Doubled Conscience
The rain that had long scourged Fleurein at last began to relent.
What once descended in punishing sheets softened into a gentler fall, each droplet now a weary echo of the storm’s former wrath. Thunder, which had roared like an angered god, dwindled into distant murmurs that rolled faintly across the heavens. Though it was still midday, the sky remained steeped in a gloom more fitting of midnight; yet even that unnatural darkness seemed to waver, as if the storm itself were a great beast reluctantly sheathing its fangs.
Mistus walked toward Lady Morwenn.
He did not hurry. Each step was measured, quiet, and deliberate, as though he moved not through mud and ruin but through a sanctified hall. When the distance between them became suitably close, he bowed with a reverence that was neither theatrical nor submissive, but deeply sincere.
“It has been far too long since our last meeting, my lady.”
Her veiled face tilted ever so slightly.
“One of your children intruded upon my haven,” she replied, her voice neither warm nor cold, but distant—like an echo carried through hollow stone. “Only then did it come to my attention that you have been betrayed by those you cherished.”
Mistus lowered his gaze.
There was no denial in him, only acknowledgment.
“On his behalf, I beg your forgiveness for the disturbance of your slumber,” he said quietly. “Pray, return to your rest, my lady. No one can foresee what this day will bring… and I fear we shall require your aid once more when the hour inevitably arrives.”
For a moment, she said nothing.
Then, as though responding to an unspoken cue, Lady Morwenn summoned her ravens.
They returned in a swelling tide, first in dozens, then in hundreds of thousands, until the sky itself seemed to darken under the sheer multitude of beating wings. Their cries echoed across the capital, merging with the fading thunder until heaven and earth alike trembled beneath their presence. The flock gathered and spiraled above her, forming a vast, churning mass of black that twisted like a living vortex before descending in a single, silent accord.
One by one, the ravens plunged into the folds of her gown, vanishing into it as though the fabric were not cloth but an abyss.
When the last of them disappeared, she spoke.
“If you leave him here, the choices he made will ruin him… even in death.”
Mistus understood at once that she meant Vito. Without hesitation, he lifted the fallen man’s body and laid it before her.
“He has paid his price all his life,” Mistus said softly. “Some may argue it was not enough. Yet… I desire for him an untroubled rest.”
In response, black tendrils emerged from the depths of her gown—slow, deliberate, and eerily gentle. They embraced Vito’s body with a solemn tenderness that defied their ominous nature, coiling around him as if in quiet mourning before drawing him inward. Just as the ravens had vanished, so too did he, consumed by the same silent void.
“What will you do next, Father of Mankind?” she asked.
“I will make preparations,” Mistus replied, “but first…”
A staff formed in his hand, fashioned from grey wood and crowned with a carving shaped like a waxing crescent moon. When he struck it against the ground, two seamless pieces of grey cloth appeared. One wrapped around his waist, covering his lower body, while the other settled over his shoulders, leaving his arms and right shoulder exposed. The fabric was plain and weightless, free of ornament — a quiet symbol of ritual humility and equality before the universe.
With a gentle motion of his hand, countless small bubbles emerged around him.
They drifted outward in serene silence, untouched by the rain that fell through them without resistance. Like pale motes of light, they spread across Great Gardenia, brushing against the living and the fallen alike. Upon contact, each bubble darkened briefly—then burst.
And with each quiet rupture, suffering unraveled.
Torn flesh sealed as though time reversed its cruelty. Burns faded into unblemished skin. Shattered limbs reformed. Even bodies reduced to charred ruin were restored to wholeness, as though memory itself rewrote their form.
Within minutes, the wounded were healed.
Yet the dead remained dead.
Even Mistus could not change that boundary.
Those who recovered looked toward the center of the arena in stunned silence, their whispers swallowed by confusion as they struggled to comprehend what stood before them and what had just been done.
“Part of my true power has returned,” Mistus murmured inwardly to Randia’s consciousness. “This was made possible by your choice. For that, I thank you.”
The civilians had returned to their former state. Their wounds were gone, their broken bodies restored, their suffering lifted — though the memory of it still clung to them like the lingering chill of a storm that had already passed. Even so, the evacuation continued under the authority of Rosmayne.
Before long, the civilians who had once filled Great Gardenia were entirely replaced.
In their stead came battlemages and knights clad in white steel, their armor immaculate despite the devastation that had so recently consumed the place. Upon their chests and banners bloomed the unmistakable coat of arms of Rosmayne’s royal family: the blue rose. They entered in disciplined formation, ranks tightening with practiced precision until their number swelled to nearly five hundred.
Then came the commanding officer.
He was not tall. Nor did he possess the broad, imposing frame expected of a knight. Instead, his presence carried a different kind of weight. His cloak was white — distinct from the others — and upon his head were fastened two pale feathers. Within Rosmayne’s military hierarchy, such adornments were not ornamental vanity, but unmistakable declarations of rank and authority.
Through a horn of resonance, his voice rang across the ruined arena, clear and unwavering.
“I am Maxence Dujardin, son of Edward Dujardin—Colonel de la Couronne (Colonel of the Crown)—and the highest authority present.”
“You are completely surrounded and have no chance of escape. In the name of Her Majesty, you stand accused of acts of terror against the realm and its citizens. You will surrender your arms, release your hostages, and offer no resistance. The Crown’s law will ensure you a fair judgment. Failure to comply will be met with necessary force.”
His voice carried clearly, yet his gaze betrayed the strain beneath his composure as it shifted between Mistus, Lady Morwenn, and the figures behind her.
The scene before him defied reason.
