Elshua left the Great Library of Lumora as dusk settled, the sky a tapestry of indigo and gold, the spires of the Holy Palace glowing faintly against it.
His arms cradled a bundle of scrolls, their parchment edges curling, his notes on Veltharia tucked safely in his dark blue tunic.
The library's cool air, scented with wax and old ink, clung to him as he stepped into the evening breeze, his sandals soft on the marble path.
His golden hair, gleamed in the fading light, his golden eyes distant, Jun's mind churning through Veltharia's history, Kael's role, and the envoy's shadowed purpose.
'I've got pieces,' he thought, his brow furrowing, 'but not the whole picture. Veltharia's after something big—divine secrets, maybe, or a crisis pushing them. Kael's a pawn, but he's my chance to shift the story.'
His resolve to guide the protagonist of Requiem of the Fallen burned steady, but the weight of his research pressed on him, a tangle of facts and guesses.
He meant to return to his chambers, to pore over his notes by candlelight, but his feet, as if guided by instinct, carried him toward the palace gardens.
'Need to clear my head,' he murmured, his voice low, his golden eyes scanning the horizon.
'The library's got answers, but it's a maze, too. A walk'll help—fresh air, stars, maybe some quiet.'
The gardens, with their emerald lawns, star-shaped oaks, and rosebushes luminous under moonlight, had become his refuge, a place to think beyond the palace's gilded walls.
He adjusted the scrolls, his lean frame balanced despite the load, and wandered down a path lined with ivy, the city's hum of bells and prayers a distant chorus.
His steps slowed, his thoughts drifting, a daze settling over him. Kael's laughter in these gardens, his stammered awe, replayed in Elshua's mind, a spark of connection that felt both strategic and real.
'He's so young,' he thought, his lips curving faintly. 'I gave him a moment at the banquet, a lift in their eyes. Now I need to know why he's here, what's driving this envoy.'
The mystery of Veltharia's intent, Aeloria's neutrality, and his own role in the novel's shifting arc wove a knot he couldn't untie yet.
His sandals scuffed the path, his golden eyes half-lidded, until a sudden clamor snapped him awake—shouts, the clash of wood, and a voice barking commands.
Elshua blinked, his scrolls nearly slipping, and realized he'd wandered far from the gardens, his feet carrying him to the training grounds for the Holy Empire's knight trainees.
The grounds sprawled wide, a vast courtyard of packed earth framed by marble arches and blooming vines, its air sharp with sweat and dust.
Hundreds of aspiring knights, boys and girls aged twelve to sixteen, moved in vigorous formation, their training swords flashing in practiced arcs, their voices rising in a unified shout with each strike.
They wore leather tunics, their faces flushed, their eyes fierce with focus. At the center, a tall instructor in silver armor, his voice loud and clear, guided them through drills.
"Left! Strike high! Hold your stance, or you'll eat dirt!" he bellowed, his gray hair tied back, his commands cutting through the din.
Elshua froze at the courtyard's edge, his golden hair catching the torchlight, his scrolls clutched tight.
'How did I end up here?' he thought, his golden eyes wide, his heart quickening.
'This isn't the gardens—I must've taken a wrong turn, too caught up in Veltharia's mess.'
He knew of the training grounds, a crucible where Aeloria's future knights were forged, but he'd rarely visited, his saintly duties keeping him to the palace's heart.
Seraphius had mentioned the trainees' path: after graduation, they'd choose a knight order to serve, each with its own legacy.
The Lion Hearts Knight Order, newly established and composed of young knights, was the most famed, its elite rank earned through feats that rivaled older orders. Its youthful vigor, led by figures like Caelan, made it a beacon for trainees, proof that age didn't dim power.
He turned to slip away, his sandals scuffing, but a trainee at the edge—a girl with a braid and sharp eyes—spotted him, her sword pausing mid-swing.
"The Spark!" she gasped, her voice carrying, and the courtyard stilled, a ripple of silence spreading like a wave.
Swords lowered, shouts died, and hundreds of eyes turned to Elshua, their faces shifting from focus to awe. The instructor's command faltered, his gray eyes widening as he followed their gaze.
As one, the trainees and their instructor dropped to a knee, their leather tunics creaking, their heads bowed in reverence, the silence heavy with devotion.
Elshua's presence, his golden hair and eyes a living symbol of Aeloria's light, commanded their hearts, just as it had at the banquet, where Cardinals, Exarchs, and Veltharians had bowed, awed by the Spark who embodied their faith.
Elshua's face flushed, his golden cheeks burning, his scrolls nearly slipping as he stood rooted.
'Oh, no,' he thought, his mind racing, Jun's panic surfacing. 'Not again. I didn't mean to—why does this keep happening? I just wanted a walk, not another spectacle!'
He'd expected a stir, but the sheer weight of their reverence, the courtyard's stillness, caught him off guard.
