-- Ray --
With the frilly pink dress still in his paws, Caleb glanced up at him, brows raised. Ray furrowed his own and paused for a breath. "We should go in as we are," he said at last. "If we want the innkeeper's trust, we should start by offering our own."
The otter gave a satisfied grunt and rather cheerfully flung the dress into the corner of the dusty attic room.
A few moments later, the two stepped back into the tavern's main hall—no disguises, no theatrics, just tired footsteps and a shared yawn.
One of the faded red sofas still hosted a slumped old man, fast asleep, his empty plate abandoned in front of him. His head lolled back against the cushion, mouth agape, releasing a grating chorus of raspy snores. He looked as worn as the cushion he was stuck to. Ray guessed he was likely a leftover relic from the night before, still lost in some ale-soaked dream.
His eyes drifted across the room. Other than the sleeper, only one more figure remained: hidden behind a fully unfolded newspaper in the far corner, motionless but for a pair of delicate hands holding the pages aloft. Fingernails—polished and perfectly shaped—tapped out a silent rhythm on the parchment.
The air still carried the staleness of the night before—cold smoke, sour sweat, and the heavy scent of too many bodies packed into too little space. No matter how often it was scrubbed, the stench had clearly claimed this tavern as its home. Yet this morning, something else lingered in the air. Before Ray even consciously registered it, his growling stomach gave it away.
A savory, sizzling aroma danced through the room, drifting from the direction of a narrow door tucked behind the bar. Now that he focused, he could hear it too—the crackle of hot fat and the unmistakable hiss of breakfast being prepared. His stomach clenched in anticipation.
"I'll see if I can get us something to eat," he murmured to Caleb.
With a soft groan, Caleb dropped onto one of the battered couches, adjusting his posture with exaggerated discomfort. Ray gave a faint grin before turning toward the kitchen door.
He didn't expect to be given food for free—especially not looking like this. His black hair, still damp from a much-needed wash, hung in uneven waves to his shoulders. The hastily stitched fur coat he wore scratched against his skin, and the improvised seams made the whole thing look more like a costume than real clothing. He could only hope the innkeeper would look beyond appearances and see someone eager to help, not just another drifter.
As he approached the doorway, he spotted the young woman from the night before. She stood with her back to him, brow furrowed in concentration as she turned slices of sizzling meat in a pan. Beside her, a wiry man worked a cutting board with swift, efficient movements. His greying hair thinned toward the back, leaving a perfect bald spot surrounded by unruly tufts.
Ray knocked lightly on the wooden frame.
The man turned, revealing a broad, weathered face etched with soft laugh lines and kind, storm-grey eyes—so much like the girl's that the resemblance was unmistakable. Despite the silver in his hair, his energy felt young.
"Aye, morning to you!" he called out warmly. "You must be the outsider who came in last night."
His voice stretched the vowels just enough to give each word a friendly, sing-song lilt. He approached with an open smile and extended a hand.
"Well now— barely more than a boy, aren't you?"
Ray gave a crooked grin, unsure how to respond to the remark.
"Come on then, breakfast's almost ready. Name's Marlow Bowe, proud owner of this fine establishment. Heh, heh, heh." His laugh sounded like it had clawed its way out of rusted lungs. "And that grump over there is my dearest Ulani. Name means 'the joyful one'. Heh, heh."
Ray nearly snorted. If that's joyful, I'm a dancing elk, he thought. As if to confirm it, Ulani turned around with a frown and muttered, "Bread and bacon will be ready soon."
"For us, no bacon please," Ray said.
Her stare hit him like a thrown cleaver. You'd think he'd just said he didn't believe in Mutter Natur. Technically, the Shizen did worship nature—but not in the peaceful, all-things-sacred kind of way. Animals weren't seen as divine companions, but resources provided by the wild. They rejected the legend of angelic forces and instead believed that Mutter Natur herself governed life, death, and the origin of magic. Anyone gifted with power was, by their logic, part of nature's design—nature's apex predator. And apex predators didn't turn down meat.
