The Assignment Halls of Nyvaris were alive with chatter, footsteps, and a constant shimmer of gentle magic. Massive runic crystals hovered above wide tables, glowing softly as names, aptitudes, and old professions lit up in floating golden script.
Diablo stood near one of the main tables, arms behind his back, watching the glowing list organize itself. His expression was cool, unreadable—but his mind was working quickly.
Benimaru walked over, glancing at the hovering display.
"Alright. We've got thirty-seven with prior military experience, a good dozen healers, and over a hundred with mixed or civilian backgrounds. Farmers, tailors, cooks, masons."
Diablo nodded slowly. "The leyline responded well to the aptitude scan. It's curious how quickly the system adapts to non-native magicule signatures."
"It's almost like it wants to help," Benimaru muttered, glancing at the names. "Good. Let's start from the base. We need kitchens running. Farms cleared. Construction crews assigned."
Rigur came jogging up, panting slightly, a stack of parchment under one arm. "We've got seventy volunteers already. They didn't even wait for formal assignment—they just asked where to go."
Benimaru gave a rare smile. "That's a good sign."
Rigur grinned. "One of them—a woman named Tasha—organized a cook team before I could even introduce myself. She said, 'I haven't cooked for an army before, but I know how to feed crying children.'"
Diablo's eyes softened slightly. "We'll send her to the eastern kitchens. They're setting up food distribution zones."
Just then, Gobta burst through the door with his usual dramatic flair, nearly crashing into Diablo.
"Delivery!" he yelled, holding up a small glowing stone. "Veldora's already named his profession."
Diablo blinked. "Veldora isn't being assigned. He's a lord."
"I know," Gobta said with a wink. "He assigned himself. Says he's now the 'Grand Professor of Youthful Explosion Studies.'"
Benimaru groaned. "That's not even a subject!"
"Too late!" Gobta chirped. "He built a chalkboard in the school courtyard and he's currently lecturing five children on the concept of 'Coolness as a Function of Volume.'"
"Gods above," Diablo sighed. "We'll deal with that later."
Elsewhere, Outside the Training Grounds
Shion and Hakuro stood watching a group of able-bodied men and women practice simple drills. Wooden staves clacked against each other, and Hakuro's sharp eyes caught every flaw in their footwork.
"These people are strong," Hakuro said quietly. "Untrained, but their spirits are willing."
Shion crossed her arms. "A few of them used to be guards. They're rusty. But I can whip them into shape if I'm allowed to hit them hard enough."
Hakuro chuckled. "We'll do this with patience."
Nearby, a tall man approached, shoulders tense. "Excuse me. I used to be a soldier in the Eastern province. I... fought in the war. Against you, probably."
Shion's eyes narrowed, but Hakuro raised a calming hand.
"You are here now. We do not punish survival," Hakuro said softly. "We build from it."
The man hesitated, then dropped to one knee. "Then teach me how to defend this place. Not destroy it."
Hakuro smiled gently. "Rise. Training starts at dawn."
On the Farmlands
Shuna knelt in the soil, her robes neatly folded as she pressed her hand to the ground. Gentle pink magicule flowed through her fingertips. The seeds beneath the soil pulsed in response.
A group of refugee women and elderly men stood nearby, watching in awe.
"This land…" one of them whispered. "It listens."
Shuna nodded. "The soil is fed by Nyvaris itself. But it still needs hands. Love. Care."
An older woman stepped forward, calloused fingers trembling slightly. "I used to be a field mother. I remember how to sow rows."
Shuna smiled, offering her a small crystal marker. "Then start here. These will become your fields.
Teach the young ones. I'll make sure the land listens to you too."
As they began working, one child knelt beside her mother and whispered, "Do the vegetables here sing?"
Shuna giggled softly. "If you listen close enough—they do."
In the Central Square
Benimaru walked the cobbled paths with Rigur and Gobta in tow.
"So we've got kitchens cooking, farms sprouting, defense squads forming," Benimaru said.
Gobta added, "Oh! And we opened a bar!"
Rigur looked scandalized. "You what?!"
"I mean... it's small. Two barrels. Some leftover fruit juice. They called it The Berry Bush. Cute name, right?"
Benimaru pinched the bridge of his nose. "We'll regulate it tomorrow. What about trades?"
"On it," Rigur said, holding up his chart.
"Woodworkers are already cutting into the mana trees. Tailors are stitching robes from the skyweave vines near the southern grove. We're assigning roles as they go—everyone gets food, shelter, and a place to contribute."
Diablo joined them, hands behind his back. "And schools?"
"Up and running," Gobta said proudly. "Although Veldora is still trying to create an 'Advanced Roar Theory' class. The kids... actually love it."
