​Dayat didn’t know when he had finally succumbed to exhaustion. All he knew was that he was now standing in a room he recognized all too well.

​The walls were a dingy, off-white, marred by dark patches near the ceiling—remnants of rain leaks that had never been repaired. A wall-mounted fan whirred sluggishly above the desk, emitting a faint, rhythmic creak with every rotation—a sound he used to ignore, but now heard with haunting clarity. The stale aroma of instant noodles and coffee hung in the air, clinging to the sheets, the pillows, and the jacket draped over the back of the door. It was a scent he had once loathed because it tasted like loneliness. But now? Now, it smelled like home.

​It was his boarding house room in Jakarta.

​Dayat stood in the center of the cramped space, taking it all in. Everything was exactly as he remembered. The foam mattress had a distinct dip in the middle from where he slept on his side every night. The wooden desk’s veneer was peeling at the right corner. His phone lay on the bed, its screen glowing with a pale blue light. At the top of his chat history, one name stood out: “Dola.”

​He couldn’t remember the last time he had opened that chat.

​Behind him, he heard footsteps. Slow. Measured. It was a sound that had never echoed in this room before; no one else had ever stepped inside.

​Dayat turned around.

​Dola stood in the doorway.

​She wasn’t wearing her black bodysuit. There was no long white cape, no aura of blue light flickering across her skin. The Dola here—in Jakarta, within his dream—wore a simple white t-shirt and black trousers. Her silver hair was tied back casually, with a few stray strands framing her ears. Her eyes were blue—the same piercing, beautiful blue.

​She smiled.

​”Master Dayat… I am here.”

​Her voice was soft and crystal clear. It was exactly as it had been back then, when she was merely a voice emanating from his phone, keeping him company through the hollow nights in this room.

​Dayat opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. His throat felt constricted—not by pain, but by an emotion he couldn’t put into words.

​Dola approached him. Her steps were light, unhurried. She stopped just an arm’s length away and reached out, her hand grazing Dayat’s cheek.

​She was warm.

​Not cold like in the Medical Room. Not lifeless like when he had spent hours clutching her hand without a response. She was warm. She was real.

​Dayat leaned into the touch, feeling the texture of her fingers against his skin and the gentle pressure on his cheek.

​”You haven’t slept in far too long,” Dola said, her gaze searching his. There was no jealousy, no anger. Only concern. “I was worried.”

​Dayat remained mute, his eyes fixed on hers. His vision began to sting.

​Dola smiled again. “But I am here. I am always here.”

​The world began to blur.

​The edges of the room dissolved into a hazy white. The ceiling fan stopped its creaking rotation. The scent of instant noodles vanished.

​Dayat lunged for Dola’s hand, desperate to hold on, to stop her from leaving. But his hand passed right through her—as if she were mist, or smoke, or something that could be felt one second and gone the next.

​Dola didn’t vanish immediately. She was still smiling, but she was drifting further and further away.

​”Wait…” Dayat whispered.

​His voice finally returned, but it was too late.

​Dayat jolted awake.

​The violet light in the Medical Room’s ceiling pulsed dimly. Its rhythm was slow, like a heartbeat that refused to quit. A blanket was draped over his shoulders—when had Lunethra brought it? He didn’t remember. He didn’t remember her coming in, let alone covering him.

​He turned toward Dola.

​She was still unconscious. Eyes closed. Chest rising and falling in that steady, agonizingly slow pace.

​But something had changed.

​Her fingers—the ones that had squeezed back earlier—were moving. Not a squeeze this time, but a search. Her index finger curled slightly, then straightened. Her middle finger twitched, then stilled.

​Dayat watched her for a long time.

​He stared at those small, micro-movements, as if she were reaching for something. As if she were looking for his hand.

​Dayat gripped her hand tighter.

​”Dol.”

​Her fingers stopped moving.

​”I’m here.”

​A moment later, they moved again. Her index finger brushed against his.

