The Hero's Passing Felt Like a Silent Storm
The procession after the Hero's departure felt like a quiet storm had passed. A quiet storm. It was a contradictory phrase, but Marhal hadn't yet found a better way to describe the path left in the Hero's wake. He appeared silently, stirred everything up, and vanished at leisure.
Overawed by the peculiar aura the Hero exuded, the people stood frozen until Marhal spoke up.
"Alright, everyone! Let's get moving again! Prep up! Prep up!"
The settlers climbed aboard the wagons, and the workers led over the horses they'd been grazing. Then two figures rushed up to Marhal—Alasil and Marina.
"You know the Hero?"
[What'd you talk about with the Hero?]
Marina spoke the Holy Empire tongue fluently. She glanced at Alasil, then back at Marhal.
"Everyone knew but me, huh."
"Didn't I tell you?"
"No. Not a hint!"
Marina glared daggers at him. But Marhal didn't so much as blink.
"Weird. Feels like I did."
"What?"
"That I was the Hero's guide."
"Never. Not once. Not even a similar word."
"Guess I didn't. Well, I'll tell you now. When the Hero headed to the Demon King's Castle, I guided his path. Naturally, the others know too. How else would a commoner like me tangle with a house like Silanatiell? But what changes if you know?"
"Everything, obviously!"
It would mean rethinking her entire approach. Anything tied to the Hero and his party was top-priority in the Empire. She needed to contact them immediately, report that she was connected to the Hero. And not just any connection—he'd said guide. Why had someone so crucial remained nameless? It was baffling.
"Really? Good to know. Better late than never."
Marina was a fake. She bore the Silanatiell name, wielded Silanatiell magic, but had never even set foot near the actual Silanatiell house. She had no homeland. No place to return to. That was her deep-seated insecurity. If Marhal was truly from the Hero's party, aligning with him would rack up merits no one in the Empire had claimed. Standing out in the Empire might give her a place to belong. The foundation to turn her fake Marina Silanatiell into the real thing. She had to become Silanatiell.
'I am Silanatiell.' Only Marina Silanatiell—the one and only.
A headache made her shake her head once. Then she mounted her horse.
Alasil sidled up close to Marhal.
[That face screams trouble ahead.]
[People mess up sometimes.]
The topic of the Hero had shifted Marina's aura noticeably. How could he tell? At Marina's level of mage or Strekl's caliber of knight, even mood swings rippled the surroundings subtly. True to the Silanatiell name, she carried quite the tangled history.
[No regrets about the Holy Empire for me, but she's the real Silanatiell? Won't the Empire freak if she reports back?]
Alasil hated the Holy Empire. Given her background and life, she had every reason not to. She knew nothing of Marina's truth or the Silanatiell house's mess. She'd been clueless about Marhal's Hero party ties too. Now that she knew and had met the Hero himself, she was a ticking bomb.
[Empire might march an army here. Better to nip it in the bud? You're good at that.]
[Not a bad call.]
Marina was dangerous. A fake bearing the Silanatiell name, yet her skills were genuine Silanatiell caliber. Based on the crisis management Marhal had shown so far, silencing her permanently made sense. But he held off.
[Even if a real army comes, we're prepped to hold. Other nations won't just watch. Plus, there's stuff I want to confirm.]
[The West is everything, right? Something worth betting it all on?]
[Probably. Ties into my benefactors too.]
[Benefactors? The Hero?]
[He's one of 'em.]
[Then Mar Silanatiell?]
[Spot on. The Silanatiell house history's a real mess.]
[A mess? Don't people usually say 'complicated'?]
Alasil tilted her head. Fair point—'messy' wasn't the usual word for history. Little was known about the Silanatiell house. Old noble lineage, sure, but their only famous scion was Mar Silanatiell. Lands, location, members—all shrouded.
'Hmm. Messy, huh?'
Even for a mage house, the Silanatiells were odd. An odd house could have a messy history.
[Need help, just say. I'll pitch in as much as I can.]
[Reliable as ever.]
[Damn right. Whose help is it? Oh, right—what'd you chat about with the Hero?]
[Came to check on his screw-up little bro.]
[That's it?]
[Dead serious. You saw his vibe.]
Alasil nodded. A few words had painted the picture: the guy raced toward the end of optimism. And he could pull it off. It suited him. Showing up and vanishing like the wind was probably everyday for him.
[Call me next time you need a finger chopped.]
[Sure, why not... No one else to ask anyway.]
[Promise!]
Alasil climbed back onto the wagon, and Marhal mounted up. The procession had been ready to roll for ages. Dozens of wagons lurched into motion.
The speed heading to the Duchy had been double—at least—what it was returning to the West. They'd crammed as many people as possible onto horses and wagons, but walkers were inevitable. Even sturdy adult men tired after hours matching horse pace on foot. Exhausted from walking, now with more mouths came double the work.
The seasoned workers, masters of West camping, contrasted sharply with the settlers—mostly women, elders, kids—who barely knew how. Bodies aching, tasks doubled: fatigue piled up on the workers.
Ting-a-ling-a-ling.