Seeing the flicker of confusion in Marlow's eyes and the sharp edge in Ulani's, Ray looked down and exhaled slowly.
"We're pescatarian. Just bread will do."
Ulani rolled her eyes so hard Ray thought she might sprain something. "Pescatarian, huh? Says the boy wrapped in fur from head to toe. What a holy little hypocrite."
Ray didn't like the smug tone in Ulani's voice—she had no idea. If they'd had a choice, he certainly wouldn't be dressed like this. Jaw clenched, he tried to keep his voice even.
"We only use the fur of animals that have already died. We…" He hesitated, unsure how to explain it properly. "We don't kill mammals. They might ..."
"…because they might carry the spirit of fallen warriors," Marlow finished for him.
Ray's head snapped up, surprised.
"The southern Water Tribe is nearly as devout as us Shizeni," the man said kindly. "Only difference is—you believe in spiritual connection, don't you?"
Ray blinked, thrown off. "We… I mean… how do you…"
"My boy." Marlow chuckled and gave Ray a friendly pat on the arm. "Old Marlow doesn't miss much." He winked. "Besides—your skin tone and the pescatarian thing? Not exactly common around here."
A deep blush crept across Ray's cheeks. He had noticed how out of place he looked, more than he'd expected. Marlow laughed again. "We're just pale farmers around these parts." He opened his arms wide. "So, tell me—how can I help you? You wanted to speak with me, didn't you?"
A strange mix of shame and gratitude stirred in Ray's chest. Just minutes ago, he'd dismissed Ulani as an ignorant fool. And now her father wasn't only genuinely kind but also surprisingly well-versed in his tribe's traditions. He made a mental note not to judge people so quickly next time.
"My companion Caleb and I—we were forced to flee our homeland a few weeks ago. Samael's forces attacked Wa and the southern Water Tribe. I'm sure you've heard something by now. His troops must have crossed the eastern rings and invaded the Shizen lands too."
His voice, already hoarse, faltered. Painful memories lashed through him like a rider's whip.
Marlow's brow furrowed. Ray couldn't tell whether it was out of concern for having war refugees in his kitchen—or because the man genuinely hadn't heard the news yet.
"Eliza—your niece—helped us. She was the one who sent us here," Ray added, a bit uncertain now, unsure how to interpret Marlow's silence.
But the older man let out another one of his gravelly chuckles and shook his head in amusement, mumbling something like "That girl" and "Ah, Eliza."
Ray continued, "As you can see, we don't have much. Just a few coins. But I ask you humbly for a place to stay… and for work. Something small, anything really. Enough to earn coin for clothes, maybe weapons—so we can one day find a way back home."
The water warrior bowed his head in quiet respect. He could only hope that it hadn't been a mistake to reveal so much to a stranger.
"Your companion… he's a spirit beast, isn't he?" Marlow's voice was edged with open curiosity.
"Yes," Ray answered, after a moment of hesitation. Could they really trust this man?
"Let's go sit with him. I'd like to meet him."
Ulani, who had listened in silence until now, remained in the kitchen—still skeptical, and clearly disinterested in getting to know the strangers any further. Her disapproval practically clung to the walls like smoke.
Meanwhile, Marlow strolled out, whistling softly as he made his way over to the faded red couch where Caleb had slumped down. With a cheerful plop, he dropped onto the seat beside the otter and gave him a thorough once-over, no attempt made to hide his intrigue.
"Well, well," Marlow chuckled. "Tell me, good otter…"
His tone was overly formal, almost theatrical—but not mocking. No, Ray realized. There was something genuine in it. A kind of reverence, even. And for the first time since sieging the eastern rings, a sliver of tension began to ease from Ray's shoulders.
"Caleb. My name is Caleb," the otter said, calm and composed, but with a firmness that left no room for doubt.
