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Chapter Text

The Summoning of the Witch

Part 1: The Winter Queen's Tale

The tale of Tonelico the Savior is a scar upon the history of Britain. A fairy of unparalleled power and compassion, she stood as a bulwark against calamities that would have shattered the land. Yet, for every disaster she averted, she earned no gratitude, but the bitter animosity of her own kind. They feared the very strength that protected them.

On her long journey, she gathered loyal companions, a flicker of hope in a world of shadows. But hope is a fragile thing. Betrayal after betrayal chipped away at her spirit, until the final, crushing blow: the loss of all she held dear. Her efforts to save Britain yielded only thorns, not the fruitful dividends she had dreamed of.

Hardened by a thousand deceptions, a cold resolve crystallized within her. If Britain could not be saved, it would be dominated. The naive Tonelico was cast aside, and in her place rose Morgan, the Winter Queen. For a thousand years, she ruled from Camelot with an iron fist, her heart frozen, committing any atrocity necessary to ensure her kingdom's continuity.

But even winter must thaw. A Child of Prophecy rose, and the siege of Camelot began. The final blow came not from the hero, but from the betrayal of her most loyal knights. Seeing her daughter held hostage, Morgan’s guard faltered for a single, fatal moment. A dagger in the back, wielded by her knights' own hand, ended her reign.

Thus, the Winter Queen fell ,her corpse was mutilated. But peace blossomed.A new ruler who was selected by the populace brought forth a gentle era .The story, as they say, ended well.

This is the tale known to most. But history is written by the victors, and with time, the truth degrades. While the facts of her death were correct, the end of her tale… was not.

Part 2: A Grandson's Question

"So, Bell, did you like the story?" an old man asked, his voice raspy as he closed the ancient book.

His five-year-old grandson, Bell, frowned, his small face creased with thought. "Grandpa, why did the other fairies hate Tonelico so much? She was trying to help."

The old man sighed, choosing his words with care. "Sometimes, people fear what they do not understand. Tonelico 's power, her unwavering commitment… it made her different. And for some, it is far easier to reject what is different than to accept it."

Bell pondered this, his innocence grappling with the concept. "But Grandpa, if people kept betraying her, why didn't anyone save her before she became the Winter Queen?"

"Perhaps many wished to," the old man said softly. "But with each betrayal, a little more light faded from her heart. The Winter Queen was not born in a day; she was forged by pain. By the time anyone realized the darkness had consumed her, it was too late. It is a lesson, Bell. We must offer kindness and understanding before a soul is lost to its shadows."

Bell's eyes shone with determination. "I'll be kind, Grandpa. I'll help people so they don't get lost like Tonelico."

The old man smiled, a weary, proud gesture. "That is a wonderful way to honor her story, my boy. Never underestimate the power of a single act of kindness."

Part 3: The First Steps of a Dream

Tragedy struck soon after. Monsters from the frontier claimed the old man's life, leaving Bell alone and devastated. After days of mourning, a resolve hardened within him. He would honor his grandfather not with sadness, but by chasing the dream they had always shared: to become a hero, to venture to the world's capital, Orario, and build a legend of his own—and perhaps, a harem of beautiful companions from every species, just like the heroes in his grandfather's tales.

'Watch over me from the heavens, Grandpa,' Bell whispered, closing the door of his empty home for the last time. 'I will be a hero just like in the stories you told me.'

The journey to Orario was a grueling test of spirit. Several days were required to reach the city.The "road" was little more than a dirt track, and sleeping under the stars was a cold, unforgiving experience. On the third day, as he trudged through a dense stretch of forest, a piercing scream shattered the silence.

"Help! Someone, please, help us!"

A damsel in distress! His heart leaped. Without a second thought, Bell started sprinted towards the cries without even realising.

He burst into a small clearing to find a scene of brutality: a merchant's cart lay overturned, its driver—an old man—slumped against a wheel, an arrow jutting from his shoulder. A dozen rough-looking bandits were ransacking the cargo.

His analysis was cut short as one of the thugs hauled a small, ornate crate from the wreckage. "Boss! Look at this!"

The leader, a hulking man named Vemin, grinned. "Good find. Kill the old man and burn the rest."

This isn't good ...I should not interfere.... They will kill me...No!!!If I want to be a hero I can't just let an innocent get killed.

"Hey!Stop it right now!" he shouted the albino as he burst out of his hiding place while brandishing the small sword trying to sound menacing.

“Hah? Who the hell are you, kid? You lost or somethin’?”

“I-I don’t care who you are! Ganging up on one man is cowardly! If you want to fight, then face me instead!" His voice firm yet hesitant.

“Hear that? The little rabbit wants to play hero!” one thug spat while laughing uncontrollably.

Bell clutches his knife, swallowing his fear,“M-Maybe I am just a rabbit… but I won’t run away. Not when someone needs help!”

“You’ll regret sticking your nose in, brat.”said the Vemin .Each and every one person of the group takes out the weapons.

As they started advancing toward him, fear and terror crept on him.

W-what am I doing? There are too many of them… I can’t win this fight. My legs are shaking… my heart feels like it’s going to burst. If I stay, they’ll crush me. I should run… I should get out of here while I can. No one would blame me, right?

…But… that man. If I run, they’ll just keep hurting him. Heroes don’t turn their backs, do they? Grandpa always said… “A true hero saves people, even when he’s afraid.

Still… I’m scared! I’m not strong enough yet… I’ll just get beaten down too. What should I do? What should I…?

I can’t beat them head-on… but I can at least protect that man. If I make them angry enough, they’ll chase me instead…!

Bell forced his voice louder, though it cracks“Y-you’re pathetic! Picking on someone defenseless… is that all you’re good for?!”

“What’d you say, brat?”

Despite his heart pounding and his legs trembling Bell vociferate“I said—come after me if you’re so tough! Leave him alone!”

“Heh. This little rabbit’s got guts. Let’s teach him what happens to noisy pests.” another thug said while grinning maliciously.

Bell reckoned as he slowly steps back"Okay… they’re taking the bait. Just a little more…"

Bell suddenly turned and spirited “Catch me if you can!”

“Get him!”

Panting as he runs, his thoughts racing ."Don’t look back. Just keep running.You just need to lose them in the forest and both you and that man will be safe. Come on, Bell, faster! You can’t let them catch you!"