His role as the Spark of Aeloria was a mantle he wore with grace, but moments like this—hundreds bowing, waiting for his word—felt overwhelming, a reminder of the power he wielded and the story he fought to rewrite.
He cleared his throat, his voice steady despite his nerves, and raised a hand, his smile warm but sheepish.
"Please, rise," he said, his voice clear, carrying across the courtyard.
"I didn't mean to disturb your training. My apologies for the interruption—carry on, and may Aeloria's light guide your blades."
His words, meant to dismiss the attention, sparked a murmur of shock through the crowd. The trainees rose slowly, their eyes wide, some clutching their swords tighter, others whispering "the Spark" or "he apologized."
The instructor stood, his gray hair glinting, his expression a mix of awe and confusion, unused to a saint's humility.
Elshua's smile tightened, his golden eyes darting to the path, his heart pounding.
'Apologized? Why's that shocking?' he thought, his scrolls heavy in his arms. 'I messed up their drill—of course I'd say sorry. But now they're staring like I grew wings.'
He bowed slightly, his tunic swaying, and backed away, his sandals hasty on the marble.
"Keep up the good work," he called, his voice bright, hoping to end the moment, and turned, fleeing toward the gardens, the trainees' whispers trailing him like a breeze.
The courtyard erupted into quiet chatter as he left, the trainees resuming their drills with renewed vigor, their shouts louder, their strikes sharper, inspired by the Spark's unexpected visit.
"He spoke to us," the girl with the braid said, her eyes bright, her sword flashing.
"The Spark himself!"
The instructor shook his head, a faint smile breaking his stern face, and barked, "Focus, you lot! The Spark's light won't swing your swords for you!"
But even he glanced at the path Elshua had taken, his heart stirred by the saint's humility.
Elshua reached the gardens, his breath short, his scrolls clutched tight, and sank onto a stone bench by a fountain, its spray misting the air, his face still warm with embarrassment.
"What a day," he muttered, his voice low, Jun's humor surfacing.
"First the banquet, now this? I'm a walking commotion. 'Sorry for disturbing you'—who knew that'd shock them? It's just common courtesy!"
He laughed, the sound soft, his heart lightening despite the blunder.
'This has to be the most embarrassing day of my life,' he thought, his smile wry.
'Stumbling into a training ground, making hundreds bow, then apologizing like I spilled their tea. Seraphius would laugh himself sick.'
He set the scrolls beside him, his fingers brushing the rosebushes, their petals cool, and leaned back, the stars above a quiet comfort.
The gardens' peace washed over him, the fountain's murmur soothing his nerves. 'I didn't mean to make a scene,' he thought, his golden eyes tracing the sky. 'But maybe it's not bad.
Those trainees—they looked inspired, like I gave them something. If I can do that for them, I can do it for Kael, too.' His resolve returned, a steady flame, his encounter with Kael—the prince's laughter, his awe, his vulnerability—a beacon in his mission to rewrite Requiem's tragedy.
He thought of Kael, alone in Veltharia's cold court, a pawn in the envoy's gambit, and his heart hardened.
'He's not the hero yet,' he thought, his voice silent, his golden eyes blazing. 'But I'll help him get there. The banquet was a start—now I need to know what Veltharia wants, why they're here.'
The scrolls, heavy with Veltharian history, were a step, but he needed more—Seraphius's insights, library records, perhaps even another meeting with Kael. The prince's presence, a year early, was a wildcard, a chance to shift the novel's arc, but a risk if Elshua faltered.
A pang tugged at his chest, a memory of Caelan's grin, the paladin's letters from the World Academy vivid with tales of sparring and bonds.
'Caelan would've loved that scene,' he thought, a faint smile curving his lips. 'He'd say I tripped into glory again. I miss him.'
The woven cord and wooden lion on his desk, symbols of their friendship, felt far away, but he pushed the ache aside, his focus on Kael and Veltharia.
'I'll write soon,' he thought, his golden eyes steady. 'Caelan's fine, thriving. Right now, Kael needs me more.'
He rose, gathering his scrolls, his sandals soft on the path as he headed to his chambers. The gardens' starlight followed him, a reminder of Aeloria's light, his role as the Spark a mantle he'd wield to guide Kael and protect their world.
In his room, he lit a candle, its flame dancing, and spread his notes, his quill poised. He'd write to Caelan, sharing the envoy's arrival, keeping Kael's meeting private, needing his friend's perspective.
The monastery's betrayal, his drained energy, and Veltharia's gambit were threads in a tapestry he'd unravel.
'I'll keep going,' he thought, his voice firm, his golden eyes burning. 'For Kael, for Aeloria, for the story we'll rewrite together.'
The night deepened, Lumora's spires glowing, and Elshua, the Spark of Aeloria, forged his path, his heart a flame that would not fade.
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