"Well then, dear Caleb." The grin that spread across Marlow's face made him look like a boy who'd just been told he could eat sweets for the rest of his life. "So, you're a spirit beast, bound to this young man by the Nakame ritual?"
Caleb gave a cautious nod. His eyes flicked between Marlow's face and his expressive hands with the wariness of someone who'd been underestimated one time too many. "Yes."
"Tell me more about it. I'd love to learn," Marlow urged, leaning forward, his eyes sparkling with curiosity.
Caleb glanced at Ray, still unsure. Ray shrugged and gave a small nod. It was safe—at least for now.
"You're familiar with what the southern Water Tribes believe about spirit beasts?" Caleb asked.
"Oh yes," Marlow replied with a raspy chuckle. "They believe in reincarnation, don't they? A soul might come back as a man, a beast—or, ha, even a plant?" He laughed at his own joke.
Caleb, unfazed, continued. "Exactly. In the eyes of the Water Tribes, spirit beasts are a unique form of reincarnation. The belief is that the souls of the most valiant warriors are granted a second life—not as humans, but as spirit beasts. They may appear as animals, but inside they carry human intelligence, emotions, and motor skills."
To make his point, Caleb raised his paw—clearly different from that of any ordinary otter. It had a subtle, thumb-like digit. He reached for the knife on the table and let it spin effortlessly through his fingers, a quiet show of dexterity.
Marlow gave a low whistle, watching him with growing fascination. "So the spirit beasts of the Water Tribes are fallen warriors, reborn with purpose."
"And what about spirit beasts outside the Water Tribes?" Marlow asked.
Caleb shrugged. "I don't know. Our kind has one of the most complex origin stories in the world. But I wasn't born as a spirit beast. I came into the world as a regular otter—simple, instinct-driven, unaware. It was the Nakame ritual that awakened my mind."
"I've heard a lot about that ritual. Go on, I'm all ears," Marlow said, still not taking his eyes off Caleb.
Ray felt a twinge in his chest. The mention of the ritual stirred old memories, ones not easily locked away. The pain of it was etched into his spirit, impossible to forget.
Caleb's voice dropped, carrying the weight of that history. "A child of the Water Tribes begins warrior training on their tenth birthday. On that day, they leave home and must earn their place as a water warrior. They are given one week to climb the highest mountain in their region, perform a sacred ritual at the summit, and return—with their spirit beast companion. Only then can they begin their true training, side by side with their bonded beast."
He paused.
"Many don't make it. Some never reach the top. Others perform the ritual, but no spirit beast appears. And if that happens—if no beast comes—they're not allowed to descend the mountain."
Caleb turned his gaze to Ray. The young warrior's eyes fell to the floor, heavy with unspoken grief. The Nakame ritual had been brutal. He had lost several childhood friends to those mountains. The bitter cold alone had claimed too many lives.
Across the table, Marlow's expression shifted. Though curiosity still flickered in his eyes, it was now mixed with something else—disbelief, perhaps even a trace of horror.
"The ritual involves a sacred chant and dance that the children learn years in advance," Caleb continued. "They must also let their blood fall into the roaring fire and then enter a deep meditation. In that trance, their spirit reaches the threshold of the spirit world. There, they call out—for a companion, a friend, a guide who is willing to be bound to them for life."
He paused, and his fur rippled as if the memory passed through him like static.
"When Ray performed the ritual atop Mount Toshi, the highest peak of the southern Water Tribe, something within me awoke. I could hear him—hear his call echo through the spirit world. I knew, without a doubt, that this child was my destiny. That I would pledge my loyalty to him, no matter the cost."
Caleb's voice softened.
"He meditated for a full day. I lay beside him, silent, waiting. And when he finally opened his eyes and we looked at each other for the first time… our souls connected. I will not leave his side—until death parts us."