Bell sprinted between the trees, branches clawing at his cloak and roots threatening to trip him with every step. His lungs burned, but he didn’t dare slow down. If they catch me here, no one will hear me scream. I have to keep moving.

Behind him, the thugs crashed through the underbrush.
“Don’t lose him!”
“Run him down!”

Bell thought, The forest is thick… if I weave between the trees, maybe I can shake them off. He ducked low, sliding under a hanging branch, leaves brushing against his hair. His heart pounded like a drum.

One of the thugs shouted from behind.
“You won’t get far, rabbit! We’ll skin you alive!”

Bell grit his teeth. No… I can’t think about what they’ll do if they catch me. Just focus on running. Faster… keep running.

Taking advantage of the dense forest Bell was slowly managing to get out of their sight."I could really pull the trick!"

But another voice rose close behind shattering his hope into smithereens.
“He went that way!”

Bell’s legs trembled as he stumbled over uneven ground. His boot snagged on a root, nearly sending him sprawling. He caught himself against a tree, gasping for breath. I can’t keep this up… they’re faster than I thought…

A shadow suddenly blocked his path. One of the thugs stepped out from behind a tree, grinning through the darkness.
“End of the road, kid.”

Bell’s grip tightened on his knife. His hand was shaking, sweat sliding down his cheek. If I fight here, I’ll lose. But… maybe I can trick him.

Bell raised his voice, forcing the words out between gasps.“If you’re so confident… then come and catch me yourself!”

The thug lunged, but Bell twisted to the side, shoving himself into a narrow gap between two trees. Bark scraped his arm raw as he squeezed through and broke into another sprint.

Don’t stop. Don’t look back. Just keep running. There has to be a way out of this forest… there has to be.

Bell’s legs screamed as he forced them to keep moving. The trees seemed endless, the forest pressing tighter with every step. His breath tore out of him in ragged gasps. I can’t… I can’t keep this up much longer…

The undergrowth rustled ahead. More shadows. More thugs.
“There he is!”
“Don’t let him slip through!”

Bell skidded to a halt, panic flashing through his chest. He spun to the side, darting deeper into the woods. Branches snapped at his arms and face, leaving scratches across his skin. If I can just find a river or a cliff—something—they won’t be able to follow so easily.

He burst into a small clearing, the moonlight spilling across the grass. For one terrifying second he thought he was free. Then, from the trees behind him, came the heavy footfalls of pursuit.

Bell’s knees wobbled. His body wanted to collapse, but his mind screamed at him to move. I can’t let them win. I have to keep going, no matter what.

He staggered forward, scanning desperately. And then he heard it—the rush of water, faint but steady. His heart jumped. A river. If I reach it, maybe I can lose them.

Bell clenched his jaw and pushed on, every step heavier than the last as the sound of water grew louder in his ears.

He clenched his jaw and pushed on, every step an agony, the sound of water and the sound of pursuit growing louder in a terrifying symphony. He burst through a final wall of ferns and saw it: a wide, swift-moving river, cutting a dark swath through the forest. But his hope shattered instantly. The bank on this side was steep, a sharp drop into the churning current below. There was no easy way down, and crossing was impossible.

He was cornered and exhausted.

"Looks like the rabbit's run out of warren," Vemin's voice growled from behind him. Bell spun around. The bandits emerged from the trees, fanning out to block any retreat. They were breathing heavily, but their eyes gleamed with the satisfaction of a hunt concluded.

Bell backed up until his heels scraped the edge of the riverbank. The drop was dizzying. His mind raced, but every path led to a dead end. He was out of tricks.

"Now," Vemin said, stepping forward and gesturing to the wiry half-elf,named Elvic. "Finish what we started. Make it slow."

Elvic grinned, drawing a pristine pair of curved dagger. "With pleasure, boss."

As Elvic advanced, a low, guttural rumble vibrated through the very air. It wasn't the river. It was deeper, more primal, and it came from a dark, gaping hole in the cliff face to their left—a cave they had all been too focused to notice.

Everyone froze.

The rumbling grew louder, coalescing into a ground-shaking roar that echoed off the trees. From the darkness of the cave, a massive shape emerged. Scales like tarnished obsidian gleamed dully in the moonlight. A head the size of a wagon swung into view, eyes burning with malevolent yellow intelligence. It was a Wyrm, a ancient, wingless dragon of immense size.

The bandits' bravado evaporated into pure, unadulterated terror.

"By the gods..." one of them whispered, his weapon clattering to the ground.

The Wyrm's gaze swept over the clearing, settling on the largest group of intruders: the bandits. It moved with shocking speed for its size, a serpentine blur. Its jaws snapped shut around the nearest thief, cutting off his scream with a sickening crunch.

Panic erupted.

"Forget the kid! Run!" Vemin yelled, his voice shrill with fear.

But it was too late. The Wyrm was a whirlwind of destruction, its tail whipping out to smash another bandit against a tree. The clearing became a slaughterhouse. Bell stood paralyzed, pressed against the cliff face, watching the nightmare unfold. This was a calamity far beyond bandits and stolen carts.

He saw Vemin, cornered between the river and the monster who fixated his gaze on him. He raises his sword in a futile gesture of defiance. The Wyrm's head darted forward, its massive jaws closing around the bandit leader. "Damn you, lizard!" Vemin screamed as he chancely succeed to evade its maw but not his claws which crashed on him pinning him on the ground.

Knowing that it's prey was trapped the monster prepared to tear the poor man apart with it's fangs were it not for Bell.

An impulse Bell didn't understand took hold. It wasn't heroism; it was a reflex, a rejection of the horrific death he was witnessing. Spotting a fallen bandit's crossbow nearby, he lunged for it. His hands shook so violently he could barely load a bolt.

Just one shot. Distract it. Give him a chance!

He raised the weapon, aimed for the creature's glaring eye, and fired.

The bolt flew true, striking the Wyrm squarely in its yellow eye. The beast roared in a new kind of agony, a sound of pure, incandescent rage. It thrashed its head, flinging Vemin's limp form against the water.

But now, the Wyrm's single, burning eye fixed on a new target: the white-haired boy who had caused it pain.

Bell dropped the crossbow. His plan to be a hero had summoned a nightmare. He turned to run, but there was nowhere to go but the treacherous riverbank. The Wyrm charged, its bulk shaking the earth.

