Chapter 73 – Interlude: Anastasia
Princess Anastasia Aurelia Valencrest was, by all official accounts, a composed and dignified representative of the Auric Empire.
Anastasia, unfortunately, had other plans.
Namely, escape.
Her destination: the only place in the entire palace where she was allowed to exist as herself without commentary, expectation, or an audience.
Opposing her was a formidable array of threats.
Bachelors attempting to introduce themselves. Noble ladies positioning themselves just within earshot to discuss her.
And, of course, the long-standing and deeply inconvenient rule that sprinting through royal hallways or using magic indoors was considered “bad manners.”
Unfortunate.
For them.
Anastasia was very good at escaping.
The son of a count rounded the corner ahead of her, clearly about to say something that would require smiling, nodding, and prolonged suffering.
With a sharp pop of electricity, Anastasia vanished.
A streak of lightning slipped past him, out through an open window, and into the garden below.
A gaggle of noble daughters looked up at the soft crackle of displaced air and fading sparks.
They saw nothing.
This scene repeated itself throughout the palace.
Doors opened onto empty corridors. Servants paused, sensing something they couldn’t quite place. Guards blinked at shadows that moved just slightly too fast.
Not a single person managed to catch the shadow of the second princess as she fled toward her tower.
Tragically, the palace was enormous.
Even at full speed, it took ten minutes. With a legendary movement skill.
Completely unnecessary.
Anastasia landed lightly on the balcony of her tower, her short platinum-blonde hair faintly frizzed from the residual charge of Fulminant Form.
She exhaled.
Freedom.
Her only attendant, Marianne, didn’t even look surprised at her liege’s sudden appearance. Instead, she simply paused what she was doing and gestured toward the inner room.
Anastasia nodded and walked in with the solemn dignity expected of a royal.
Her hair crackled faintly.
She ignored it.
With practiced efficiency, Marianne removed the elaborate dress—an architectural achievement designed primarily to suffocate its wearer in layers of fabric—and replaced it with something far more reasonable.
Something light and comfortable. A miracle.
Freed from structural oppression, Anastasia made it three steps toward her bed before collapsing face-first onto it.
Still radiating royal composure, she grabbed a pillow, buried her face into it, and—
Started yelling.
“Gods above, that man is such a creep! Gross, gross, gross! I swear, every time I see him I want to stab him in his smug face!”
Her legs kicked uselessly against the mattress in protest of reality.
Marianne approached, expression unchanged, and placed a steadying hand on Anastasia’s shoulder.
“Worry not, Princess.”
Anastasia stilled, then slowly looked up.
“…Marianne?”
“I have been making progress on a project of mine. I believe it may alleviate your concerns.”
Anastasia narrowed her eyes slightly.
“What project?”
Marianne met her gaze, perfectly calm.
“Force teleporting a body without including the head.”
Anastasia blinked.
“…You say the scariest things while expressionless sometimes, Marianne.”
“Right? I totally agree with you. Little Mari is a scary one.”
A new voice cut in, casual, amused, and entirely uninvited. It came from the only accessory Anastasia was wearing.
A hairclip.
Anastasia sighed.
Marianne disappeared to make tea.
Of course she did.
“Nyra,” Anastasia said, rolling onto her back and staring up at the ceiling, “don’t you think it’s a bit unbecoming of the Crown of Velkhar to spy on the private conversations of a foreign princess?”
The voice from the hairpin answered immediately, light and amused.
“You humans would probably also say it’s unbecoming of a foreign princess to be that belligerent in front of a queen, but I don’t hear you apologizing for that.”
Anastasia huffed, the sound thick with exaggerated offense.
“My sincerest apologies, Nyra, Crown of Velkhar, The Vanishing Fang, sovereign ruler of all Beastkin.”
There was a pause.
“…Ugh. I’m sorry, okay? Just call me Nyra. Hearing all that out loud still makes me feel sick.”
“If you insist. So, how long were you listening?”
“Since before you entered the throne room.”
Anastasia turned her head slightly, unimpressed.