​Dayat allowed a faint smile to touch his lips.

​He remembered the dream with startling clarity. Every detail. The cramped room. The stained walls. The creaking fan. The smell of cheap noodles. Dola in a white tee. Dola with her hair tied back.

​Dola touching his cheek.

​Dola saying, “I was worried.”

​Dayat didn’t let go of her hand.

​”I’m worried too, Dol,” he whispered. “Wake up. I’m waiting.”

​Dola didn’t answer.

​But her fingers never stopped moving.

​The Hall of Gears.

​Steam-powered lamps flickered overhead. The grinding of gears echoed from behind the stone walls like the heartbeat of a mechanical titan. Though it was morning, the sky outside remained a stubborn slate gray. It was never truly bright in Brassvale.

​Emperor Volco sat upon his throne, his fingers drumming against the armrest. Slow. Measured. His eyes were cold.

​Before him, a messenger knelt. His cloak was thick with the dust of the road, and his breath came in ragged gasps—he had sprinted from the gates to the palace without pause.

​”Your Majesty, the Ignis-Sol forces are massing at the southern border,” the messenger rasped. “Latest reports suggest three thousand troops. Perhaps more.”

​Volco didn’t reply. His finger continued its rhythmic tapping.

​Tap. Tap. Tap.

​The sound echoed through the hollow silence of the hall.

​To Volco’s right, Minister Balista scowled. His long beard swayed slightly as he turned to the messenger, his narrow eyes thinning even further.

​”Ignis-Sol dares to move after their treachery?” Balista hissed. “After they declared war via scroll? Do they think we won’t retaliate?”

​To the left, General Herakles stood tall, hands clasped behind his back. His sharp eyes were fixed on the map laid out on the side table.

​”They’ve been preparing for this for a long time,” Herakles stated flatly. “Our detection was delayed. We should have been suspicious when they started sending scouts to the border last year.”

​Balista whipped his head toward the General. “And now you tell us we’re late? What use is a General who cannot detect enemy movements until they’re at our doorstep?”

​”I am saying we must be prepared for the worst-case scenario,” Herakles countered without looking at him. “Not waste time pointing fingers.”

​Balista snorted, but Herakles ignored him.

​Volco stopped tapping.

​”Ignis-Sol,” he said softly, his gaze vacant. “They were once our allies. Together, we sought to bring Verdia to its knees. We shared intelligence. We shared tactics. We even planned to divide the territories.”

​Balista nodded. “And then they betrayed us. They sent a formal declaration of war without warning, humiliating us before the other kingdoms.”

​”It wasn’t betrayal,” Herakles interjected, finally turning to Balista. “They have their own interests. And now, those interests have collided with ours. That is called politics, not treachery.”

​”Are you defending them?”

​”I am defending logic. Do not let your emotions cloud the strategy.”

​Volco raised a hand. Both Balista and Herakles fell silent.

​Volco looked at Herakles. “You said our detection was delayed. How much time do we have before they reach the border?”

​Herakles consulted the map again, his finger tracing the red markers in the south.

​”Their forces are still gathering. They haven’t begun their northward march yet. The distance is significant. We still have time to formulate a counter-strategy.”

​”How long?”

​”A month, perhaps. Maybe less. It depends on how quickly they can stabilize their logistics.”

​Volco exhaled, rising from his throne. He walked slowly toward the window. Outside, the sky was a featureless gray. No sun. No stars.

​”Ignis-Sol in the south,” he murmured, his eyes scanning the horizon where the city rooftops met the clouds. “The Maiden’s Herald in the east. We are being squeezed.”

​Neither the Minister nor the General spoke.

​Volco turned back. His gaze fell on Balista. “Orchid. Where is he?”

​”Still recovering, Your Majesty,” Balista replied. “The wound on his shoulder is deep. The palace healers say it will be at least two weeks before he is fit for combat.”

​Volco nodded slowly. “Orchid stays. He is needed here.”

