The Royal Palace — Tea Room
Selena stood on the balcony, watching the city below.
The sun was dipping low, casting gold across the rooftops. Citizens began closing their stalls, ending their day shifts, while others emerged to take their place — night laborers setting off into the city.
Her hazel eyes held a faint look of pity.
Then, slowly, she turned her gaze to the horizon.
There it was.
The Deep.
A black fissure, thin yet vast, cutting through sky and earth like a scar. Most people feared it. But not the Queen.
She didn't fear it.
She was curious.
Not about its form — but about whether someone might still be inside it.
Watching.
Waiting.
"Your Majesty, the Minister of Trade has arrived," her maid said gently behind her.
Selena nodded once.
She took one last breath of the chilled air and stepped back into the royal room, her footsteps soft on the marble floor. She sank into a velvet-cushioned couch, crossing one leg over the other.
The door opened with a creak.
"I greet the Great Immortal Queen of Eden," the Minister said, bowing deeply.
"Come in, Minister," Selena said simply.
He stepped forward, elegant and measured, stopping a respectful distance from the tea table.
"You summoned me, Your Majesty?"
"Has anything new come in?" she asked without preamble.
The Minister's face stiffened. "...No, Your Majesty."
Her brows tightened — ever so slightly.
"How long has it been now?"
The Minister lowered his gaze. "We've gone two years without any new supplies."
"And how much remains?"
"Enough for two more months, Your Majesty. At best."
Selena was silent.
'Two months before it starts…' she thought grimly.
The Immortals would endure — but the mortals?
They would starve. Reincarnate. Starve again.
A loop of chaos and pain. She knew it well.
"That's all, Minister. If anything comes from the Deep — even a feather — you bring it to me immediately."
"Of course, Your Majesty." He bowed again and exited swiftly.
Selena remained seated for a moment, thoughtful.
'Why did it stop…?' she wondered. 'Why did it suddenly stop coming through?'
Her instincts stirred uneasily.
She stood, leaving the tea room behind, and walked through the palace halls — corridors of red and gold, glowing under the chandeliers of polished crystal.
Eventually, she stopped before a door.
A simple one.
Not grand like the throne room.
This one was private.
Quietly, she opened it.
The room inside was untouched.
Dust-free. Immaculate.
Yet no one had lived in it for a very long time.
Selena stepped in gently, almost reverently. Her eyes roamed the space: a tall bed with carved wood posts, dressers lined with lace, a mirror untouched.
She began to hum. Softly. Without realizing.
It wasn't a royal tune. It was a song buried in memory.
She drifted toward a cupboard filled with photographs.
One showed a tall man with black hair. A woman beside him — brown-haired, smiling.
But the one she picked up…
A woman with brown hair knelt beside a small child with bright red hair.
Selena ran her fingers over the glass.
"...Mother."
She whispered the word. Then slowly, she placed the photo back.
Her steps carried her to the far corner of the room — to something draped in cloth.
She stared at it a long time.
Then — she grabbed it.
Pulling the cloth away.
Three large canvases stood behind it.
Two were intact. One bore a long, deep slash through the center.
Selena's eyes narrowed as she stepped closer.
The slashed painting showed a massive, black-skinned whale — floating through the air, eyeless and mouthless. Beneath it, hundreds of figures followed, their heads drooped, eyes scratched out.
She turned to the second.
A solid black canvas. In its center — two glowing, blood-red eyes stared back.
But it was the third painting that stole her breath.
It was a portrait.
Of a woman.
At first glance, one might think it was a self-portrait of Selena.
But no.
This woman looked… older. Wiser. The same red hair — but styled simply. A modest, pretty dress. A gold ring on her left hand.
Her right hand held a pair of metal scissors. Callused fingers wrapped around the handle with casual grace — not a weapon, but a tool.
The woman's smile bloomed gently, softly.
And her eyes — hazel — sparkled with a warmth Selena hadn't seen in years.
It was the same smile Selena used to wear.
Before her mother died.
Selena's lips parted, but no sound came.
"...Who are you?" she whispered.
But the woman in the painting only smiled back.
Bright. Cheerful. Unchanging.
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Meanwhile, Far From the Royal Palace…
At the East Gate junction, noise echoed across the stone ground. Soldiers moved in formation, preparing for something rare — and dangerous.
The Commander stood before the gate — a towering structure of ancient stone, cracked but enduring.
A soldier ran to him, stopping with a sharp salute.
"Commander, sir! Report."
"Go on."
"We've received clearance from the Judge. The East Sector expedition is approved."
He frowned slightly.
'That was too easy… This land once been the home of Amelia Brown — a mortal girl tied to the drug and his Son. And the judge gives us access without resistance?'
He turned, his gaze sweeping over the activity behind him.
Soldiers assembled around tents and supply crates. Their formation was crisp, their posture rigid with readiness.
'Something's off. But we move regardless.'
"SOLDIERS — ASSEMBLE!"
STEP. STEP. STEP.
Seventy soldiers lined up in perfect sync.
Each one held a weapon: twin copper rods with rubber handles, covered in glowing inscriptions.
"Do you know why you're here?" The Commander barked.
"TO FOLLOW YOUR ORDERS, SIR!"
"We enter a sector overrun by maddened beasts. Some of you will not return. Are you ready to face that?"
"YES, SIR!"
"LOUDER."
"YES, SIR!!"
"I SAID—LOUDER!!"
"YES, SIR!!!"
The Commander turned, cloak snapping behind him.
The soldiers stared at the name on his back, carved in deep copperplate stitching.
VIREON.
"Then follow me," he said.
"YES COMMANDER VIREON!!!"
Then with a hiss of light—
SHHHHIIIKKK!
A blue portal unfurled in the ancient gate.
And with it, Commander Vireon and his forces marched forward, disappearing into its glow.
The expedition to the East Sector had begun.
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