He tripped, sprawling onto the gravel as the beast loomed over him, its hot, foul breath washing over him, smelling of blood and decay. It lunged. Bell rolled with a final, desperate surge of adrenaline, but not fast enough.

Excruciating pain exploded in his left shoulder as the Wyrm's teeth tore through flesh and bone. A scream was ripped from his throat as his arm was severed clean from his body. He landed a few feet away, the world swimming in a haze of shock and agony. The coppery smell of his own blood filled his nostrils.

The Wyrm, enraged by the lingering pain in its eye, swallowed the limb and prepared to charge again, determined to crush the source of its suffering.

No! Not like this! I haven't even seen Orario! I promised Grandpa!

Through the blinding pain, a cold clarity seized him. This was the end. But he would not die cowering. With his remaining strength, he fumbled for the crossbow which fortunately was already loaded. He would go down fighting.

He aimed for the other eye, his vision blurring. He fired.

The shot went wide, clattering harmlessly off the beast's thick scales.

Hope died. As the Wyrm reared for the final strike, Bell closed his eyes, thinking of his grandfather.

But the killing blow never came.

A sharp thwip cut through the air, followed by a sizzling sound. Bell's eyes snapped open. A second arrow, this one glowing with a faint, ethereal light, was now embedded in the Wyrm's remaining eye. The arrow seemed to burn, and the monster's roar was one of utter blindness and confusion.

Blinded and mad with pain, the Wyrm thrashed wildly, its massive body slamming into the cliff face.

Bell didn't wait. Clutching the bloody stump where his arm used to be, he scrambled backward, then stumbled to his feet. Driven by a primal will to survive, he staggered away from the river, back into the dark embrace of the forest, leaving the roaring beast behind. He had no thought, no plan, only the instinct to put distance between himself and the pain.

Somehow, through a haze of blood loss and shock, his feet found the path. He stumbled into the small clearing where it had all begun. The overturned cart stood as a grim monument. The old merchant was still unconscious, pale but breathing. Of the bandits, there was no sign, only the chilling silence after the storm.

Bell collapsed to his knees beside the cart. The world was fading in and out. He could feel his life seeping into the dirt. So... this is it...

Remembering the crate, the bandits' prize, he crawled toward it. It was his only hope.He had heard that there exists elixir so powerful that it can heal any wound and disease. He rummaged through jewels and silks with his one good hand in a desperate hope of finding it or anything that could stop the bleeding, his vision dimming to a gray tunnel. Then, his fingers brushed against something warm amidst the cold treasures.

It was a chalice, golden and intricately carved, pulsing with a gentle, inner light. As his blood-slicked fingers closed around it, a searing heat shot up his arm, a pain so intense it cut through the shock. A blinding flash of light erupted from the cup, engulfing the clearing in a silent, brilliant explosion.

When the light subsided, a figure stood where the chalice had been. A woman, tall and imperious, dressed in regal attire that spoke of forgotten kingdoms and endless winter. Her blue eyes, ancient and cold as glaciers, swept over the scene of carnage before settling on the dying boy at her feet. It was a face from a legend—a face of winter, summoned by an act of desperate, foolish courage.

Bell tried to speak, to ask for help, but the world dissolved into darkness. He collapsed, his head coming to rest at the feet of the beauty

Chapter Text

The first sensation was the absence of pain.

A moment ago, Bell’s world had been a screaming red universe of agony, centered on the ragged stump of his left shoulder. Now, there was only a dull, distant throb, as if the injury belonged to someone else. The metallic scent of his own blood still hung thick in the air, a stark contradiction to the strange peace that had settled over him.

He was lying on his back, staring up at the forest canopy. The leaves seemed sharper, the dappled sunlight more vivid. Had he died? Was this the heavens his grandfather had spoken of?

He remembered the shadow which had fallen over him, cold and absolute, blocking out the sun.

Towering above him was a woman. The regal figure from the light. Her presence was not merely physical; it was a weight on the world, an aura of power and profound winter that made the air itself feel still and heavy. Her gaze, the color of frozen violets, held no warmth, no concern, only a calculating, unnerving stillness

She was truly bewitching...A shame that i would be able to see her again.

…Wait..There’s a smell...it's  smoke .… warm. I can feel a blanket. I can ..feel...I’m… alive?

Bell Cranel’s consciousness surfaced through layers of shock and agony, not to searing pain, but to a profound, unnatural numbness. He blinked, his vision clearing on a twilight sky. He was lying on the ground , a rough blanket over him. The memory returned in a nauseating rush: the wyrm, the blood, the light, the fear, the hope.

He instinctively tried to move his left arm. A jolt of wrongness shuddered through him. He looked. His arm was gone, severed clean below the shoulder. But it was not a bloody wreck. It was encased in a sheath of impossibly clear, solid ice, intricate and beautiful like a glass sculpture, sealing the wound with a gentle, constant cold.

“Do not disturb the seal. It is temporary, but it will preserve the limb’s viability and prevent rot at least till I regain enough power to regenerate it.”

The voice was calm, clear, and carried an undeniable air of authority. Bell flinched, turning his head with a wince. The woman from the light sat nearby, tending a small, efficient fire while holding enormous black spear with her left hand. A pot whose design was out of this world hung over the fire, the source of a savory smell. In the firelight, she was even more striking—and intimidating. Her posture was royal, her gaze intense. He felt like a mouse under the scrutiny of a hawk.

“You… you saved me,” he managed to whisper, his voice cracking from the dryness of his throat.

She turned her gaze fully to him. It was not hostile, but it was so direct, so measuring, that he had to fight the urge to look away embrasse from facing the woman directly. “A statement of fact,” she replied evenly. “Your demise at the moment of my summoning would have been an unacceptable paradox. More importantly, it would have been…  problematic."

She stood and retrieved a wooden cup filled with water. Bell instinctively shrank back a little as she approached, but she simply handed it to him. The gesture was simple, but performed with an unnerving, absolute certainty.

“Drink.”

“Th-thank you,” Bell stammered, taking the cup with a trembling hand. He drank greedily, the water cooling his parched throat. “I… I’m Bell. Bell Cranel.” He dared a quick glance up at her before looking down at his lap, his face feeling warm.

The woman nodded once, a slight, acknowledging tilt of her head that felt profoundly formal. “I am Morgan.”