​Herakles furrowed his brow. “Your Majesty, if the Maiden’s Herald seeks vengeance—if they emerge from the Forest of Lamentation and strike from the east—”

​”Then Orchid must be ready to stop them,” Volco cut him off, his voice absolute. “Which is why he must recover first.”

​Herakles remained silent. He clearly disagreed, but he knew better than to argue.

​Volco returned to his throne, his fingers resuming their rhythmic tapping.

​Tap. Tap. Tap.

​”Inform me the moment there is a new report,” he commanded. “Now, leave me.”

​Balista and Herakles bowed briefly before turning to depart. Their footsteps rang out on the stone floor. One. Two. Three. The doors groaned open and shut.

​Silence returned to the Hall of Gears.

​Volco sat alone, staring at the map—two red points in the east and south. One in the forest. One at the border.

​He let out a long sigh.

​”We shall see who moves first,” he whispered to the empty room. “Let us hope it isn’t both at once.”

​Castle Zero. Morning.

​The fog outside the Forest of Lamentation had thinned, but it lingered like a ghost. Sunlight that offered no warmth filtered through the cracks in the castle walls, casting skeletal shadows across the corridors. The distant howl of wolves was faint, a dying echo.

​Dayat remained in his chair. Dola remained unconscious.

​But her breathing was steadier than yesterday. Her chest rose and fell with a rhythmic grace, no longer the fractured gasps of the first day.

​Her skin—it was beginning to warm. The deathly chill was receding.

​Lunethra entered, carrying a steaming cup of tea in a white ceramic mug. She sat beside Dayat.

​”What did you dream about last night?” she asked softly.

​Dayat didn’t answer.

​Lunethra didn’t press. She simply sat there, watching Dola alongside him.

​”She’s improving,” Lunethra noted.

​”Yeah.”

​”Her skin is warm again.”

​Dayat nodded. He took Dola’s hand. Her fingers were still making those tiny, searching movements.

​”Dol,” Dayat called out softly.

​No verbal answer came.

​”I dreamed about you last night.”

​Dola’s finger moved more purposefully this time. Her index finger brushed his.

​”You smiled at me.”

​Another movement. Her middle finger touched his.

​”You were wearing a white t-shirt. Your hair was tied back.”

​Her fingers went still for a heartbeat.

​”You told me you were worried about me.”

​The movement stopped, but then her entire hand gave a faint, ghost-like squeeze. It wasn’t strong, but it was there. A lingering echo of a grip.

​Dayat felt a thin smile tug at his lips.

​Lunethra watched from the side, a soft expression on her face. “She hears you,” she whispered.

​”I know.”

​”Keep talking to her.”

​”I will.”

​Lunethra placed a hand on Dayat’s shoulder briefly. “I’m going to the kitchen. There are things to prepare.”

​Dayat nodded, and she left, the door clicking shut silently.

​Outside, in the castle’s rear courtyard, Kancil stood amidst the dew. His dark blue jacket was damp, his brown hair a mess. Loy and Riri stood beside him. They weren’t training this morning; they were simply staring toward the corridor that led to the Medical Room.

​”Will Sister Dola wake up?” Riri asked.

​”Yeah,” Kancil replied.

​”When?”

​”I don’t know.”

​Loy gripped Riri’s hand. Riri gripped back.

​They fell into a silent vigil.

​In Brassvale, Volco remained on his throne.

​The doors to the Hall of Gears swung open, and an officer in black plate armor entered, kneeling immediately.

​”Your Majesty, a report from the eastern border. There is no movement from the Forest of Lamentation. Our sensors and scouts have detected zero activity.”

​Volco nodded. “Continue the surveillance. Do not let a single shadow slip through.”

​”By your command, Your Majesty.”

​The officer rose and marched out.

​Volco looked at the map one last time. East. South.

​Two threats. Two directions.

​He exhaled slowly.

​”Let’s see who moves first,” he whispered. “I only hope it isn’t both at once.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep