Beneath the bright blue skies of Bastion stood a glorious castle.
It resembled a mountain carved into levels—each tier encircled by colossal walls, a ring of stone and steel. It was the most secure structure in the known world. Stronger than the strongest citadels. More real than reality itself.
Within one of its many layers—behind a stronghold that could withstand even the full might of a Master—the clash of steel echoed.
Sweat streamed down Morgan's face, mingling with blood. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Her body trembled on the verge of collapse, but she didn't falter. The golden chance to strike was here, and she refused to let it slip away. She moved like a unsheathed blade—fast, unrelenting, precise.
"That's enough," a man in regal black uniform raised a hand. His voice rang through the hall. "The winner is Morgan."
Her blade stopped just shy of her opponent's throat—barely a centimeter away. She frowned, raised a brow, and wordlessly withdrew.
The man opposite her—wearing light body armor—staggered to his feet, wincing as he massaged his bruised side.
Morgan turned her head and scanned the warriors waiting along the edge of the training hall. Her scowl deepened.
"You," she said flatly, pointing toward a soldier clad in black armor. Then her gaze shifted. "And you."
She gestured toward a woman in silver armor.
"Come at me. Together."
"Yes."
Both stepped forward in unison, summoning their weapons without hesitation. And just like that, the next bout began without hesitation.
It's not enough.
Morgan sidestepped the silver blade aimed at her throat, catching its edge with her gauntlet. She parried the spear from the other side with a swift, practiced flick of her sword, then pivoted, aiming a slash at the woman's exposed waist.
I'm not strong enough.
The spear grazed her cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. She barely reacted.
Even without using my Aspect... it shouldn't be this hard.
She rolled backward. Steel whistled past her face as both weapons missed by a hair. She landed on her palms, inverted, and spun. Her legs carved through the air in an arc.
Her foot connected with a crack under the man's chin.
He groaned and crumpled to the floor.
...Father will not be pleased.
As soon as she landed, she braced herself again. The woman charged with her sword raised high. Morgan stepped in—not back—and caught the blade with her bare left hand. Blood spilled as metal bit into her palm, but she held it steady.
A stunned expression froze on her opponent's face.
Before the girl could react, Morgan's blade was already kissing her throat.
"I surrender!" the girl yelped and stumbled back.
Morgan didn't wait.
She turned to the man charging toward her with a roar, spear gripped tight.
She tossed her sword high into the air. Then bent low—avoiding the spear entirely—and drove her hand into the center of his chestplate. His body recoiled from the impact.
Above, her sword spun like an executioner's blade, descending fast. He looked up—just in time to see the weapon drop.
The world flipped.
He hit the ground with a gasp, the sword landing against his shoulder with a dull clang.
"I surrender!" he shouted, scrambling away from the arena like a man fleeing death.
The hall erupted into cheers. Cries of her name echoed off the stone walls. Warriors clapped. Trainers nodded.
But Morgan's expression never changed. Her smile was soft. Too soft. It didn't reach her eyes.
She looked up—toward the balcony above the arena. Toward the empty throne seated in the gallery. A seat lavishly adorned, meant for someone important.
But no one sat there. Just a hollow absence resting against silk and gold.
He didn't come. Again.
Her shoulders dipped just slightly. Her eyes closed. For a brief moment, her lips twisted downward.
No one noticed. All they saw was the graceful smile that followed, the poise she reclaimed effortlessly.
"Thank you for sparring with me," Morgan said evenly, bowing. She turned and walked away, leaving behind the clamor and the sweat and the blood.
Another day passed. The same as the last. Nothing had changed. Maybe nothing ever would. That's what she believed—until a voice called out behind her.
"You've gotten better."
Morgan's eyes widened.
For a moment, her expression froze. Then, almost too quickly, she turned around, half-expecting—half-hoping—to see someone else. But it was just the same girl she had defeated earlier.
"Ah... it's just you."
Her face fell ever so slightly, but she recovered almost immediately, conjuring the same serene smile she always wore in public.
