He couldn't measure the excruciating sensation tearing through his chest, an absolute conflict with everything he had just heard. He didn't want to be part of a group of heroes fighting for justice — worse still: at the service of the Republic.
Tilka wouldn't help him argue, nor did he expect her to. The bard was almost jumping out of her chair, elated, her joy so vibrant he couldn't begin to understand how anyone could feel that way in the face of such filth. Jean, meanwhile, remained silent, but he wasn't fooled: she stared at the rows of books with a distant gaze, her hands trembling softly. A discreet smile lingered on her lips — consenting, silently agreeing with every word Khaled spoke.
Liandre was alone.
His impulse was to stand, leave everything behind, but he remained seated, rooted in place, Khaled's warm hand wrapped around his once more, as if holding him there. He looked up and saw the leader of the Republic smiling — satisfied, proud, convinced.
But he... he wasn't hearing anything anymore.
He didn't want to. He didn't need to. He knew exactly what was happening: Khaled would use the Republic as a shield and a platform, not as a true cause. Gilgrim, Randyr, and Laurent would have to defy their own government if they wanted to stop him again. Worse: with the Republic's support, Khaled would more easily gather the fragments of his lost power.
Liandre understood it all. Every move, every intention.
And still, he didn't want to be part of it. He would rather keep accepting small jobs, earning a few gold coins, and then — once he was finally free of the curse consuming him — vanish, buy a farm, raise cattle.
Simple. Peaceful.
To be known? Have his face carved into statues? His name sung by bards?
What a bitter joke.
He had no grand ambitions like Khaled, no desire for power, glory, or anything that would tear him away from obscurity. He just wanted to live in peace — and rest.
But he didn't... because on moonless nights, his body burned with bloodlust. If he didn't hunt, he harmed himself, just to ease that wretched curse.
Damn it.
Khaled knew him well, knew how to press him, and then said, in that soft and cutting voice:
— Liandre is of an old noble family, so... wouldn't it be meaningful for his name to be part of the war banners? Someone who once stood against us, but now... a son of an authoritarian government standing with...
Before Khaled could finish, Liandre sharply pulled back his arm, freeing himself from the mage's grasp, and stood. He left the room in silence, without so much as a glance back.
Every fiber of his body was taut, his fists marked by his own grip.
He walked to the first balcony and leaned against the railing, staring down at the quiet garden.
The memories struck without mercy.
He had played there, with Linette, running among the flowers and fountains, alongside other noble children, in times that felt like another life. His family — dukes for countless generations — had faithfully served the crown, sustaining the aristocracy.
And now...
Was he dishonoring his family's memory by siding with the heirs of their murderers?
But he owed nothing to those who chose to blind themselves to justice. He owed no loyalty to those who preferred safety over change.
And yet, he didn't want to be complicit in a group of killers disguised as heroes either.
He was torn.
Suffocating.
Pressed, cornered by Khaled into a plot he didn't want to be part of.
He understood his role, knew what was expected of him.
But he couldn't — wouldn't — shut his eyes to his own feelings, to the anger, the sorrow, and the fear boiling within him like Jean's cauldrons.
And so he stood, frozen, while the cold garden wind touched his face, silently bearing the weight of a past he no longer knew whether to honor or forget.
— Liandre. — The mage's sweet, persuasive voice sounded again, shaking his inner balance. — It's the only way and...
— I KNOW. — The answer came louder than he intended, erupting like thunder, startling even Khaled with the raw fury in the mercenary's voice. — I know... — he repeated, softer now, almost as if saying it aloud made the devastation feel less unbearable.
Khaled fell silent, thoughtful, giving him space to breathe, to absorb what was at stake. He then noticed a side opening in the palace's structure and, with a discreet gesture, held Liandre's hand, guiding him outside.
There, beneath the shade of a strong, beautiful apple tree, the citrusy, gentle scent of the orchard seemed, for a moment, to calm the nerves and cool the tension burning between them.
The mage knew he was pressing Liandre again. But he needed this step. If he backed down now, all of it could be lost in an instant. And at the same time, he couldn't help but wonder: why was Liandre so determined to deny himself, to consume himself to the edge?
— Liandre... — Khaled broke the silence. — Do you think your parents did the right thing... dying for what they believed in? For what they swore to protect?