A chill crawled down Caleb's spine, and Ray felt it too—the memory of just how close they'd come to losing each other. That thought never sat easily with him. He couldn't imagine what it would feel like if their bond were ever severed.
Quietly, he reached out and ran his fingers through Caleb's rough fur. It was a simple gesture, but it carried the weight of every battle, every close call, and every promise they had ever made.
"Wonderful! I love learning about other cultures!"Marlow clapped his hands with sudden excitement. The gesture jolted both Ray and Caleb from their shared melancholy. Any trace of horror had completely vanished from the old man's face, replaced by something close to delight.
"That's the beauty of a place like this," he said, sweeping his arms wide to indicate the dusty common room of The Dancing Stag, as though inviting them to see a kind of magic they had previously overlooked. "So many people pass through these doors. So many stories."
He clapped again, positively beaming.Ray cleared his throat to bring the innkeeper back to the matter at hand. Marlow flinched as if woken from a pleasant daydream. "Ah, yes. Yes, of course. Right," he mumbled, blinking. "I suppose another pair of hands behind the counter in the evenings wouldn't hurt." He nodded as if agreeing with his own logic.
"And you"—he pointed to Caleb—"could try your luck in the river nearby. Catch us some fish. Even if the Shizeners do lean more toward meat… he, he, he… a fish special now and then might actually turn a few heads."
The man's grin was genuine, his eyes twinkling with mischief and approval. He seemed almost excited by the idea of taking in a pair of war refugees.
"Thank you, sir," Ray said, his voice slightly unsteady. Whether it trembled from gratitude or the lingering ache of memories tied to his homeland, he couldn't say.
"But seriously, wear something else. That fur coat is ridiculous," Marlow added with a chuckle. "Ulani will show you the crate with all the things left behind by past guests. Take whatever you need."
His tone was warm, and something gentle bloomed in Ray's chest—a faint, tingling warmth. A flicker of hope.
-- Jacob --
There was a knock at Jacob's bedroom door. He put aside the book he had been reading. "Bloodlines of the Great Five," the elegant script on the cover read.
Who would knock at this hour?
Brushing his long, white-blond hair from his face, Jacob stood and opened the door — only to find Eric standing there. The eldest son of the king. Kana's twin. Haru's older brother. Once, they had been close — almost inseparable.
Eric was tall, broad-shouldered, and moved with the quiet strength of a warrior. But his face had hardened over the years, grown sharper and more serious than someone his age should have to look. A wave of nostalgia washed over Jacob. He remembered the days when they had run through the castle gardens, laughing under the sun. Things had changed.
Ever since Jacob had moved into the palace, something had shifted between them.
A faint ache stirred in his chest. Eric had always carried the weight of duty — trained from childhood to become a prince in name and soul. While Jacob had played by the riverside with Kana and Haru, Eric had been locked in study, burdened with expectations. Even now, Jacob could see the shadow of those years in his friend's eyes.
There had always been a quiet tension — unspoken and heavy — between the two of them. Jacob couldn't forget how, one day, Eric had been forced to watch as the king's affection was shared with a boy who wasn't even his blood. A boy whose presence was a daily reminder of a debt — the life the king hadn't been able to save.
Jacob had grown up safe under the king's roof, ever cared for, ever watched over. But he sometimes wondered whether the warmth he received came from true love — or from guilt.
Eric's sudden appearance at his door stirred all those doubts.
"Did you lose your way, dearest Eric?" Jacob asked, a hint too sharply — irony veiling the storm inside him.
"I wish you had… ten years ago," came the cold reply.
Jacob said nothing. He had grown used to Eric's biting remarks. A decade of being treated like a parasite, an intruder, had taught him that silence was often the best defense — even if every comment still pierced like a needle through his chest.
He pushed the pain aside and looked at Eric, waiting. The prince avoided his gaze. That was unusual. Eric rarely looked away from anything — especially not from him.
"Aren't you going to invite me in?" Eric asked, his tone sharp. "I did walk all the way to the edge of the castle just for you."