"Lady Morgan is my idol!" the girl said brightly. "I want to become someone like you!"
She smiled with such earnestness, with eyes shimmering in reverent awe.
Morgan resisted the urge to sigh.
People like this were the most troublesome. She wanted to wave her off—tell her to run along and stop wasting her time. But the girl was part of an allied clan. Simply brushing her off would reflect poorly.
So, instead, she offered a polite nod. "You're quite talented yourself. Our duel was... entertaining."
The girl looked like she was about to faint from joy. She inhaled sharply, visibly trying to compose herself.
"If you don't mind me asking..." she began, blinking rapidly, "how did you improve so much, so quickly?"
They had already turned a corner, leaving the hall behind and stepping onto one of Bastion's grand city roads. Towering trees lined the path like sentinels, their branches bowed just slightly—whether by the wind or the quiet weight of Morgan's presence, it was hard to say.
"My father says you're the most talented warrior in Bastion. I completely agree with him!"
Morgan halted for a moment.
The girl's father... he would be the leader of a vassal clan under Valor. Technically, Morgan outranked him. But she would never look down on one of Valor's Knights.
The girl continued, her eyes glowing with enthusiasm.
"He was surprised I'd grown stronger recently," she said proudly. "He kept praising me... until I told him I started training with you. Then he just laughed and said, 'The princess will finally dig some sense into my lazy daughter!' Can you believe that? I've always worked hard—he just never sees it."
She puffed her cheeks in mock indignation, then grinned. "But... I guess he's not entirely wrong. I have gotten better since training under you. That's why I want to know your secret. Next time I see him, I want to blow him away with how strong I've become!"
Morgan nearly clicked her tongue. Instead, something else stirred inside her. A dull ache. A quiet tightness in her chest.
She stopped walking.
Her gaze lingered on the girl—longer than necessary. Something unspoken stirred behind her eyes, and the girl's breath caught as if she'd sensed it.
"U-uh... I'm sorry if I said something—"
"Let's sit."
Morgan raised a hand, cutting her off. "There's a bench over there."
Without waiting for a response, she turned toward it. Her steps—normally poised and measured—seemed heavier than usual.
The girl stood frozen, uncertain. Then Morgan glanced back.
"What are you waiting for?"
Elle jolted upright and hurried after her. As she sat down beside Morgan, a sharp gust of wind brushed against her cheek like a warning whisper. She flinched. It had almost stung.
For a long moment, silence reigned between them. Then Morgan spoke, her voice softer than before.
"What was your name again?"
Of course, she already knew.
She made a habit of memorizing the names and faces of every noteworthy individual in Valor's sphere. But some part of her... wanted to ask. Needed to.
The girl chuckled shyly.
"Haha... of course Lady Morgan wouldn't remember someone like me," she said, placing two fingers gently to her lips in a bashful gesture before bowing her head slightly. "I'm Elle. From Clan Matron. We're a small vassal clan under Clan Valor—but we're on the rise! It won't be long before the King himself hears our name!"
Morgan stared at her for a moment, then shook her head slowly.
There was something almost... amusing about her innocent fire. Almost enviable.
"Master Elle," Morgan said, her tone unreadable. "You wish to know the secret of my strength, don't you?"
Elle looked up, her eyes gleaming. "Yes, if I may—"
Before the words could finish leaving her lips, Morgan rose to her feet.
In one fluid motion, her sword appeared—its edge resting lightly against Elle's throat.
For a breathless moment, everything stilled. The air felt heavier. Lethal. The blade shimmered faintly, whispering of finality. One twitch, one wrong word, and her head would roll.
"Master Elle," Morgan said again, her voice calm—too calm. "What is it that you wish?"
Elle swallowed hard, eyes locked on Morgan's. A single bead of sweat trailed down her neck and splashed against the ground.
She had to choose her words carefully. Yet no matter how she turned the question in her mind, she couldn't think of an answer that would please Morgan. Maybe there wasn't one. Maybe truth was her only path forward.