Liandre lowered his gaze.
— I... I don't know. — But he did know. Of course he did. — As much as I want to believe there was honor in their choices... that they made that decision out of faith in the monarchy, believing maybe they could turn the tide... or even if they didn't know what was coming, that they gave their lives for something... — he took a deep breath, fighting the knot in his throat —... they left two children alone in the chaos. Why didn't they think of us?
He closed his eyes, the memory still vivid.
— My mother chose to be there... as a general of war. She deliberately chose to die... and to pass the curse on. And... that still eats away at me. — The words came out bitterly, but also with a strange relief. Speaking always diluted the weight a little. Always.
Khaled nodded gently, squeezing his hand with affection.
— There are no simple answers... — he said, in that serene voice that seemed to carry centuries of resignation. — People believe... and do anything for what they believe in. I'm not just talking about gods, but also vows, bonds of honor, of blood... And so often... they don't see what lies beyond it.
He leaned in slightly, holding Liandre's hand more tenderly.
— I know you want peace. I always have. But... maybe it's time to break this cycle completely. To give new meaning to the golden day... To go against the current. Not to be passive, but to confront the past. To not repeat the blindness that was shown to you... a child who needed protection... and was left without.
Liandre remained still, breathing heavily, listening, even if he didn't want to.
— If someone had been there back then... if someone had reached out, maybe... maybe your fate would've been different, right? — Khaled smiled sadly, lightly squeezing his fingers. — That's why I insist: we're the ones who can do differently. We're the ones who must reach out to those in need.
He sighed, gazing into Liandre's marked face.
— I'll help you, Liandre. You know that. You always have. But... you can help others too. You can use your strength, your power... and turn all that guilt, all that anger at your parents into something good.
He gave him time, then gently touched the open wound:
— "What if they had done things differently... what if they had sided with the people?" You think about that, don't you? I feel it.
Silence answered.
— Then... why not change the question?
He leaned closer, locking eyes:
— "What if I do things differently... and help the people?"
Khaled was glad to see that, even with everything, Liandre didn't reject his touch. He kept gently caressing the mercenary's scarred fingers, maintaining that quiet, almost sacred connection.
— I thought a lot about the past... — the mage continued, voice trembling. — I had two hundred years of prison and isolation... just to think: what if we'd done it differently? What if my companions... had seen?
He lowered his gaze, as if the weight of that confession was more than he could carry.
— It consumed me... slowly. And... it still does.
He took a deep breath, then, with resolve:
— But I won't... I can't... just sit here and wait for them to put me back in that place again.
He raised his face, his eyes burning with a fierce, terrible flame:
— I won't silently wait for an ending... that will never come.
Khaled's words struck him in a way he couldn't describe. Liandre felt his eyes fill, and though he tried to fight it, perhaps it was already too late.
He didn't want his life to be empty. Didn't want it all to be for nothing.
But... to take that step...
To embrace that fate...
It was terrifying.
And yet... perhaps... it was a new beginning.
Liandre understood now. He felt the weight of the decision not as a burden, but as a release. The step he had hesitated to take for so long now stood before him — and for the first time, he truly wanted to cross it. Not out of duty. Not out of guilt. But because he understood his place in the world. And more than that — because he was no longer alone.
Khaled.
The simple presence of the elf — his patience, his understanding, and that serene strength shining in every gesture — was what had always been missing. Now he saw it: from the moment he began to question, from the moment he dared defy his imposed fate, he had already been walking this path — and Khaled had been the thread guiding him through the dark.
The bond between them was not merely alliance or survival — it was mutual faith. It was shelter.
Liandre was overwhelmed by emotions more powerful than any battle. A deep warmth rose from his chest and spread through him, like a living flame reaching the corners he thought forever cold. With the steadiness of someone at peace with his choice, he leaned in, gently cupping the mage's delicate chin, and pressed their lips together.
It was a soft touch, almost reverent, as if every second mattered. A kiss without urgency, made to be felt, not claimed.
Khaled responded fully, surrendering to the moment. His hands traced the mercenary's strong arms, gripping the linen with quiet intensity — as if to be sure it was real, that it wasn't some lingering dream from a forgotten prison.
When their lips parted, it was only just enough to breathe. They seemed to want to remain together, defying air and time. A silent tenderness lingered between them, as if words were less important than the feeling shared.