There was a weighty pause, as if she were deciding how much to reveal. Then she delivered the revelation that sent Bell’s mind reeling.

“During my time” she continued, her voice dropping into a register of solemn, ancient power, “I was the Queen. The sovereign of a Britain that was never to be. A Lostbelt.But now I exist as a heroic spirit”

Queen.

The word echoed in Bell’s mind loud and terrifying. His eyes widened, his jaw going slack. A Queen? Not just a powerful adventurer or a mage, but an actual, honest-to-goodness Queen? His brain scrambled to process it. He was a country boy from a tiny village. The most important person he’d ever met was the village elder. Royals were figures from stories, distant and glittering and utterly untouchable. They lived in castles, not camped in forests with dying boys.

He stared at her, truly seeing her for the first time. The regal posture wasn't just an attitude; it was ingrained. The commanding voice wasn't just confidence; it was the habit of command. The intricate, otherworldly dress wasn't just strange; it was royal attire. A cold dread mixed with awe washed over him. He had nearly died in front of a Queen. He had been speaking to a Queen. Informally!

“A… a Queen?” he squeaked, his voice barely a whisper. He felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to bow. His face, already warm, burned with a mixture of shock and sheer social terror. “Y-Your Majesty! I… I didn’t… I mean, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know! I didn’t mean any disrespect!Please forgive me for forcing you to cater for me” He fumbled out with the blanket, his one good hand shaking before performing a clumsy dogeza in front of her.

Morgan observed his panic with that same unnerving calm. “Titles are superfluous for now,” she stated, as if dismissing the entire concept of royal protocol with a wave of her hand. But then her next words cut through his panic, leaving a different kind of shock in its wake. “And..the circumstances of our meeting have overridden such formalities. By the laws of my reign and the nature of this bond, you are now my husband.I expect absolute faith and loyalty from you.”

Bell’s mind, already overloaded, short-circuited. The two concepts—Queen and husband—collided with catastrophic force. He made a small, strangled sound in the back of his throat. His face turned a shade of red that rivaled his own eyes.

“H-H-Husband?!” he squeaked, his face flushing a brilliant, unmistakable scarlet. He wanted to sink into the ground and disappear. This was so far beyond any interaction he’d ever imagined having with anyone, let alone a terrifyingly beautiful queen. "That's... that's too sudden! And... and what do you mean by Lostbelt? Or heroic spirit? I don't understand any of this!"

"An explanation is in order, then," Morgan stated, her voice cool and measured, slicing through his flustered panic. She observed him with a clinical gaze, as if diagnosing the source of his confusion. "From your reaction and the haphazard nature of my summoning, I deduce the ritual was not planned. Was it?"

"S..summon? Ritual?" Bell stammered, feeling utterly out of his depth. "I don't know about any of that!"

"You truly are ignorant of the fundamentals," she observed, not with malice, but as a simple, frustrating fact. "A Lostbelt is a pruned timeline, a history that was deemed a dead end and should not exist. I was the queen of such a place. A 'heroic spirit' is a servant summoned by the holy grail to fight other heroic spirits to fuel the artefact." She gestured to the chalice that now shimmered into existence in her hand through a sudden burst of blue flames. "This is the relic. The wish granting relic, the Holy Grail."

Bell stared, his mind struggling to wrap around concepts like "pruned timelines" and "heroic spirits." It was like listening to a foreign language. "I... I just know that I was dying and ended up touching that golden cup. It glowed before I collapsed."

"Yes. This," Morgan said, holding the Grail while wondering how such precious object fell onto the boy's hand. "Under normal circumstances, its activation would summon Servants like myself to compete in a brutal war. Yet... I sense no other Servants. No framework of conflict. This is an anomaly."

She handed the priceless object to him. Bell took it with his one trembling hand, the weight of it feeling far heavier than its physical form.

"You, in your desperation must have managed to activate it. There is no war. There is only one summoning, and thus, a bond. A contract evidenced  by the mark on your hand.I am linked to you ,if you die I will cease to exist." Her gaze intensified, pinning him in place. "In a standard Grail War, the summoned spirit would be a Servant, and the mage, its Master. A hierarchical relationship between a familiar and a mage. But for our case it is different.I am a Queen. I do not serve. I rule."

She leaned forward slightly, the air growing colder as frost began manifesting around them.

"Therefore, this abnormality requires a new paradigm. The Master-Servant dynamic is unacceptable. The only relationship where power is shared, and command is mutual, is that of a sovereign and their consort. Thus, I have declared you my husband. This places us on equal footing. You are not my master to command me, nor am I your servant to obey. We are partners. This is the only arrangement I will accept."

Bell’s mind was a jumble of fragmented thoughts. Husband... Queen... Lostbelt... The words swirled in his head, each one more impossible than the last. He was just Bell Cranel, a boy with a simple dream. None of this made any sense.

"I... I can't," he finally whispered, his voice small and defeated. He stared at the ground, unable to meet her gaze. "I don't understand any of this. A Grail War? Servants? It's like you're speaking a different language. And... and marriage?" His face burned anew. "How can you just decide something like that?"

He expected anger, or perhaps cold dismissal. Instead, Morgan simply watched him, her head tilted slightly.

"Your confusion is normal. We will table the discussion of our bond for now," she stated, her tone shifting from declarative to interrogative.

"First, I require a situational report. My memories begin at the moment of my materialization. I saw you, gravely wounded, and the chaotic scenery. Relay the events that transpired prior. Leave no detail out, no matter how insignificant it may seem to you. What led you to this state and triggered the Grail?"She questioned as she gave Bell a bowl with the a type of soup that was on the fire till then.

The sudden,  shift cut through Bell's emotional turmoil. He was being given a task, something concrete to focus on. He took a shaky breath, grateful for the distraction.

"O-okay," he stammered, nodding as he took the bowl and started eating. "I was on my way to Orario... and I heard a cry for help." He began to recount the events, his voice gaining a little steadiness as he described the bandits attacking the merchant, his own failed attempt to be a decoy, the chase through the woods, and the terrifying emergence of the wyrm. He told her about losing his arm, his desperate, failed shot with the crossbow, and his final, stumbling search through the merchant's belongings before his hand touched the warm chalice.

"...and then there was light, and... you were there," he finished, his story trailing off.

