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ID: jEUWMQji/qst/6243495#6243668
5/18/2025, 6:58:22 AM
>>6243663
As the great stones of the castle crack and groan under the weight of war, Princess Adelaide gathers the chosen—ninety-nine souls entrusted with the legacy of a dying world.
Ten Courtiers walk beside her, once proud nobles now soot-streaked and grim. Among them is Lady Meriane, her sharp mind undulled by panic, and Lord Halven, wounded yet standing tall. These are the voices that will help her guide a new people in a foreign land.
Fifteen Scribes hurry close behind, their arms full of tomes, scrolls, and ink-stained satchels. High Scribe Enlor clutches a worn book of prophecies, eyes haunted by all he’s read. Young apprentice Mira carries a half-finished grimoire bound in silver thread.
The ten Pages—some not even in their teens—stay close together. They carry only light packs, their faces pale but determined. One of them, a freckled boy named Torren, keeps glancing back at the throne room door, lips moving in silent prayer for those staying behind.
Twenty-four Servants, the invisible lifeblood of the castle, move with practiced coordination. Old Martha, the cook, has tied a bundle of herbs to her belt. Several caretakers help the smallest Page carry his too-large pack. Though none wear armor, they form the steadiest ranks.
And forty Tradespeople bring the muscle and means to survive—blacksmiths, farmers, hunters, carpenters. Among them is Varn, the stonemason, who carries his chisel like a relic. Kessa, the archer, keeps a bow slung across her back, eyes sharp with readiness. There are tanners, weavers, brewers, and even a beekeeper.
As they begin to file through the shimmering portal, Princess Adelaide hesitates at the edge.
She turns to the court magician’s body, twisted where it fell, his face at peace despite the storm around him. She kneels beside him, brushing the ash from his sleeve. She considers dragging his body through—to bury him in gentler soil—but the portal’s magic pulses ominously at her touch.
What if it counts him? What if one of the living is left behind because of me?
Instead, she unclasps the silver rune-charm from his neck. It’s small—barely larger than a coin—and warm with residual magic. It once glowed when danger was near. She hangs it from a cord and ties it around her wrist.
Then her father, already striding toward the barricaded door with sword in hand, turns one last time. He removes his royal signet from his finger—gold, set with a ruby shaped like a flame—and presses it into her palm.
"For when you reclaim our name. Let them know whose blood runs in your veins."
She grips it tightly.
"I’ll light the fire again, Father. I swear it."
The castle shudders violently. The portal ripples and shrinks slightly.
With the rune-charm at her wrist and the royal signet tucked close to her heart, Princess Adelaide steps through the glowing veil—
—into another world.
A new beginning.
A last hope.
The portal closes forever.
Your journey begins.
As the great stones of the castle crack and groan under the weight of war, Princess Adelaide gathers the chosen—ninety-nine souls entrusted with the legacy of a dying world.
Ten Courtiers walk beside her, once proud nobles now soot-streaked and grim. Among them is Lady Meriane, her sharp mind undulled by panic, and Lord Halven, wounded yet standing tall. These are the voices that will help her guide a new people in a foreign land.
Fifteen Scribes hurry close behind, their arms full of tomes, scrolls, and ink-stained satchels. High Scribe Enlor clutches a worn book of prophecies, eyes haunted by all he’s read. Young apprentice Mira carries a half-finished grimoire bound in silver thread.
The ten Pages—some not even in their teens—stay close together. They carry only light packs, their faces pale but determined. One of them, a freckled boy named Torren, keeps glancing back at the throne room door, lips moving in silent prayer for those staying behind.
Twenty-four Servants, the invisible lifeblood of the castle, move with practiced coordination. Old Martha, the cook, has tied a bundle of herbs to her belt. Several caretakers help the smallest Page carry his too-large pack. Though none wear armor, they form the steadiest ranks.
And forty Tradespeople bring the muscle and means to survive—blacksmiths, farmers, hunters, carpenters. Among them is Varn, the stonemason, who carries his chisel like a relic. Kessa, the archer, keeps a bow slung across her back, eyes sharp with readiness. There are tanners, weavers, brewers, and even a beekeeper.
As they begin to file through the shimmering portal, Princess Adelaide hesitates at the edge.
She turns to the court magician’s body, twisted where it fell, his face at peace despite the storm around him. She kneels beside him, brushing the ash from his sleeve. She considers dragging his body through—to bury him in gentler soil—but the portal’s magic pulses ominously at her touch.
What if it counts him? What if one of the living is left behind because of me?
Instead, she unclasps the silver rune-charm from his neck. It’s small—barely larger than a coin—and warm with residual magic. It once glowed when danger was near. She hangs it from a cord and ties it around her wrist.
Then her father, already striding toward the barricaded door with sword in hand, turns one last time. He removes his royal signet from his finger—gold, set with a ruby shaped like a flame—and presses it into her palm.
"For when you reclaim our name. Let them know whose blood runs in your veins."
She grips it tightly.
"I’ll light the fire again, Father. I swear it."
The castle shudders violently. The portal ripples and shrinks slightly.
With the rune-charm at her wrist and the royal signet tucked close to her heart, Princess Adelaide steps through the glowing veil—
—into another world.
A new beginning.
A last hope.
The portal closes forever.
Your journey begins.
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