Chapter 4: Shattered Glass and Shifting Winds

Charlotte, cloaked in Lucine's image, stood before the assembled BlancSoldats. Torchlight flickered across their polished armor, mocking her secret. She had chosen five of Rougemonde's finest for one purpose: to find the missing princess.

A wry smile tugged at her lips beneath the mask. These proud men—so confident in their duty—had no idea the golden prince they revered was a woman who had outmatched them all in training.

"We move at dawn," she declared, mimicking Lucine's deep baritone. A murmur rippled through the ranks.

"Weakling princess," one guard muttered. "Probably ran off and got herself captured."

Charlotte's jaw tightened. These were the kingdom's elite—yet they sneered at the girl risking everything to protect them.

The charade was wearing thin. Mimicking Lucine's voice strained her throat, but the deeper ache came from the fear gnawing at her chest.

Then—her eyes narrowed. A flare of emerald wind lit the distant sky.

"Did you see that?" she asked sharply, pointing to the horizon.

The BlancSoldats exchanged confused glances, then shook their heads.

"Sorry, King Lucine," one said. "We didn't see a thing."

Maybe I imagined it, Charlotte thought—but doubt clung to her like smoke.

It hadn't been a trick of the eye.

Far beyond their camp, a storm brewed in the forest. Lucine was locked in battle with a warrior from Acortis.

Nefeli.

She moved like a living tempest, wrapped in emerald wind. Each strike warped the air itself—fast, merciless, unstoppable. Lucine fought to keep up, breath ragged, muscles aflame. She commanded sky and soil alike, as though nature itself bent to her will.

He couldn't match her.

Not yet.

High above, the hermit sat on a thick branch, watching with serene interest.

"How?" Lucine gasped, dodging another barrage. "Since when do people have magic wind powers?"

The hermit's voice echoed: "Gods were once mortals, Lucine."

Myth blurred into truth.

With a shriek, Nefeli hurled a slab of earth. The shockwave launched Lucine skyward, panic rising in his chest—until the hermit's riddle surfaced again:

The dagger is an echo—You're the source of sound.

Something clicked.

Midair, Lucine grabbed a chunk of debris. His eyes flared crimson. Flame erupted from stone—curling, twisting, answering him. He hurled the burning mass back at Nefeli.

It struck. She faltered, crashing to the forest floor.

Lucine landed hard, breath sharp. "This ends now," he said quietly, but with fire behind every word.

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From above, the hermit smiled. "Bravo, Lucine. You've begun to wield the wind's fury. But remember—control is key."

Lucine could feel it now: the wind responding not just to his body, but his mind. His intent. He wasn't riding the storm anymore.

He was becoming it.

And with that came an idea.

Why not create the echo myself?

Across the clearing, Nefeli rose. Wind and rubble swirled into an emerald meteor above her.

She screamed—and threw it.

Lucine ran toward the heart of the storm.

He leapt—spinning into the chaos. The wind howled, but he felt no fear.

Don't resist. Dance.

Let this meteor be your echo.

The fireball neared. But the wind cradled him, guiding each movement. He spun—graceful, deliberate—a dancer in a stormborn waltz.

The meteor struck his palm.

The world paused.

Then—ignition.

Flame and wind surged through him. The hermit's whisper returned: "Don't let the wind win. Don't let go."

Lucine twirled once more, then hurled the blazing fusion back at her.

It hit with thunderous force.

Nefeli's emerald shield shattered. She collapsed, breathless, unconscious.

Lucine landed hard. The storm quieted. It wasn't triumph—but it was victory.

The hermit dropped beside her, gently checking her pulse. "He's learning the wind's tune," he murmured. There was pride in his voice—and something else. Unease.

Far away, a squad of BlancSoldats glimpsed a flare of flame and wind streak across the sky. They called it a divine omen.

In Rougemonde, Charlotte stared skyward. The fiery bloom stole her breath.

Hope? Or dread?

Was that Lucine?

Or something far worse?

***

Later, in the hermit's hut, Nefeli stirred to firelight.

Her body ached, but her wounds were bandaged, her head cushioned. The hermit sat nearby, amusement flickering in his eyes.

"Awake at last. How are you feeling, young storm?"

She stiffened. Then sighed. "Where am I?"

Before the hermit could answer, another voice cut in.

"If you hadn't fought the wind like that, you might've stayed on your feet."

Lucine leaned against the wall, his red eyes glowing in the shadows.

She blinked. "Lucine."

"That's right." He stepped closer. "Now—where is Acortis?"

She hesitated. He'd bested her. But surrendering that knowledge still felt like betrayal.

"I beat you," he said, raising a brow. "Fair trade."

After a pause, Nefeli nodded. "I'll show you. But promise me—don't speak my name once you're there."

Lucine nodded. "Deal."

He offered her a mug. "Tea?"

"Cold," she muttered.

But the warmth in her hands told another story. She shot him a look.

The hermit chuckled. "Someone's been a good student."

She glanced between them—an unlikely pair, but not an uninteresting one.

***

They returned to the clearing.

Wind swirled around them. Nefeli hesitated, then drew the dagger from her cloak.

"Acortis isn't safe," she said, holding it out. "But this will guide you."

Lucine took it. Flame curled around his fingers, seeping into the blade. The ember glowed.

"It's blessed by Taureis," Nefeli said. "Cloud God of War. Draws out one's fighting spirit ."

Lucine raised an eyebrow. "You're giving it up?"

"I owe you," she replied. "Consider the debt paid."

She turned to a cave wall, tracing glyphs. The air shimmered. A leaf-shaped portal opened.

"This leads to Acortis."

The hermit tilted his head. "Will you join us?"

Nefeli shook her head. "If they know I helped, I won't survive."

Lucine met her gaze. "Thank you."

Then he and the hermit stepped through.

The portal vanished.

***

Nefeli exhaled.

"Halt!"

She froze. A squad of BlancSoldats surrounded her.

"It's her," a hunter whispered. "The emerald storm. She fought the burning man!"

A cloaked figure stepped forward, hood drawn low.

"An emerald storm and a burning man?" the figure scoffed—voice eerily familiar.

Nefeli blinked. That voice...

"Who are you?" she demanded, eyes narrowing.

The figure—Charlotte in disguise—said nothing at first. Then, with slow deliberation, she pulled back her hood.

The face was Lucine's.

"Why, I'm Lucine," she said smoothly. "Young King of Rougemonde."

Nefeli's heart froze.

Lucine. King of Rougemonde?

She stepped back in shock.

Then the wind surged again.

Before anyone could move, it enveloped her.

And in a breath, she vanished into the storm.

The soldiers stood dumbfounded.

Charlotte reached for her—only to clutch empty air.