Yet what unsettled Maxence most was not the devastation.
It was the being who now looked back at him.
Mistus — but not quite like what is described of in any intel, scripture, or whispered legend.
At the sound of the ultimatum, Mistus inclined his head toward Lady Morwenn.
In silent response, her tendrils unfurled once more. They moved with eerie gentleness, binding the hostages—those Vito had once used to shape his narrative—before guiding them toward the knights stationed near Maxence. The soldiers stiffened visibly at the sight of the countless tendrils, alive in their motion, yet strangely careful as they approached to receive the captives and secure them.
Among them were Viena and Lisabelle.
“Colonel,” one knight reported, voice tight beneath his helm, “He is not among the hostages.”
Maxence did not answer at once. He swallowed.
“I suspected as much,” he said at last. “Sigh… this might turn out worse than I feared. Secure them and return to your positions.”
His adjutant bowed and withdrew, while Maxence raised the horn once more.
“We have received reports of sightings of the great hero Randia. Where is he? What have you been conspiring?”
Mistus stepped forward.
Only three steps were needed before three arrows struck the ground before the tips of his toes.
“Stay where you are, monster!” Maxence warned.
Mistus felt their fear — thick and suffocating.
He understood, in that instant, that words alone would find no purchase in hearts already gripped by dread. Reason would be interpreted as deception. Calm would be mistaken for threat.
So instead, he turned toward Lady Morwenn.
“My lady,” he said softly, “it has been a pleasure to see you again. However, the circumstances worsen with every passing moment. I fear this must be another farewell. I would rather you not witness what I am about to do.”
“…Do what you must, Mistus,” she replied. “We ought to prepare our best to welcome the prophecy.”
And as those words settled into the air, she sank into the earth itself—like a figure swallowed by living mire—vanishing from sight before any soldier could react.
Now, only Mistus remained.
Alone. Encircled by the tightening ranks of Rosmayne’s forces, under the crushing pressure of drawn bows, poised spells, and disciplined hostility. Yet even so, he did not appear cornered. On the contrary, he seemed profoundly calm.
Then, without warning, he began to rise.
Slowly, deliberately, his body lifted into the air until until he stood level with Colonel Maxence, their gazes aligned along the same invisible axis. At once, the knights stiffened. Archers drew their bowstrings halfway, arrows trembling in readiness, while the battlemages whispered the first syllables of restrained incantations, mana gathering at their fingertips like coiled lightning.
“I am no monster,” Mistus said.
His voice carried effortlessly.
“I am the one you seek. I am Randia. And I am also Mistus, Father of Mankind—your kind. We are now united as one, as we should have always been.”
Several soldiers exchanged glances through the narrow slits of their bascinets. A silence followed—long enough to become oppressive.
“…Your explanation is unacceptable,” Maxence replied at last, his tone hardening. “Be advised that any attempt at deception will be severely punished. Consider this your final warning.”
He raised his hand.
At once, the entire formation tightened, weapons fully trained upon Mistus. Their restraint hung by a thread. Fear, adrenaline, and confusion coiled together within their ranks, forming a collective yearning for the simplest resolution imaginable.
To shoot or to hold.
To kill or to spare.
“We have no intention of harming anyone,” Mistus said calmly. “We are not your enemy.”
“Is that so?” Maxence scoffed, a brittle edge creeping into his voice as he chose, deliberately, to indulge the being before him.
“Then enlighten us. Who, precisely, is our enemy?”
Mistus closed his eyes solemnly.
[Randia’s Inner World]
Mistus descended into the inner world of Randia.
It was the first time he had set foot within the hero’s subconscious.
The place manifested as a temple—neither vast nor small, but perfectly measured, as though shaped by equilibrium itself. Before the temple stood a tree, its branches drooping low, and beside it a circular pool. The pool was shallow, modest in size, resembling a baptismal basin meant for only a single soul.
Within the water rested an amber cocoon.
Translucent. Fossil-like. Half-submerged beneath the surface, half emerging above it. Through its faint glow, a figure could be seen within.
Randia.
He lay asleep inside the sealed cocoon, eyes closed as though in peaceful slumber.
Mistus knew what this was.
Stasis.
A divine protocol devised by the Seltis Pantheon—one that activated automatically when a great hero suffered a mortal wound. The cocoon, formed from inexplicable matter beyond mortal comprehension, preserved the hero at the brink between life and oblivion.
Randia’s battle with Vito—his forced use of Lyudra’s power—had, in all practical sense, killed him.
If not for Stasis, nothing would have remained.
His body had been utterly ruined. Even the corpses scattered across Great Gardenia had been more intact than the state he now existed in.
“Randia,” Mistus spoke gently, his voice echoing through the tranquil sanctum, “I do not know whether you can hear me.”
There was no reply.
Only the soft sound of dew dripping from the bowed branches of the strange tree, each droplet falling into the pool with a quiet, rhythmic plink—like the slow counting of time itself.
“I merely wished to tell you this,” Mistus continued. “Since you agreed to take my hand, the limitations that once bound me have begun to weaken. A portion of my true essence is returning… slowly, but unmistakably.”
“I can feel the changes, Randia. Profound changes.”
“And I will carry these changes into the world outside… by revealing a truth long delayed, long forgotten.”
[Present time - Great Gardenia arena]
“Very well,” Mistus said at last, opening his eyes.
“To Maxence, son of Edward. And to all sons and daughters of Rosmayne…”
His voice deepened—not louder, but heavier, as though the weight of ages now rested within each syllable.
“I shall show you the enemy that is truly yours.”