Without answering, Jacob stepped aside, allowing him to enter. Eric took a few slow steps into the small tower room and let his eyes wander. They moved along the walls lined with tall bookcases, crammed with old, heavy tomes. It was a kind of controlled chaos that had no place in the perfectly ordered chambers of the prince.
Jacob watched as Eric's gaze landed on the arched windows. They offered a breathtaking view of the roaring sea below. The waves crashed endlessly against the cliffs, lit faintly by the moonlight. For a brief moment, Jacob thought he saw something in Eric's turquoise eyes — concern, maybe. A glimmer of emotion he hadn't seen there in years.
He followed Eric's gaze. Castle Sora sat perched on an island, and the eastern wing jutted out like an extension of the cliffs themselves, suspended above the ocean. The windows here had no curtains. Jacob had never wanted them. He hated the darkness — and he had nothing to hide.
Eric, however, frowned.
"The sunrise must wake you every morning," he said. His voice was cold, like winter wind against bare skin.
"It does," Jacob replied, just as coolly.
He wasn't in the mood for small talk. He wanted to know why Eric had come. Why now?
"Those books — they're from our royal library, aren't they?"
"Some of them," Jacob said, rolling his eyes. What was this? A casual inspection?
Eric's gaze drifted further through the room. In front of one of the large arched windows stood a heavy wooden table, cluttered with open books, ink pots, and quills — a chaotic reflection of Jacob's mind.
"What is it you want, Eric?" The question came out sharper than intended, slicing through the quiet tension between them.
Still standing near the door, Jacob didn't move as the prince turned toward him. "Do I need a reason to drop by for a friendly evening chat with my… quasi-brother?" A strained smile tugged at Eric's lips, and he opened his arms in a mock-offer of an embrace — likely the first in over a decade, had it been real.
A dry, almost bitter chuckle escaped Jacob. "We both know you don't see me as a brother."
Any hint of playfulness vanished. Eric let his arms fall and his expression grew serious. "Close the door, Jacob."
Without a word, the druid complied. He didn't offer a seat, nor did Eric seem to expect one. Instead, the prince wandered over to the tall window, where moonlight poured across the stone floor like a frozen stream. His hand rested lightly against the cool glass.
The silence stretched. Jacob observed him from across the room, noting how the silvery glow softened the edges of Eric's face. His hair gleamed like liquid gold, unnaturally perfect in the pale light.
There was no denying the allure the royal family carried. Even after all these years, it still struck Jacob how striking Kana, Haru, and Eric were — each in their own way. And yet, despite his princely bearing and growing pressure from the court, Eric had never chosen a wife.
Not a single one of the noble daughters paraded before him had captured his interest. Rumours swirled, of course. They always did.
Still waiting, Jacob watched as Eric remained fixed on the horizon beyond the glass. No words came. Just his hand against the window, lost in thoughts far away.
With a quiet sigh, the druid sank down onto the pale blue cover that blanketed his massive canopy bed. He pulled his legs in close and rested his chin on his knees, eyes drawn to the striking figure standing at the window—so near, yet impossibly distant. The linen shirt clung to Eric's back, outlining the wiry, well-toned muscles beneath.
Then his voice came—deep, measured, and steady. "Your work as a healer is highly valued. You have a rare gift."
That made Jacob pause. He couldn't recall the last time Eric had offered such praise—certainly not in the past ten years. Maybe, just maybe, in those earlier years when their friendship had still meant something.
"You should focus on that gift."
Eric slowly turned, silhouetted by moonlight. The soft glow behind him made his tall frame seem even more imposing, and the turquoise in his eyes appeared nearly black against the glint of the sea below.
"I mean you should focus only on that gift."
A heavy stillness followed the statement. His tone had changed—no longer reflective, but commanding. The kind of command that came from someone used to having his will obeyed.
One of Jacob's eyebrows arched slightly, but he said nothing. The silence seemed to unsettle Eric.