Morgan had listened in absolute silence, her eyes never leaving him. When he was done, she processed the information with unnerving speed.

"I see. So the catalyst was not a ritual, but a confluence of three factors: your mortal peril, your direct physical contact with the Grail, and a will to survive . A fascinating, if messy, activation sequence."

Her gaze swept over the clearing, analyzing the scene with new context.

"After the wyrn's attack the brigands are likely deceased or scattered.I had already healed the merchant" Her eyes shifting from  Bell to the cart on which the odd man was laid against. "This confirms the abnormality of the summoning. There is no opposing force, no director. We are operating in a vacuum."

"The priority is Orario," Morgan stated, her tone leaving no room for debate. "It is a population center and, based on your goal, a hub of power. We will secure resources, information, and a base of operations there. Your integration into a 'Familia' will provide a legitimate cover for our activities and a framework for your development."

She looked down at him, the discussion of their marriage postponed but not forgotten. The contract, in her mind, was already in effect.

"Can you stand?" she asked, her voice practical. "Our journey begins now."

As Bell began to push himself up, wobbly but determined, a wave of uncertainty washed over him. She was a queen from a lost world, a being of immense power. Why would she trouble herself with his simple dream?

"Your Majesty," he began, his voice timid, "are you... are you truly sure you want to come with me to Orario? I mean... it's my dream, but you... you're a Queen. You shouldn't have to—"

Morgan cut him off, not with sharpness, but with a simple, declarative statement that brooked no argument. "I have made my decision." She looked at him, and though her expression was as composed as ever, there was a finality in her words that silenced all his doubts. "A wife's place is at her husband's side, is it not?"

Bell, who had just managed to get his feet under him, stumbled slightly, his face instantly flooding with a brilliant, flustered crimson. "R-right!" he squeaked, his voice an octave higher than usual. He couldn't bring himself to look at her, focusing intensely on a nearby tree instead, his heart hammering against his ribs. The sheer, casual audacity of her statement, delivered with such regal certainty, left him utterly disarmed, but also with a strange, warm feeling.

The strange, warm feeling in Bell's chest was a fragile thing, a small flame trying to burn in the vast, cold reality of his situation. He was a one-armed boy, and he had just been claimed by a queen. As Morgan finished her declaration, her gaze swept over him, analytical and decisive.

"You seem to  now be ambulatory.. There is no benefit to remaining here," she said, turning away from him as if the matter was settled. "We can depart for Orario at once."

Panic, sharp and sudden, lanced through Bell's lingering daze. "Wait!"

Morgan paused, glancing back at him over her shoulder, one perfect eyebrow arched in silent inquiry. The sheer pressure of her gaze was enough to make him shrink, but he held his ground, gesturing weakly towards the merchant still slumped against the tree.

"We can't... we can't just leave him like this," Bell insisted, his voice gaining strength from his conviction. "He's still hurt. What if the bandits come back? Or another monster finds him? I... I didn't go through all that just for him to die alone out here after we left."

Morgan's expression remained impassive. "His chance of survival is already high. Involving ourselves further is an unnecessary expenditure of time and effort. Sentiment is a luxury we should not afford."

"It's not sentiment!" Bell protested, his face flushing with a mixture of frustration and earnestness. "It's... it's the whole point! If we abandon him now, then what was any of it for? " He looked at her, his crimson eyes pleading. "Please, your majesty. We have to make sure he's safe. I can't go to Orario with that on my conscience."

For a long moment, Morgan was silent, her frozen blue eyes studying him. He was a paradox—so weak he could barely stand, yet stubbornly defiant in the face of her. He was prioritizing this man life so much.It remindered her of her odd self.

An idiot girl who stubbornly saw the good in all despite the years of rejects, betrayals, insults , tortures and deaths.

And yet, it was the same core of irrational will that had summoned her.It might have being  his pure kindness that acted as the catalyst for her summon...If so then why her and not the true saviour.For this , she had no answer.

A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaped her lips. "Your attachment to him is foolish." She turned fully to face him, her decision made. "Very well. We will secure his safety. But you will assist, and we will be quick ."

Relief washed over Bell so powerfully his knees felt weak. "Thank you, Your Majesty!"

  "Gather the supplies that have scattered on the cart. I will construct a barrier,"she replied, her tone crisp causing the boy to nod .

"And one more thing,"Bell stopped in his track and looked back."Stop with 'your Majesty'.You are my consort ,not my subject "

"Y..Yes M..Morgan,"he said blushing.

then Bell, began the slow, one-armed process of collecting spilled food and goods, Morgan worked with ethereal grace. She traced intricate patterns in the air with her finger, each movement leaving a faint, shimmering rune of ice that hovered where she drew it. She placed these symbols at the four cardinal points around the merchant and the cart, weaving a bounded field that would not only conceal the site from sight but also emit a potent aura that would repel any creature of low to medium intelligence.

As Bell stacked the last of the recovered crates, he saw Morgan approach the merchant one final time. She placed a hand on his forehead, and a soft, blue light emanated from her palm, sinking into the man. "This  is a spell that will sustain his vitality and protect him from any dangers. It is more than he is owed."

With the task complete, Morgan turned to Bell. "The debt is settled. Your conscience is clear. Are you satisfied?"

Bell looked at the peacefully sleeping merchant, now safe within a gentle, glowing dome of magical energy. He nodded, a genuine, relieved smile touching his lips for the first time since the nightmare began. "Yes. Thank you."

His smile  proved to be somewhat effective against his wife, who suddenly felt her heart pulsating a little faster. She turned away from his disarming smile, her voice cool. "Do not mistake this for altruism. We requires capital." From within the folds of her dress, she removed a small but heavy pouch—clearly a portion of the merchant's Valis. "A consultation fee for services rendered. His life for a modest sum is a more than equitable trade."

"WAIT! Morgan, don't tell me you... you stole from him?" Bell's voice was a mix of disbelief, his moment of pure childish relief shattered.

Morgan's gaze was utterly unapologetic. "I merely took a compensation for our aid. A concept you seem to willfully ignore. My power is not a charity, and neither is my time. He received a service; he pays a fee. It is the most basic principle of any functioning society."

Bell's smile vanished. "Morgan, wait! You can't just take his money. We saved him, we can't rob him."