An iron pot clattered across the ground. Boiling water spilled, dousing the campfire. Nearby, a child fidgeted, eyes darting between the pot and the wagon.
A rough-faced man emerged from behind the wagon, saw the mess, and exploded.
"Damn it, if the branches look like they're burning, speak up! Can't you handle that one simple thing?"
"S-sorry."
"Sorry fixes it? What now? Gather more wood, restart the fire, recook—when do I rest?"
"I'm sorry. My fault."
"Fault admitted—end of story?"
"Right. Mistakes need punishment."
A hand on his shoulder jolted the man like lightning.
"Ollson? What'd I say yesterday? Fifth time asking."
"B-be kind to people."
"And?"
"Don't yell. I'm truly sorry!"
"Sorry ends it?"
Ollson rolled his eyes. He feared this young employer. Hiring nearly a hundred, yet remembering every face and name. Normally, being remembered by many was a boon—schmooze guild execs more, booze with guildmates more for cushy gigs. Ollson never knew name-remembering could terrify.
"I get you're tired. But if you're not tired working, you're slacking, right?"
"Yes. Absolutely."
"Yell and half-ass it 'cause you're tired—think the guy's paying feels good? Bad?"
"Bad!"
"We know each other's faces. Do good, yeah? Got it?"
"I'll do better!"
"So, what's first?"
Ollson rinsed the filthy pot, fetched wood, and rekindled the fire.
Bayola approached Marhal, who'd watched the scene.
"Isn't that too harsh?"
"Nah, standard. Forgot whose family they are?"
"Oh. Right."
"Sticking around? Eat yet?"
"...Yeah."
Bayola averted her eyes. The wagon line, stretched with new settlers, buzzed several times louder. But mealtime birthed an inevitable no-go zone: Strekl's cooking fire.
Today, as always, Marin and Marina hovered by Strekl's grub.
"Doesn't look done yet."
"Ate."
"Oh. So?"
"What's with the reaction."
"What'd you expect?"
"Forget it."
Bayola perched on a nearby wagon rail.
"Marin... she's strong."
"...If anyone's moping over that, it's you, not Marin."
Body-over-brain type, maybe. The parties involved—Marin and Strekl—seemed fine, yet here she sulked.
"My other brothers are probably scheming to expand influence in the Empire right now."
"Didn't your father say the throne goes to whoever uncovers Bachea secrets?"
"Even if he did, if the brothers ignore it, blood winds'll blow."
Viktorma Muesilrigo II was old. Superhuman physique kept him hale, but everyone knew his war wounds demanded meds.
"Thinking that far?"
"...I'm not an idiot, y'know?"
Bayola shot him a pouty glare.
"Sure. A scholar fluent in ancient imperial tongue."
Mention of ancient imperial flushed her red. Recalled her reciting erotica before Marhal. His ancient imperial was toddler-level. But someday he'd read that book. Then learn what she and Marina babbled publicly.
"Can we pause ancient imperial lessons?"
"Why?"
"Teacher needs to regroup."
"Learn from Marina meantime."
"No! Two teachers might screw me up worse."
"My level's not that low, is it?"
"Anyway, lessons paused."
"Fine."
Marhal accepted readily. Plenty reasons for her turmoil: abandoned by Revela, throne war ongoing, no personal growth. Soila Muesilrigo weighed too. To Marhal, first-meet Bayola and now were night-and-day, but self-change was hard to feel. Needed a trigger; people didn't evolve easily.
Revela didn't slack leaving the West, galloping nonstop. Swapped horses town-to-town, fought a few scraps. Finally, she halted in a secret chamber whose location she didn't know.
Reaching the capital, she sought family: father the imperial instructor, brother chasing knighthood in her wake, mother, the little capital house—all gone.
Searching family, a ambush beyond her reflexes knocked her out.
Awakening, she assessed: 'Damp, stale—unvented basement. Wrists and ankles bound.'
Ropes thick as two fingers. Her strength couldn't snap 'em.
Footsteps. Blindfold yanked off. Bright light made her squint. Ceiling orb glowed—common mage relic, light-emitting. Easier to get than most, but commoners scarce knew 'em.
A mage removed her blindfold. Baggy robes on a gaunt frame, dark under-eyes. Scholar-like, save dozens of earrings—ears, nose, tongue. Unappealing.
"Feeling?"
"My family—where?"
"You'll learn soon. Reaction time... Ah, here."
Mage fetched a mirror. Revela eyed her face—long unseen. Unwashed, beggar-esque. Irrelevant. Her eyes: pitch black. No whites. Ink-dyed, or misty fog.
"Demon?"
"Spot on first try. You've had uncommon West experience. Curious what, but no time."
Mage pulled a small box. Revela knew it instantly: holy wood from Holy Empire's holy site. Used for VIP gifts; Empire nobles prized its sanctity.
Mage opened it—empty. Yet her mind sucked inward.
"Go West. Kill the princess, rampage..."
Words cut short. Chamber door sliced. Invisible blade beheaded the mage.
A knight entered, severed her bonds.
"Can move?"
"Yes."
"Good. Little time."
Unknown knight. Could lead deeper mire. But Revela had no choice. She followed him out.