." He stood, wine glass now forgotten.
"Hard work can close the gap, yes—but we don't have the time. Not with what's coming."
He extended a hand, and a shimmering rift split the air open before him.
"I have no choice but to pass your training on to the other Emblems."
With that, he stepped through the rift—vanishing without another word.
Orion was left sitting on the cold stone floor beside the Frost Dragon Felix, who lowered his head with a quiet snort, his feathered crown shimmering in the voidlight.
Orion slowly stood, brushing dust from his clothes, then reached out and gently caressed Felix's feathery crown.
"Well… at least you're still here." He smiled weakly. "If we get hungry, we can always eat you."
Felix recoiled instantly, shaking his head with alarm and backing away a few cautious steps.
Orion chuckled.
"Kidding. Mostly."
A soft grumble followed—Frieda, muttering under her breath.
"How can he just leave us here like this? Ugh… what a drama queen."
Orion winced and blushed slightly.
"Frieda, can you please be a little more respectful? I'm embarrassed when you talk to people like that."
"It's not my fault," she huffed. "I've never taken orders from anyone except the Ex-Grandmaster… and my Master, back when I was young."
Her voice dipped into nostalgia. "It's just… been a long time since I had to 'behave.'"
Each time one of them spoke, Orion's eyes flickered—cool blue when Frieda surfaced, silver-river when Orion returned—a visual symphony of dual souls conversing aloud.
And so, time passed.
The vast training realm remained silent, endless, and unchanged—just a soul-bound prince, a rejected dragon, and their fluffy would-be dinner companion drifting through the void.
The silence of the void rippled—not broken, not shattered—just… disturbed.
Like the realm itself shuddered in recognition of a name not yet spoken.
Orion froze. Even Felix, once lazily coiled beside him, tensed and lifted his head—eyes wide, nostrils flaring.
Then came the sound.
Click.
A staff.
Click.
Again.
Click. Click. Click.
Each tap echoed too loudly in the endless space, too sharp for stone, too deep for air. They weren't footsteps. They were… punctuations.
And though no one counted them, everyone knew they should have.
From the far side of the platform, space began to bend. Light folded inward like it feared what approached.
He emerged.
A figure, silver-haired like Orion, but wrapped in a cloak that seemed to flicker in and out of existence—as though the fabric itself refused to stay in one realm too long. His staff glimmered at its tip, not with light, but with memory—like it remembered every soul it had touched, and grieved none.
His voice came before his face.
Soft. Cold. Infinite.
"Still alive, then."
Orion turned, tension flooding his limbs.
"Who—?"
"Morven," Frieda whispered through him, eyes wide. "The Forgotten Emblem."
Felix immediately backed away, tail tucked slightly as he bowed his feathered head low.
Morven stepped fully into view, though parts of him still flickered like a mirage—never entirely there, never fully gone.
He stopped just short of Orion.
"I do not teach because I want to." His voice carried no anger, no warmth—just inevitability.
"I teach because the others cannot."
He tapped the staff once more.
Click.
The world stilled. Even time seemed unsure whether to move forward.
Orion blinked, still reeling from the spectral entrance. His mouth opened, but it was Frieda who spoke first—her voice clear, laced with curiosity and mischief.
"Since you're the only Emblem besides Yandelf we haven't met, you must be Mr. Morven... the Frozen Pendulum, yes?" She smiled through Orion's face. "Since Yandelf is the Viking of Nature, and a woman, by the way."
Morven gave a small nod, stepping slightly closer.
"Indeed. I am."
Then came the sound again—
Click.
In a blink, he vanished, only to reappear instantly to the right. The space he'd stood in rippled faintly, like reality was stitching itself shut behind him.
"Whoa!" Orion gasped. "How did you—?"
"Orion," Morven interrupted, voice calm but unyielding.
"I am not like Ignarion. I don't train warriors. I see through realities."
He stepped forward, gaze sharp enough to pierce through souls.
"And you… you have potential. Enough to become an Emblem yourself."
He paused. His tone dropped.
"But it's useless."
Orion's brows furrowed.
"What do you mean, useless?"
"Yeah! How can you call my darling useless?" Frieda snapped, voice rising.
"Frieda…" Orion mumbled, face flushing. "You're embarrassing me again…"
Morven clicked his staff once more—a slower, deeper sound.
He began circling them, cloak trailing behind him like a dying star's tail.
"It's useless because neither of you have desire."
His voice echoed strangely, as if it came from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Not you, Orion. Not even you, Frieda."
He stopped behind them.
"Your souls are nearly fused. Harmonized. No resistance. No chaos. No imbalance."
Another pause. The click of the pendulum grew louder.
"You both believe you've already achieved the greatest good. You've found each other. Peace. Completion."
He clicked again—and reappeared behind them in a whisper of frost.
"And thus—you are stagnant. You have no hunger to grow. No drive to become more."
He narrowed his eyes, voice colder now.
"Were there any other candidates available for the role of Envoy, I would have recommended Mother send the two of you to rot peacefully in some quiet countryside."
Morven's words hung in the air like frost—biting, final, condemning.
But Orion didn't flinch.
Instead, he blinked. Then… smiled.
"He's right, you know."
He turned inward, softly.
"We really have everything we ever wanted."
Frieda answered with a dreamy hum, her presence blooming in his gaze like moonlight on still water.
"Mhm. I got you."
"And I got you."
They nodded in perfect unison—a silent affirmation of their ridiculous, beautiful soulbond.
Orion's expression melted into a lovestruck daze as he lowered himself onto the cold floor, resting back against Felix's warm side.
"Do you remember the first time you told me you liked my hair?"
"Yes~ It was glowing under firelight. You looked like a fallen star. I almost kissed you right then."
Orion blushed.
"You're making me flutter again..."
"You kissed a water reflection, Orion. There's no 'again.' You've already gone full simp."
They giggled. Together. In sync. A soul duet.
Meanwhile…
Morven just stood there.
Silent.
Still.
Even the clicking of his staff had ceased. His eyes remained open—but spiritually, the man had flatlined.
He was enduring it. Enduring them.
Seconds passed.
Then a minute.
Then possibly an entire epoch compressed into a singular moment of unholy romantic cringe.
Finally, he exhaled.
"…I will have to break you both first," he muttered under his breath.
Felix whimpered in agreement.
Morven stepped forward, quiet as snowfall, until he stood directly in front of Orion—whose eyes still shimmered with love and butterflies.
Without a word, he lowered the tip of his staff to Orion's forehead.
Click.
A pale shimmer rippled from the point of contact—gentle, cold, and final.
Orion's eyes fluttered… then closed.
He exhaled softly and slumped against Felix's side, falling into perfect, peaceful sleep.
Morven turned.
"You too, Felix."
The Frost Dragon blinked in confusion—but didn't resist as Morven reached out and tapped his snout.
Click.
Felix curled protectively around Orion, his eyes growing heavy before he, too, drifted into the same enchanted slumber.
Morven stood still for a moment. Then finally spoke—not to them, but to the silence.
"Live through a thousand lifetimes together."
His voice was low. Heavy.
"Each with different fates, different tragedies. Different triumphs. Learn what it means to exist beyond love. Beyond peace. Beyond the comfort of one another."
He planted his staff beside him, using it like an old man would a cane, and closed his eyes.
"Only when you desire again will I train you."
He sighed.
And with that, Morven took a nap too—standing upright like a cursed statue, unmoving amidst the still void, as time folded around them all.
The dream had begun.