Her blue eyes narrowed slightly. "I expended a huge chunk of my magical energy to preserve a life he would have lost. Energy I must now replenish. This is not robbery; it is commerce. A concept you would do well to understand." She began to turn, dismissing his protest.

"But he didn't agree to it! He was unconscious! That's... that's just theft!" Bell protested, his hand clenching at his side. "We can't take advantage of people when they're down."

"The world does not run on your childish definitions of heroism, Bell," she countered, her tone sharpening. "It runs on power and transaction. I have the power to save his life. That power has value. I have chosen to collect it. He should be grateful I did not take more.And don't forget that your fund is quite meagre and won't won't be able to sustain us for long once in Orario."

"But it's still not right!" Bell insisted, stepping forward. "A hero helps people. They don't take payment from people who are hurt and can't say no."

The word 'hero' seemed to hang in the air between them. Morgan paused, her back to him. So naive. So painfully pure. She could feel the ghost of her own past screaming in agreement with him. With a sigh that was more for show than actual exasperation, she turned back and let a single, small coin—a fraction of the pouch's contents—fall to the ground beside the sleeping man.

"There. A token refund for his 'inability to negotiate'," she said, her tone full of sarcasm. "Are you happy now, my virtuous husband? Or shall we redistribute all our future assets to every stray we encounter?"

Bell looked at the single coin, then at her unyielding expression. He knew it was a token gesture, a symbolic victory at best. But it was a concession. She had listened, even if she mocked him for it. "I... It's a start," he managed, his cheeks flushing.

"Then our delay is truly over." Morgan faced the clearing's edge and raised her spear and stabbed the air. The air tore open, and a portal to Orario's outskirts shimmered into existence through a sudden burst of blue flames
"We depart. Now."

The portal swirled, a vortex of silver and blue that hummed with immense power. Through its shimmering surface, Bell could see a grassy plain and, in the distance, the towering walls of Orario. It was real. His dream was literally a step away, yet his feet felt rooted to the ground.

He looked from the portal to Morgan's impassive profile, then back to the single, glinting coin beside the sleeping merchant. The warmth he'd felt moments ago was now tangled with the cold reality of her actions. She had listened, yes, but she had also taken what wasn't hers. She was his wife.But she had also deprived a wounded man of his money.The money that he might had needed to feed his children.The money that he might had needed to tend to his dying These thoughts were  eating him from the inside.

"Morgan..." he began, his voice hesitant.

She did not look at him, her focus on maintaining the portal. "The discussion is closed, Bell. We are leaving. Now." Her tone was final, the voice of a queen giving an order.

But I am her husband, he thought, the realization giving him a sliver of courage. She said we were partners. She said we were equals. He remembered the feel of her hand, the slight tremor he'd felt before it steadied. She wasn't as unmovable as she seemed.

"Taking that money... it doesn't sit right with me," he said, his voice firmer now yet hesitant at the same time. "It feels like we're no better than the bandits who attacked him, just... tidier about it."

This finally made her turn her head. Her azul eyes were sharp, but he saw a flicker of something else within them—not anger, but a complex, weary recognition. "The bandits sought to take his life for mere trinkets. I preserved his life and took a pittance. The two are not equivalent. Your moral compass, while... commendable in its simplicity, is ill-suited for the world we are about to enter." Her gaze drifted towards the distant city. "The world will not care for your delicate conscience. It will eat you alive if you let it."

"Then maybe you shouldn't let it," Bell countered, meeting her gaze fulfilled with hope. "You seem powerful. We don't have to play by the rules of a world that 'eats people alive.' We can be better. You can be better.".

Morgan's lips pressed into a thin line. The portal flickered for a fraction of a second. Foolish, impossible boy. He looks at a tyrant and sees a savior. He looks at a transaction and sees a sin. She saw the ghost of Tonelico in his eyes again, but this time, it wasn't a memory to be scorned. It was a challenge. A dare to believe that the path of the Winter Queen was not the only one available to her anymore.

"Your idealism is a dangerous weapon, one you do not yet know how to wield," she said, her voice quieter, the edge of royal command softened into something more like... warning. "It will get you killed."

A long, heavy silence stretched between them, broken only by the hum of the portal. Finally, Morgan let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. She looked from Bell's determined face to the pouch of Valis at her waist, then back to him.

"Very well," she conceded, her voice flat. She didn't return the money, but she didn't dismiss his words either. "We will navigate Orario your way, for now. But when your 'better' way fails to put food on our table or a roof over our heads, we will do things my way. That is my compromise."

It wasn't the victory Bell had hoped for, but it was something. It was a acknowledgment that his voice mattered in their outlandish marriage.

"Thank you, Morgan," he said, a small, genuine smile returning to his lips.

"Save your thanks. You may yet curse my indulgence," she replied, but the frost in her voice had thawed by a degree. She extended her hand towards him, not in a demand, but in an invitation. "Now, come. Our future awaits."

Bell nodded. He took one last look at the forest, the site of his death and rebirth, then turned and placed his hand firmly in hers. Her grip was cool and sure.

Together, they stepped through the portal. The world twisted and folded around them, and in the space between heartbeats, the quiet clearing was gone, replaced by the wide-open plains at the foot of the legendary city. The journey was over. Their story, with all its conflict, compromise, and fragile connection, was just beginning.The beginning of a hero and the true  beginning of their life as husband and wife.

Somewhere else at the same time, in a dank, hidden cave that served as a temporary bandit camp, the air was thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and panic.

"FUCK! FUCK! FUCKKK! WE ARE SO FUCKED!!!" cried Vemin, pacing like a caged animal, his movements jerky and pained. Each step sent a fresh jolt of agony from his cracked ribs, but the fire of terror burning in his gut was a far greater pain.

"Boss, you should calm down," Elvic said from where he sat, meticulously cleaning a gash on his arm with a strip of torn cloth. His voice was a studied calm, a stark contrast to his leader's frenzy.

"Calm down? Calm down?! You want me to FUCKING CALM DOWN?!" Vemin whirled on him, his face a mask of fury and fear. "Our group got annihilated by that damned monster! We got humiliated by a snot-nosed child! My ribs are fucking cracked! And you want me to calm down?" Spittle flew from his lips as he gestured wildly.

"I know we are in deep shit," Elvic replied, his tone even, though a flicker of annoyance crossed his features. "But if you don't cool off, you will reopen your wounds. Bleeding out in this cave helps no one."