Liandre brushed his fingers over the elf's cheeks, sliding gently to his nape, and met his gaze with an honesty that left no room for doubt.
— I'll take the next step. — he said, voice firm yet heavy with emotion. — But... I want you with me, Khaled. I don't want anyone else by my side.
Khaled smiled. It wasn't a common smile — it was one of those that carried centuries of pain, now gently eased. His eyes gleamed with something rare... not just hope, but a love he never thought he deserved.
The garden was silent, as if the world itself held its breath to honor the moment. The apple tree's leaves swayed gently in the wind, casting dancing shadows around them like quiet blessings.
And in that moment — even with the wars yet to come, the trials, the ghosts, and the fractured history — there was a beginning. There was a yes. And above all... there was someone who would walk beside him.
Khaled, inside, was in a state that no arcane spell could ever describe. The kiss, the words, the touch — everything in Liandre passed through him like a spell of irreversible truth. He, who so often spoke of power, of plans, of the grandeur of claiming the thirteenth divine throne, now felt his world rearranging itself around that man who, with fury and tenderness, strength and fragility, had utterly captivated him.
Liandre wasn't just the last fragment.
He was what Khaled had been missing to feel whole again.
Since he had been shattered—by his former companions, by the paladin's blind faith, by the gods' broken oath—he had believed that spark was lost forever. That spark that wasn't just magic, but a will to go on, to remain in the world not for power or revenge, but for love. Not an idealized love, but something real—forged in shared scars, in silences that said more than words, and in hands that didn't let go, even in the darkest moments.
Liandre's presence felt like breathing after centuries underwater. He brought Khaled to life—not like the old heroes he once fought alongside, who feared him, tried to control him, judged him for doing things differently—but like someone who saw more than a mage or a traitor. Someone who saw the man.
And to Khaled, that was divine.
Deep down, he knew the bond growing between them could be his greatest strength... or his undoing. Not because of Liandre, but because of the world. Because of the price that comes with loving someone when you carry the weight of a distorted destiny, a reputation stained by lies, and a soul made of broken pieces. He feared the end—the moment he'd have to choose between the plan and love, between the throne and the warmth of the mercenary beside him.
Even if he knew what his choice would be in the end, he still wanted to savor every moment while he could.
He looked at the man before him, gaze steady, full of quiet sincerity. He didn't speak—not yet. He simply reached out, touched the back of Liandre's neck, and pressed his forehead to his, in a gesture sacred, intimate, wordless. A soft breeze brushed their skin like a reminder: they were alive. They were together.
And for now, that was enough.
They joined Jean and Tilka, who were waiting in a private chamber. Adreele was already deep in discussion, surrounded by papers and shimmering projections of the future, when the two entered hand in hand.
No one said anything about it—nor was it necessary. Tilka offered a sly smile, one of those knowing expressions that said, "I see more than you think, darling."
What followed was a long meeting filled with bureaucratic language and strategic forecasts about the role the new heroes would play within the heart of the republic. The public announcement was approaching, and with it, the moment when their names would stop being whispered and become part of official discourse.
— Red Dawn. — Adreele spoke the words with her usual sharp calm, her voice serene yet authoritative. — That will be the name of the team. It evokes the republic and heralds the new beginning we need.
— I approve, — Khaled responded without hesitation. His former group, the Defenders of the Realm, carried the ghosts of a fallen regime. This new name made sense. It symbolized his place in the new order. At last, he was helping Elderim grow under a different set of ideals.
The leader had already decided their first public act: an official presentation on the holiday known as the Day of the Common Sun. Only essential services would remain active that day. Every neighborhood would gather in the People's Square, a space that represented equality among all citizens. There, at the very heart of the republic, the Red Dawn would rise for the first time.
It took a full week. The decision was too important to rush. The Council members needed time to be carefully convinced. Not all of Khaled's past was revealed—some parts would remain buried in the shadows of history—but the display of his arcane power was, on its own, a powerful statement. Even more so was the solemn oath he gave before the leadership: unwavering loyalty to the republic. That was enough. The Council agreed, well aware of the growing tension with what remained of the old aristocracy.