“You really didn’t want to miss anything this time around, huh?”
Silence.
A longer silence.
Long enough to be suspicious... if it came from anyone human. Instead, Anastasia was at least ninety-five percent certain Nyra was currently eating something.
Again.
After a few seconds, Nyra spoke.
“Well, you know how it is. That old geezer—the Seer—is famous even over here. If he managed to divine something that could give the Auric Empire an advantage… or save your collective asses… we’d want to know.”
Anastasia nodded, expression thoughtful.
“Fair. So, were you disappointed?”
Nyra hummed.
“Both disappointed and relieved. Disappointed because our soothsayers got the exact same prophecy. Relieved because if your Seer had actually found a way out, it would’ve been a pain to deal with.”
“That it would be. So… if you got the same prophecy—”
“Yeah. We got the glitch too. All three of ours paused at the exact same time your Seer did. Super weird. Extremely suspicious.” A brief pause. “Well, setting that aside, what do you think?”
Anastasia brought a finger to her chin.
“I think the contents are relatively straightforward. Seven individuals will reshape the world. Each carries a distinct moniker. The seventh—‘the undefined’—caused a system anomaly and received a direct warning label.”
She paused.
“The only one we have any meaningful detail on is her. The system confirmed her gender.”
Nyra went quiet for a beat.
Then—
“The seventh… that’s so cool.”
Anastasia blinked.
“Like, being last in the sequence, causing a glitch, and getting a worldwide warning that basically says ‘this one ends your story’? Gods above, that is incredible.”
Anastasia considered that.
Then nodded solemnly.
It was, objectively, very cool.
Nyra continued, voice drifting slightly, as if she’d leaned back somewhere far away.
“I’d love to meet her someday…” A pause. “…Shame she’s probably on the mainland instead of stuck out here on this backwater island.”
Anastasia said nothing.
But her eyes lingered, just slightly, on the open window.
Thoughtful.
She couldn’t help but wonder just how accurate that assumption really was.
Still, speculation accomplished nothing, so she redirected.
“So, how are things on your end?”
Nyra’s voice shifted again, now closer to whatever she was speaking through.
“Great overall. The Claw’s getting better at their missions, casualty rate’s dropping, success rate’s sitting around sixty-five percent. Honestly, I’d be thrilled if not for one very specific problem.”
“Ironvale?”
“Yeah. That little border kingdom refuses to behave.”
Anastasia pushed herself up slightly on the bed, attention sharpening.
“What’s happening there?”
“Our Claw Commander in charge—Kael, a Warden—is getting hammered. Constant resistance, nothing sticking. And now one of the major regional cities is dealing with a plague, so he’s had to divert resources to support the Warden stationed there.”
Nyra exhaled.
“Which means everything else is starting to fall apart. If it doesn’t stabilize in the next six months, I’m going to have to pull manpower from other regions… or send in an army commander to take control.”
Anastasia winced.
“That’s… not ideal.”
“Understatement of the year.”
She swung her legs off the bed, sitting upright now.
“Pulling manpower is manageable. Sending an army commander that close to the border isn’t. My father would see it as provocation and declare war before anything is ready.”
“Exactly,” Nyra said. “Which is why it’s such a pain in the tail. I’m really hoping for a miracle. Or at least someone spiteful enough to solve all my problems for me.”
“If only the world was that kind…”
“Unfortunate, I know.”
Anastasia’s expression shifted, something more serious settling in.
“That plague. Do we think it’s—”
“The first princess? Undoubtedly.” Nyra didn’t hesitate. “It started about a month ago. Origin point’s the regional dungeon beneath the city, of all places. Healers are completely lost. Current strategy is ‘destroy the source and pray it stops.’”
A pause.
“They’re barely keeping people alive as it is.”
Anastasia’s face softened, grief threading through her features.
“Poor bastards. I pray a solution is found quickly, so your citizens can be freed from that suffering.”
Silence followed. Longer this time.
“It still surprises me,” Nyra said quietly, “that someone like you came from that family.”
Anastasia sighed.