"I DON'T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT MY WOUNDS!!" Vemin roared, clutching his side. "WE FAILED THE FUCKING MISSION!!" His voice cracked, the rage giving way to sheer, unadulterated terror. He took a few staggering steps before slumping against the cave wall, his energy spent. "What do you think will happen to us when Thanatos finds out we failed to rob one senile old man of the most important tool for his plan?" he whispered, his eyes wide with horrific visions. "He will fucking torture us and kill us in the most horrific ways imaginable. We're dead men. We're dead!"

"Haah..." Elvic let out a long, weary sigh, finally looking up from his wound and fixing his leader with a steady gaze. "We.have. not .failed. the. mission."

Vemin's head snapped up. "Huh?" he grunted, confusion cutting through his panic. "What do you mean...?"

"While it is true that we lost the rest of the party," Elvic clarified, a slow, cunning smile spreading across his face, "it won't matter one bit if we manage to bring back the merchandise. A loss of manpower is regrettable, but replaceable. Losing the Grail is not." He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And if you have not forgotten, that merchandise is in the possession of a dying man and a one-armed boy who, by all rights, should have bled out hours ago. They won't pose much of a threat against the two of us, even in our current state."

Vemin stared at him, the logic slowly piercing the fog of his panic. The frantic energy drained from his body, replaced by a cold, sharp focus. The memory of the white-haired brat stumbling away, his arm torn off, was vivid. The old merchant had been half-dead already.

"Damnit..." Vemin said after a moment of heavy silence, pushing himself off the wall. A grim, determined look hardened his features. "You... you are right."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Elvic said, standing up and testing his weight on his injured leg with a wince. "We should go fetch our prize. The sooner we deliver the Grail to Lord Hades, the sooner we can put this... unfortunate incident behind us and collect our reward."

A dark, greedy light ignited in Vemin's eyes. The fear of punishment was now overshadowed by the promise of gold and favor. "Yeah. Let's go. That old man and that little bastard have something that belongs to us." He grabbed his sword, his pain forgotten in the wake of a new, brutal purpose. The hunt was back on.

The grim resolve that had solidified in the dank air of the cave began to curdle just a few hundred yards from their destination. The forest was too quiet. The normal sounds of life—the chittering of squirrels, the songs of birds—were utterly absent, leaving a vacuum of silence that pressed in on their ears. Vemin and Elvic moved with a pained, hobbling gait, their injuries a constant, throbbing reminder of their failure. Every snapped twig underfoot sounded like a thunderclap.

"Something's wrong," Elvic whispered, his hand going to the dagger at his belt. His elf-blooded senses were screaming a silent alarm. "It's not just the wyrm's aftermath. This silence is... Artificial."

"Shut up and keep moving," Vemin grunted, though he too felt the oppressive stillness. His cracked ribs sent a sharp spike of pain through his torso with every other step, fueling his rage. "It's just the forest. The monster scared everything off."
"It's this way," Vemin grunted, his voice tight with pain as he pointed toward a familiar-looking thicket. "The cart should be just through there. The old man first. Then we find the brat."

Elvic, his senses screaming, held up a hand. "Wait." His sharp eyes, honed by his half-elf heritage, were fixed on the ground. "Look."

There, almost invisible against the dark soil, was a single, dark drop. Then another a few feet away. A trail of dried blood, leading away from the direction they were headed.

Vemin’s face split into a vicious, predatory grin. "That's the rabbit's trail. He was bleeding out. He can't have gotten far." The thought of finding the white-haired boy—weak, helpless, and alone—sent a thrill of anticipatory violence through him. "Forget the old man for a minute. This is more important. We follow this. We find him, we finish what that damned lizard started, and we make him pay for every bit of this." He gestured at his own cracked ribs.

Elvic frowned, his  mind assessing the situation. "Boss, our priority should be the cart. Securing the area. The boy is likely already dead. This is a waste of energy we don't have."

"It's not a waste!" Vemin snapped, his eyes blazing. "That little bastard made a fool of us! He got my men killed! He humiliated me! I'm not letting him bleed out peacefully in some hole. I'm going to look him in the eye when I cut his throat. Now, are you following me, or are you going to stand here and argue?"

Seeing the fanatical light in his leader's eyes, Elvic knew reasoning was useless. With a resigned sigh, he nodded. "We follow the trail."

They abandoned their original path and began to track the sporadic droplets and the occasional smeared handprint on a tree trunk. The trail was a testament to a staggering, disoriented flight, weaving erratically through the undergrowth.

"He was crawling," Elvic observed, his voice clinical. "Losing strength. We're close."

They pushed on, the trail growing slightly more pronounced. And then, it did something unexpected. It curved, leading them not deeper into the wilderness, but back towards the very clearing they had originally been heading for.

Vemin let out a low, ugly laugh. "He came back! The stupid rabbit came back to the cart to die with the old man! This is perfect. We can finish them both together."

They followed the final few drops of blood, which led them right to the edge of the treeline. And there, they stopped dead, their vengeful anticipation evaporating into stunned, silent disbelief.

The clearing was... clean. Unnaturally so.

The merchant's cart stood upright, as if it had never been overturned. The scattered crates and goods were not looted or ruined; they were neatly stacked beside it, organized with an almost military precision. And the merchant himself—the old man who should have been a corpse, or at best a dying, groaning wreck—was propped against a wheel, wrapped in a clean blanket, his chest rising and falling in the rhythm of deep, untroubled sleep. His face was peaceful. There was no sign of the arrow wound,  no pain, only dried blood on his clothes.

"What in the seven hells..." Vemin breathed, his jaw slack with disbelief. The sword in his hand felt suddenly useless, a child's toy against this… this erasure of their violence.

Elvic didn't share his leader's stunned confusion; he was gripped by a cold, clinical dread. His eyes weren't on the cart or the man, but on the air itself. He saw it—a faint, shimmering distortion in the light, like heat haze on a cold day. He cautiously extended a hand and flinched back as his fingers met an invisible wall that was bitingly cold. For a fleeting second, intricate, glowing runes of pale blue light flickered into visibility where he had touched, weaving a complex net around the entire clearing before fading back into invisibility.

"A bounded field," Elvic whispered, his face ashen. "A powerful one. Concealment, protection... preservation. This is high-level magecraft, Boss. We're not dealing with a lucky kid or a dying old man. Someone else was here. Someone with immense power."