"Do I need to spell it out for you?" The words snapped, sharper now. He stepped closer, a finger raised in warning. "Stop telling my father about your visions. You're a healer, not a seer. Heal. That's it."
The sudden rise in volume made the air in the room shift. His gestures were forceful—too forceful, like someone trying to keep control of something already slipping away.
"It's in my nature to see," Jacob answered calmly.
"Then shut your damn eyes!"
Jacob didn't flinch. "I share my visions with care. Your father is free to interpret them as he sees fit, but it's my duty—"
Eric cut him off. "Your duty is to serve this kingdom. To protect it."
"And that's exactly why the king should be informed…" Jacob's voice remained calm, deliberate.
"Informed about what? Maybes? Possibilities?" Eric's voice was rising again. "Do you really think that should be his focus? The king should deal with what is, not with shadows of what might be. Not with maybes. Not with destinies that may never come to pass!"
His tone was shaking now, with a heat that burned beneath the words.
"You don't get to decide what your father does or doesn't need to know." Jacob's patience was wearing thin. It took effort to keep his voice from hardening. He was a druid of the royal court—it was his sacred task to report what he saw. Choosing silence to suit someone's pride or fear had never been an option. Gustav, his father, would've never approved of such a thing.
Eric's glare was sharp as steel. But then—unexpectedly—something shifted in his expression. The fury in his eyes dimmed. He closed them tightly and drew in a long breath. When he opened them again, they no longer blazed with anger but shimmered with something else entirely. Weariness, perhaps. Or conflict.
Without warning, he strode across the room toward Jacob.
Eric sank to his knees before the druid, took Jacob's hands in his own, and pressed his cold, smooth forehead gently against Jacob's knees. The gesture was one of submission—of reverence, even.
Jacob's breath caught.
Never in his life had he seen Eric kneel before anyone. Not even his father, the king. A lowered head, perhaps—but never this. Never the ground. Yet here he was, on his knees. Almost pleading. Before him. His detested foster brother.
Eric's hands were cold and soft, but his grip was firm. His bowed head was such a jarring sight that Jacob found his lips parting in stunned disbelief.
Then Eric looked up.
His expression had shifted—suddenly, almost impossibly gentle. Vulnerable, even. The turquoise shimmer in his eyes held Jacob's gaze with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. There was beauty in Eric's submission, in this fragile moment—and something terrifying too.
Then came his voice: soft, hushed, and filled with something that resembled desperation.
"I beg you, Jacob. I beg you from the depths of my heart."
Jacob didn't know how to respond. Confusion swelled inside him like a storm tide. He couldn't grasp Eric's intentions. Couldn't fathom why the prince—proud, distant Eric—was kneeling before him, pleading for silence.
His thoughts tumbled over one another, searching for the root of this scene. Had any of his recent visions truly sparked unrest in the royal court? Had he unintentionally influenced strategy or revealed something dangerous?
No.
At least… not that he was aware of.
Eric wasn't finished. His voice trembled now. "Jacob. If not for me—then do it for your own sake. You have to stop."
Jacob stared down at him, heart pounding. For a brief, fragile second, he thought he saw something in those usually unreadable eyes—panic. Real, fearful panic.
But of what?
What could frighten this man?
"What do you mean… for my sake?" Jacob asked quietly. His mouth had gone dry.
Eric's grip around Jacob's hands tightened, his fingers trembling ever so slightly. His eyes—wide, glistening—reflected the moonlight like a vast, silver lake. Jacob couldn't look away. Something held him there, locked in place, caught in a spell he didn't recognize. He couldn't escape the prince's gaze, nor the quiet heat of his touch.
Then Eric spoke again—barely more than a whisper, yet the words struck like thunder.
"Remember what happened last time… when Father trusted a Seer."
Jacob's breath hitched.
That Seer… had been his father.
And Jacob—the son left behind—shivered.