“The fact that basic kindness from a royal is considered surprising says more about the system than it does about me.”
Another brief silence.
Then—
Nyra clapped her hands.
“Alright, enough depressing topics. I’m choosing to believe some overly ambitious adventurer will solve that problem soon enough.”
Anastasia smiled faintly.
“A reasonable assumption.”
“Now,” Nyra continued, “tell me more about your grand plan.”
Anastasia leaned back slightly, expression turning sheepish.
“I hesitate to call it grand. It just consists of Marianne teleporting both of us far away from the Empire so we can attend Arcadia and become strong enough to actually be useful.”
“Ah, right,” Nyra said. “Formalizing your betrayal. Exciting. What is it, a little over a year now?”
“About that.”
Anastasia’s expression shifted again. Sharper and focused.
“I will get stronger. Much stronger.” Determination burned quietly in her eyes. “Strong enough to crush the suffering of both humans and Beastkin beneath my heel.”
Nyra let out a soft, almost fond laugh.
“I’m looking forward to it. My favorite little princess is far too much of a genius to accept things as they are.”
Heat crept up Anastasia’s cheeks.
She cleared her throat.
“Well. That’s the extent of the plan. Escape the Empire, enroll in Arcadia, aim for first place, grow stronger, and eventually join the war effort.” A small pause. “Bonus points if I get the opportunity to punch Octavian in the face.”
Nyra laughed outright.
“Oh, he absolutely has a punchable face. No arguments there.” Another pause, lighter this time. “Well, I suppose I should go before my head warrior decides paperwork avoidance is grounds for another duel. As fun as that would be, I’d prefer not to have to console him after I win without effort again.”
Anastasia sat up fully.
“Fair. I’ll look forward to our next chat. Have a good night.”
“You too.”
Nyra disconnected from the transmission artifact.
…Probably.
Anastasia stared at the hair clip for a moment.
It stared back.
There was no indicator, no signal, no polite little “connection ended” system message. For all she knew, Nyra was still there, quietly listening and eating something crunchy.
Again.
Anastasia narrowed her eyes slightly.
“…If you are still listening, I would like you to know that I am about to say something deeply embarrassing about you.”
Silence.
No reaction.
She nodded.
“Good enough.”
Right on cue, Marianne rolled a tea cart into the room, timing her entrance with the precision of someone who had been standing just outside the door, waiting for the exact moment it would be socially optimal to exist again.
She began pouring tea into a waiting cup.
Anastasia took a moment to enjoy the scent before lifting it.
“As per usual, you left the room the second Nyra started speaking. Do you truly dislike talking to her that much?”
Marianne nodded, expression unchanged.
“Yes, Princess. She teases me excessively. It becomes… difficult to maintain my ‘expressionless beauty’ persona under sustained pressure.”
Anastasia side-eyed her.
“Calling yourself an expressionless beauty out loud feels like it should be illegal.”
Marianne tilted her head slightly.
“Am I incorrect, my lady?”
Anastasia opened her mouth. Then she paused before closing it again.
“…No.”
She took a sip of tea instead.
Marianne, as always, was objectively correct.
Dark hair. Dark eyes. Fair skin. Tall, composed, and perpetually unreadable. She carried herself like a statue that had decided to become employed.
Paired with Anastasia—similarly tall, but all light where Marianne was shadow—they presented a perfect image to the public.
The quiet princess and her silent, untouchable attendant.
…
Anastasia leaned back slightly, cradling her tea, gaze drifting toward the window.
The truth was significantly less refined.
A princess who talked too much when allowed, and an attendant who had deliberately optimized herself into social isolation for the sake of aesthetic consistency.
Anastasia sighed.
Just over a year.
Then—
No more carefully measured steps. No more curated silence. No more pretending to be something smaller than she was.
She would leave, grow stronger, and tear down everything that deserved it.
Her grip tightened slightly around the teacup.
Determination flickered to life in her eyes.
“Just you wait, Octavian.” Her voice was quiet. Calm and certain.
“I will bring it all crumbling down around you.”