The rhythmic thud of thousands of armored hooves escorting the modern convoy created a thunderous symphony across the pristine grasslands. At the front of the vanguard, the First Patriarch rode with a casual, terrifying grace, his frost-laden silver hair catching the midday sun as he led his time-displaced descendants toward the horizon.
As they crested the final hill, the true majesty of Celestia-Belessier finally revealed itself.
Rising out of the endless plains was a breathtaking metropolis of white stone and shimmering silver spires, its grand architecture perfectly mirroring the eternal winter aesthetic of the North. It was a sprawling, pristine capital untouched by the wear of sixteen hundred years.
"So, how is it?" the Patriarch asked, slowing his massive white stallion to ride directly alongside Anastasia's carriage.
Anastasia looked out the window, her amethyst eyes reflecting the glittering expanse of the ancient city. "It's magnificent to see how it was over a millennium ago, Patriarch. I never thought I would ever truly look upon this landscape."
A faint, proud smile graced the Patriarch's lips beneath his silver beard. "So, descendant... what has House Belessier achieved after my time?"
The question was simple, but it carried the immense weight of a founder asking about his legacy. Anastasia's expression turned solemn as she looked back at him.
"During the centuries following your era, there were countless wars, sir," Anastasia explained softly. "House Belessier was always at the absolute forefront, conquering and securing the northern territories just as you intended. But... as the history books record, our house had to endure terrible hardship after the new Emperor took hold of the throne in the year 729."
The Patriarch's eyes narrowed, the ambient air around the carriage noticeably dropping in temperature. "Hm? What happened then?"
"The Emperor, terrified of our military strength and our influence, completely isolated us," Anastasia said, her voice tightening. "He starved our territory from trading with the rest of the continent."
BOOM!
In a sudden strike of pure fury, the Patriarch slammed his armored fist against the thick wood of the carriage door, the violent impact rattling the entire vehicle and causing the escorting knights to jump.
"What?!" the Patriarch roared, a suffocating aura of bloodlust flaring from his posture.
"Please calm yourself, Patriarch," Anastasia urged quickly, maintaining her composure. "House Belessier did not break. We endured the blockade, and in doing so, we grew completely self-sufficient. We became a proud sovereign nation, eventually attracting countless legendary artisans and unparalleled talents to the North."
The Patriarch exhaled a heavy, frosted breath, his anger cooling into a dark, simmering pride. "Good. As a Belessier should."
"Then, in the year 744, House Belessier ventured out beyond the boundaries of the western continent," Anastasia continued, a spark of reverence in her eyes. "We conquered the tumultuous northern seas, claiming every strategic island along the way as we forged a path to the eastern continent."
"HAHAHAHA! So we really did venture out into the open sea!"
A hearty, booming laugh erupted from the Patriarch's chest, the sound echoing across the grasslands and causing his massive white stallion to prance with excitement. He smiled in absolute contentment, his chest swelling with pride. For his entire life, crossing those forbidden waters had been nothing more than a distant, impossible dream—and now, he had living proof that his bloodline had turned it into reality.
"Keep going, child!" the Patriarch urged eagerly, leaning down slightly from his saddle, completely hooked on every word of his family's future glory. "What else did we do? Tell me what happens next!"
"Just a decade later, in 754, Belessier launched a massive campaign to conquer the rugged mountain ranges to the east and south," Anastasia explained, her voice steady and proud. "With those territories secured, our borders fully surrounded the mainland Empire on both the northern and western frontiers."
The Patriarch's eyes widened, a look of sheer, ecstatic shock flashing across his sharp features. "OH MY! We grew larger than the Empire itself?!" Anastasia met his astonished amethyst gaze and offered a small, triumphant smile. "That's exactly right, my lord."
Soon, they reached the outer settlements, signaling that they still had eight days of travel left before they would officially pass through the majestic gates of Celestia-Belessier.
As dusk began to fall, the massive expedition settled down for the night near a wide, rushing river. The sheer volume of wagons, mounted guards, and traveling staff was staggering—it felt like a moving city all on its own.
Watching the chaotic harmony from the window of her carriage, Anastasia thought to herself, It's no wonder the Empire was terrified of us. If a single traveling convoy of the First Patriarch is this massive, how terrifyingly vast must our actual military be?
"What are you thinking about, dear children?"