On the edges of the new order, surviving nobles moved pieces behind velvet curtains—weaving alliances, seeking support from neighboring nations, conspiring for the return of their lost privileges. Elderim was surrounded by hostile interests, especially from human kingdoms eager to seize its technology, trade routes, and above all, its independence.
Now, with Khaled and the Red Dawn under the republic's banner, there was hope to consolidate control in distant regions—cities where the republican ideal had not yet taken deep root. The group would become both a symbol and an active force in this new political phase.
Politics, however, was harsh and draining. Still, they had chosen to follow this path with discipline—at least as long as Khaled was sure it was worth it. Among the four, there was a silent agreement: the mage would be the first to speak up if things went off course.
Jean, as expected, quickly grew tired of formalities. Her hands craved pots and pans, not ceremonial glasses. She preferred the heat of the kitchen to the coldness of diplomatic talk. Even so, she understood that her time for herself would be scarce until the official debut.
Tilka, on the other hand, was in her element. She moved through politics like a dancer in a familiar ballroom. The speeches, the parties, the gossip—all delighted her. She knew the names, histories, and sins of almost every local bureaucrat. She navigated the halls of power with ease, disarming doubt with charming smiles and persuasive arguments.
Liandre, however, felt out of place. The environment made his skin crawl. The stares—some subtle, others blatant—weighed heavily on him. The name Arthuro was more than a surname; it was a legacy of rebellion and choices that still burned in the pages of republican history. Among the council, some viewed him as a dangerous burden, a bomb waiting to go off.
But Khaled stood firmly at his side. He silenced whispers before they could grow into weeds. His prestige was a shield, and he wielded it without hesitation to protect the mercenary. The leadership trusted him—especially Adreele, whose poise and conviction had never wavered. Even the ever-watchful Phantom seemed to share in that calm.
The presentation was near.
[People's Square – Day of the Common Sun]
The sun hung high, casting gold over the light marble of the square and the attentive faces of the crowd. Crimson banners fluttered along the edges of buildings, symbols of hope, renewal, and the blood that had built this new era.
Adreele Abraha'am, leader of the republic, stepped onto the ceremonial stage, clad in white and red—the colors of the republic's ideals. The crowd fell silent at her raised hand. She lifted her face and spoke with strength and grace:
— Free citizens of Elderim!
— Today, under the clear sky that blesses us, we celebrate not only the Day of the Common Sun but the rebirth of our collective will. We are a people rebuilt through struggle, courage, and the memory of those who fell for a greater ideal: freedom. But even freedom needs guardians—not of crowns or thrones, but of justice, of peace, and of the hope we now cultivate together. With this belief, I present to you the Red Dawn—a symbol of a new beginning, a team that will rise not above the people, but beside them. They will protect not realms, but communities. Not titles, but lives.
At the head of this team stands a name many have forgotten, known only in old tales or twisted by past lies. A man who bore the weight of power and loss, but who now returns—not for glory, but for redemption, rebuilding, and the future.
Adreele turned slightly toward Khaled and extended her hand to him.
— Khaled, High Mage and Counselor to the Republic's leadership.
The four stepped forward before the crowd, dressed in attire worthy of the moment.
Khaled took a step when his name was called, clad in a long, deep-red cloak adorned with golden arcane embroidery. The high collar and structured shoulders gave his composed figure a quiet majesty.
Beside him, Jean wore a practical alchemist's robe—light-colored, shimmering slightly, with leather belts and small vials strapped neatly across her waist.
Tilka, always radiant, appeared in a pale outfit with vibrant red and gold details. Flowing sleeves and hair tied with ribbons gave her a theatrical, enchanting air.
And Liandre stood in his polished red dragonsteel armor, firm and gleaming, with white and gold accents on his shoulders and greaves, the symbol of the new republic engraved on his chest.
Bound by the same colors, they embodied the Red Dawn—the new face of hope.
— From this day forward, he shall take the place he deserves—not as a savior, but as one of the sharpest, boldest minds our time has the privilege to witness. At his side stands a living force—Liandre, Jean, Tilka—men and women who chose to walk among us as brothers and sisters, not as myths or shadows. May the Red Dawn shine like the first light against the darkness of doubt. And let all who are present here remember: the people do not need distant gods—they need helping hands, watchful eyes, and heroes who walk with their feet planted firmly on the soil of reality.
Let the new era begin.