Benimaru gave a reluctant laugh. "He's doing more good than harm, so let him play teacher for now."
Later That Night, In the Heart of the City
The plaza was full of light. Lanterns glowed. Music hummed from a corner where a bard strummed an old song. Refugees—citizens, now—sat under hanging vines, eating warm food, talking, laughing.
Benimaru sat on a low bench beside Shuna, Hakuro, and Diablo.
"They're adapting fast," he said.
Shuna smiled, watching children chase each other between trees. "They were waiting for a reason to feel human again."
Hakuro nodded. "And now they're learning what peace feels like."
Gobta arrived, a plate of sweet bread in each hand. "We're gonna need more bakers tomorrow. And probably more sugar."
Benimaru leaned back, letting the night settle over him.
For the first time in a long time, it didn't feel like they were preparing for war or defending borders. It felt like they were building something lasting.
Something alive.
"To see clearly, sometimes one must remove the crown and walk the world as just another soul."
The deep hum of the crystal furnace resonated gently through the walls. Gazel Dwargo was busy reading the latest reports—economic growth in the mining sectors, new construction in the lower districts, and, of course, another group of emissaries rejected by the barrier of Nyvaris.
He let out a tired grunt.
And then the doors opened.
No knock. No herald. No guards announcing a royal arrival.
Just the soft tap of two sets of footsteps.
Gazel looked up sharply, his eyes narrowing.
"Elmesia?"
There she was—serene and untouchable as ever, her pale blue-silver hair shimmering like morning mist. No crown. No silken throne behind her. No royal fanfare. Just her, in a simple travel robe with a wry smile on her lips and—
"Erald Grimwald?" Gazel blinked.
The tall, stone-faced knight gave a polite nod from behind her, silent and composed as always.
"What in the name of the forge are you two doing here without sending word? And where's your damn royal escort?"
Elmesia sauntered in with her usual grace, twirling a strand of hair.
"Oh please, Gazel, must you always sound like you're about to explode?" she said, hopping effortlessly onto the edge of his desk. "I came without all that noise on purpose. I didn't want the fanfare for once. My generals are probably setting Sarion on fire right now looking for me."
Gazel's jaw tightened. "You disappeared from your palace without notice, brought only your head knight, and walked straight into Dwargon like we're your backyard tavern?"
She shrugged. "Would you rather I brought trumpets, gold-plated carriages, and a small army just to share tea?"
Erald coughed lightly.
"She left a note," he said dryly. "A single sentence. 'Gone for tea, don't wait up.'"
Gazel pinched the bridge of his nose. "Gods preserve me…"
Elmesia leaned in, her jade eyes glimmering with a hint of honesty under the layers of her usual mischief.
"I came to ask about Nyvaris," she said softly. "I've heard things. Too many things. The elves who live there, the people seeking refuge, the city... alive with magic. I want to see it."
Gazel stared at her, searching her expression for even a trace of hidden motive.
"You, of all people," he muttered. "You've never had interest in another nation's structure unless there was profit involved."
"I don't want to negotiate. I'm not here as Queen Elmesia of Sarion," she said with a strange stillness in her tone. "I'm just Elmesia this time. And I want to meet Varvatos... not to demand, not to seduce, not to challenge—but to understand."
Erald, who had remained silent until now, added, "She's telling the truth, Lord Gazel. I tried to talk her out of it. She wouldn't be swayed."
Gazel sighed deeply, then walked to the window of his chamber, peering out over the obsidian spires of Dwargon.
"You're not the first to ask," he said after a pause. "Many have tried. Monarchs, warlords, even priests with gilded gifts. All turned away. The barrier of Nyvaris—Varvatos' magic—it doesn't just test strength. It sees intent. And if even a sliver of arrogance, of scheming, or of mistrust resides in your heart, it will cast you out."
"I figured as much," Elmesia murmured. "That's why I came like this. No crown. No guards. No lies."
"Why now?" he asked, turning to her.
Elmesia's expression shifted into something rare—almost vulnerable.
"Because I'm tired, Gazel," she whispered. "Tired of playing the game. Of smiling and dancing while my people hide behind layers of ceremony. I want to see a place that's real... a place that doesn't need a crown to be heard."
Gazel studied her carefully, then finally gave a slow nod.
"If your heart is as clear as you say, the barrier may let you through. But know this, Elmesia—if you bear even a flicker of hidden contempt for Varvatos, his people, or the sanctity of that city, the magic of Nyvaris will turn you away without hesitation."
She gave a sly smile. "Then I suppose I'll have to cleanse my heart, won't I?"
Erald gave Gazel a look—half worried, half amused.
"She's determined, Lord Gazel."
Gazel shook his head, but there was a smirk on his lips.
"She's always been dangerous when she's serious."