"Who?!" Vemin snarled, his fear rapidly converting back into fury. "Who did this? Where is the brat? Where is the Grail?!"

The answer, or at least a part of it, became horrifyingly clear. As Vemin's wild eyes scanned the scene again, they fell upon a campfire a few feet next to the cart.And next to that lie the ornated crate that contained the grail, empty.

The Grail was gone. They had been robbed.

And the one who robbed them could only be..

The realization hit Vemin with the force of a physical blow. All the air left his lungs in a choked gasp. His sword slipped from his numb fingers and clattered onto the forest floor. The mission was a catastrophic failure. Hades's prized artifact, the key to his entire plan,the weapon of chaos that should have brought the world to its knee,, was lost. And they were the ones who had lost it.

The terror of their patron's wrath was an icy hand closing around his heart. His own fate was now sealed, and it was a fate worse than any wyrm's maw.

His panicked, despairing gaze fell on Elvic, and a new, ugly thought bloomed in his mind. A memory from the chaos of the attack: the wyrm, blinded by the boy's lucky shot, thrashing in agony. And then, a second arrow, perfectly aimed, flying from the depths of the forest to blind its other eye. An arrow that had saved the boy's life.

"Elvic..." Vemin's voice was a low, dangerous rasp.

Elvic, still studying the magical barrier, didn't catch the tone. "We need to think, Boss. We need to find out who took it. This kind of power leaves a trail—"

"Your arrow," Vemin interrupted, his voice rising. "When that damned lizard had the little bastard dead to rights... you shot it in the other eye."

Elvic finally turned, his expression guarded. "It was the logical move. A fully blinded wyrm is a disoriented wyrm. It gave us the opening we needed to escape."

"ESCAPE?!" Vemin roared, his pain forgotten in a surge of incandescent rage. He took a menacing step forward. "It gave him the opening he needed to escape! You saved him, you half-breed bastard! You had a clear shot! You could have put an arrow through that rabbit's heart and been done with it! We could have walked back here, finished the old man, and taken the Grail with no one the wiser! But no! You had to be 'logical'!"

He was screaming now, spittle flying from his lips, his face purpling. "You blinded the beast instead of killing the boy! And now look! LOOK!" He gestured wildly at the pristine clearing, the sleeping merchant, the mocking coin. "Your 'logic' cost us everything! He lived long enough for... for this to happen! He lived long enough to reach the fucking grail to  take what was ours! This is your fault!"

Elvic stood his ground, his own anger rising to meet Vemin's. "My fault? My fault?! You were the one screaming and panicking when the wyrm appeared! You were the one who let a child with a rock lead us on a chase! I saved our lives! If I hadn't shot that arrow, the wyrm would have slaughtered the boy and then turned its attention back to us! We would be dead in its gullet, not standing here! You're blaming me for your own incompetence and cowardice!"

The accusation hung in the silent clearing, more damaging than any physical blow. The last shred of their camaraderie evaporated. They were no longer leader and lieutenant; they were two doomed men looking for someone to blame before the end.

Vemin stared at Elvic, his chest heaving. The truth in the elf's words only made the fury burn hotter. He wanted to lunge, to wrap his hands around Elvic's throat and squeeze. But the effort seemed pointless. The fight was over. They had lost.

He looked back at the shimmering barrier, an impenetrable wall between them and any hope of redemption. A single gold coin seemed to wink at him in the dappled sunlight.

With a sound that was half-sob, half-groan, Vemin sank to his knees, his head in his hands. The image of Hades's displeasure was the only thing left in his world.

Elvic watched him crumble, his own body trembling with a mixture of fury and a cold, creeping fear. They hadn't just failed an ordinary mission.They had failed THE MISSION. Their fate, as Vemin had said, was now sealed. And the path to that fate had been paved, in part, by an arrow meant to save their lives, which had inadvertently saved the life of the one boy who would become their ultimate ruin.

The silence stretched, thick with despair. Then, a low, guttural sound escaped Vemin's throat. He pushed himself up from the ground, his movements stiff but filled with a new, desperate energy. His eyes, which moments before had been pools of terror, now glinted with a feverish, reckless light.

"No," he snarled, wiping dirt and spit from his mouth. "No, we ain't going down like this. We ain't going to wait in some hole for Hades's Reapers to come collect our souls."

Elvic stared at him, exhaustion and skepticism warring on his face. "And what, precisely, do you propose we do? Chase a phantom ?We are wounded, broke, and our entire operation is ashes."

"We will return to Orario," Vemin declared, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world.

Elvic let out a short, bitter laugh. "Alright. You have finally, truly lost your marbles. Return to the city? The one place Evilus'  agents will be looking for us the hardest? We might as well slit our own throats now and save them the trouble."

"No, you idiot!" Vemin shot back, his mind racing, piecing together a plan from the shattered fragments of their situation. "We play low. We become ghosts. We use the last of our hidden funds, the emergency cache. We don't attract attention. But we hire someone who can." A cruel smile twisted his lips. "We hire the Hermes Familia."

Understanding, reluctant and grim, began to dawn on Elvic's face. The Hermes Familia was infamous in the underworld. Information brokers, smugglers, adventurers-for-hire with enough valis. If anyone could find a single, unknown boy  it was them.

Vemin leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "They'll do anything for the right price. We give them a description. The white hair, the red eyes, the missing arm—he'll stand out like a sore thumb. They'll find him. And once they do..." His smile widened into a rictus of pure malice. "...we will pay our little rabbit a visit that he will not ever forget. We will take back what's ours, and we will make him scream for every second of trouble he's caused us."

He was breathing heavily now, the plan fueling him, giving him a purpose beyond mere survival. It was a long shot, a desperate gamble drowning in a sea of "ifs," but it was the only shot they had.

Elvic was silent for a long moment, weighing the sheer insanity of it against the certain, horrific alternative. Finally, he gave a slow, grim nod. "It's a plan," he conceded, his voice flat. "A terrible, suicidal plan that will probably get us killed in new and exciting ways. But I don't think we can do anything else."

It was settled. They would not go quietly into the god of the death's embrace. They would crawl back to Orario, bleed their last resources dry, and send the Hermes familia on the trail of the one-armed boy. Their fate was not yet sealed.