Pillar of Yita

’Go, young people, I ask you to rescue the King’s son, as if you are saving the son of the Istani People.’

’Save all the people here today, or die on this land, and we shall lay our heads upon the blade, just as if in peaceful sleep.’

’The Istani People fought for honor in the past, and today is no different.’

Just as described in the old epics, like the great wars of the past.

The Knights moved in rows, lowering their spears, like flowing mercury, cascading from the tower ruins’ gaps, and from the edge of Vision, straight down.

Over the dark sea of twisting creatures, the flags of the Istania People advanced slowly.

Everyone saw it.

”His Majesty has returned!”

No one knew who shouted first, but the successive cheers echoed through the skies.

”It’s His Majesty who has returned!”

The distant voices reached the Inner Court.

Delan listened to that sound and turned his head. Beside him, the young girl leaned weakly against the enormous chair, tilting her head, eyelids drooped, with thick lashes unmoving.

Her skin was as pale as snow, tender and fragile, quiet as a dream in deep sleep, unreachable even by calling. The enormous chair was like a throne, upon which rested a pure and flawless Princess.

Until the gentle footsteps seemed to part the crowd.

Amidst the ministers, whispered discussions arose, though each voice soon hushed.

Barbaltan walked into the courtyard, wearing a cloak stained with blood, looking at the quietly sleeping girl, a trace of tenderness in his gaze.

He gently stopped, as if afraid to disturb his daughter, removing his cloak and handing it to the Servant beside him. His little daughter stood by, holding her mother’s wooden effigy, blinking as she curiously watched the sleeping girl before her.

She had felt some dissatisfaction and jealousy towards the girl her father named, sharing her own name.

But she knew her name was only given by her now dimly remembered mother.

Gazing at the serene face, a peculiar feeling arose in the Little Princess’s heart, subtly aching at the nose’s tip, eyes seeming to blur like covered in mist.

For it was indeed her mother’s face—

The past memories quietly flowed into her heart.

Barbaltan gently approached the girl, placing his hand on her snow-like forehead, the motion as gentle as caressing his daughter’s face.

He did not speak, but a voice came from behind.

”Father,” Aleph also brought Saisheer from the back of the crowd, ”Mr. Delan has already spoken to me, but Miss Affia herself is not part of this mistake, she does not need to sacrifice herself for anyone—”

”The ones who truly bear responsibility for this are us,” he paused, momentarily at a loss for words, ”you’ve taught me since childhood to protect my younger siblings, especially since I am an Istania, I have the obligation to guard this land.”

”Therefore, I am also your son, please allow me to replace Miss Affia...”

But Barbaltan did not interrupt as he had in the past, rather, he looked at his eldest son, waiting until he had finished speaking, then shook his head: ”Aleph, you are the future ruler of this land, do you understand what responsibilities a King must fulfill?”

Aleph unusually refuted: ”But...”

”Aleph,” the King of Sand’s tone softened: ”Neither did Delan tell you, not every member of the Royal House of Penelope holds the Key—”

”Rupert’s mother had already arranged all of this,” Barbaltan turned back, replying lightly: ”Return, Aleph, leave here to me.”

Aleph looked towards Delan, but Delan only silently watched him. A complex expression flashed in the Prince’s eyes, but ultimately he could only sigh, turn around, and walk out from the crowd.

Barbaltan silently watched everyone leave the courtyard.

Finally, his gaze fell on his little daughter, he crouched down, gently stroking her hair braid: ”Affia, you should go too...”

”Father...” The Little Princess looked at him anxiously, though willful, she remained innocent, but detected some of the conversation’s implications between her father and elder brother.

She always felt that she might forever lose something after leaving, and looking at the immobile sleeping girl on the long bench, her voice carried a hint of sob: ”Are you, you going to leave me and sister behind...?”

The King of Sand gently asked: ”Why do you think so, my daughter?”

But the Little Princess, with tears, couldn’t speak.

The ruler gazed at his little daughter, suddenly understanding something, he sighed lightly, unable to resist blinking the corner of his eye.

He gently wiped away the tears from the side of his daughter’s face, in an unusually tender reply: ”I’m sorry, Affia, ten years ago, I didn’t take care of your mother properly.”

”I’m sorry, I failed to fulfill the responsibilities of a father and a husband.”

”But over these ten years, this must come to an end,” he said tearfully, ”this is the Covenant between your mother and me, it’s her final blessing left for you—”