"I..." Elle placed her hand gently on the flat of the blade. "I don't want to be forgotten. I want to leave a mark on the world—something that will carry my name, even after I'm gone."
She stood, pushing the blade aside with quiet resolve.
"And for that, I'll go to any extent. I'll follow any command, bear any pain. I'll become strong enough to be remembered."
Morgan stared at her in silence. Then her lips curved ever so slightly. The sword dissolved into pale white sparks, vanishing without a trace.
She met Elle's gaze again—this time with something else in her eyes. Not judgment. Not pity. But something quieter. Sharper.
"In that case," she said softly, "make that wish your weapon."
She slipped off her glove and held out her hand as though gripping an invisible blade.
"The strongest weapon in your arsenal isn't a sharp sword or a long spear." She brought her hand down in a clean, practiced arc. "It's the weight of your wish."
Her bare fist struck a nearby tree.
Wood split.
The trunk shattered into a dozen pieces, each fragment sliced cleanly like it had met a blade honed by years of war. But then—those perfect cuts collapsed. Crumbled, crushed beneath some invisible pressure.
"The wish doesn't need to be grand or ambitious," she said, slipping the glove back on and resting a hand on Elle's shoulder. "What matters is how deeply you desire it."
She paused for a beat. "Even something simple—wanting to see someone again, eating your favorite dish—can outweigh the desire to rule the world... if the emotion behind it is strong enough."
Morgan stepped back and offered a rare, graceful bow. Then she turned and began to walk away.
"The wish you carry holds emotion," she said over her shoulder. "But it's not enough. You need something stronger. Something that burns hotter than everything else."
She took a few steps, then stopped again.
"It's when you find that one, true wish... that you'll become truly strong."
Elle stared at her retreating back.
Then, softly, she asked, "...Is that why Lady Morgan always looks at the King's throne?"
Morgan froze.
Elle's voice grew quieter. "Your wish... is it to be acknowledged by him?"
Morgan turned. Her eyes were red. Burning.
"If that's true," Elle continued gently, walking toward her, "then you're chasing the wrong wish."
Morgan opened her mouth—but no words came. She blinked. Inhaled. A tight breath left her lips.
Something deep within her stirred. A forgotten ache. A thought long buried. For a fleeting instant, it felt like someone had reached into the dustiest corner of her soul... and seen something even she hadn't dared to face.
"I'm sorry if I spoke out of line," Elle said, bowing deeply. "But I believe the strongest wishes—the ones that truly empower us—are the ones that make us happy."
She straightened, smiling softly.
"And Lady Morgan doesn't look happy when she fights."
Morgan said nothing.
"If there's a wish that could make you happy..." Elle whispered, "then you should find it. If the Princess of Valor grows even a little stronger because of me... then perhaps, that's enough for you to remember me forever."
She bowed once more and turned, walking away. Morgan remained still, standing beside the shattered remains of the tree.
She bit her lip. Turned her head.
'A wish that would make me happy...?'
Could such a thing really exist?
Ever since she first held a sword, her life had been dedicated to a single purpose. One thought. One goal. It had carved her path like fate written in steel.
To even entertain another wish now felt absurd. And yet... perhaps, it was worth considering. If it could make her stronger, then she would seek it.
But the real question was—
Where would she even begin?
"Lady Morgan."
She turned to see a man in black formal uniform bowing before her.
"We've received an invitation to a celebration hosted by the House of Night," he said with a polite smile. "Would you be willing to represent our clan?"
Morgan sighed.
If they were giving her the option, it likely wasn't important.
She was just about to decline when a thought stopped her.
Could this be it? A place to begin...?
She looked up at the man, her smile slow and deliberate.
"All right. I'll accept."
The man bowed again. "The invitation allows up to five representatives from each clan. Is there someone you'd like to take with you?"
Morgan paused. Thought for a moment. Then answered, a subtle curve to her lips.
"Actually... there is."
AN: You madmen acually achieved the impossible quota I set for an extra chap💀
Alright, here it is. Enjoy.
Do leave your thoughts in the comments. Thats my fuel for writing :)