The booming voice startled Anastasia and Aurelian out of their thoughts. They turned to see the Patriarch himself approaching their camp. He had walked over on foot, his sharp amethyst eyes wide with genuine marvel as he watched the modern forces. He couldn't help but admire how terrifyingly efficient the modern knights were at establishing a flawless defensive perimeter, and how effortlessly the maids had started fires and begun preparing meals.
Anastasia offered a respectful bow. "I was just thinking that it was because of our sheer, undeniable might that the Empire grew so afraid of us, my lord."
"Hoho, of course!" The Patriarch chuckled, a proud gleam in his eye. "And this convoy is only a small fraction of House Belessier. Those who await us back in Celestia-Belessier outnumber us many times over. But tell me, child... what is that strange tent over there with the large red cross painted on top of it?"
"Oh! That is our medical tent, my lord," Anastasia explained, gesturing toward the reinforced canvas structure. "It is where we treat our sick and wounded."
"Oh? Is that so?" The Patriarch's curiosity was instantly piqued, wondering just how far the art of healing had evolved over sixteen hundred years. "Then would you be able to take care of some of my injured knights? A few of them took some nasty scrapes in the border skirmishes."
"With pleasure, my lord!"
A junior doctor suddenly jumped up from a nearby crate, standing perfectly at attention with a bright, eager look that instantly drew the head physician's attention.
The head doctor, hearing the commotion, wandered over to where Anastasia and the Patriarch were standing. He bowed deeply, a warm smile wrinkling the corners of his eyes. "Good evening, Patriarch. These old bones of mine are more than eager to help your men."
"That sounds wonderful," the Patriarch replied, grinning warmly at the physician's dedication.
But as he looked at the glowing magical diagnostic tools being prepped inside the tent, the Patriarch's smile slowly faded. A heavy, suffocating shadow fell over his face, and his amethyst eyes grew profoundly somber. He stared into the distance, his heart aching as he thought of his late daughter—and how different things would be if this futuristic medicine had been around to save her from the ruthless illness that took her life.
Noticing the sudden shift in the legendary warrior's demeanor, Anastasia stepped closer. "Are you alright, Patriarch?"
Seeing the glorious, invincible founder of her house looking so fragile and grief-stricken humbles Anastasia deeply. It is a sobering reminder that even the most powerful warriors in human history cannot win every single battle—whether it be a bloody clash on the battlefield, or the silent, agonizing wars fought against sickness.
The head doctor led the way into the large medical tent, the interior illuminated by the steady, ambient glow of floating Aether lanterns. Several of the Patriarch's wounded scouts were already resting on neat cots, their tattered armor set aside. The ancient soldiers looked up with a mix of apprehension and awe as the modern medical staff moved around them with practiced, sterile precision.
The tent flap brushed aside, and the Patriarch stepped inside. For the evening comfort of the camp, he had finally shed his blinding, pristine white armor and heavy crimson combat cloak. Instead, he wore a relaxed, high-collared tunic of midnight-blue silk, fastened with a simple silver sash that bore the crest of House Belessier. Even without the imposing steel plate, his broad shoulders and commanding stature filled the space, the soft fabric draping elegantly over his formidable frame.
"Let us see what sixteen hundred years of progress looks like," the Patriarch murmured, his voice low but sharp with curiosity as he rolled up his loose sleeves.
The junior doctor, eager to prove himself, approached the nearest wounded scout—a young man with a deep, jagged spear gash tearing across his forearm. Instead of reaching for linen bandages or pungent herbal poultices, the young physician drew a sleek, silver-plated wand from his belt.
With a focused breath, the doctor channeled his energy. The tip of the wand erupted into a soft, shimmering grid of emerald-green Aether light. He swept the light slowly over the open wound.
The ancient scout flinched, bracing for the sting of alcohol or fire, but his eyes immediately went wide. As the green light washed over the lanceration, the bleeding stopped instantly. The torn muscle tissue began to knit itself back together, and fresh skin rapidly sealed the gap, leaving behind nothing but a faint, fading pink line.
The Patriarch gasped, taking a sudden step forward, the silk of his tunic rustling. He reached out, his calloused, unarmored fingers gently grasping his scout's arm to inspect it. The skin was completely smooth. It was warm to the touch, fully healed in a matter of seconds.
"Incredible..." the Patriarch whispered, a profound bewilderment overtaking his sharp features. "A wound that would take my best healers weeks of chanting and risking deadly fever... undone in a single breath."
The head doctor smiled softly, though a look of deep understanding passed through his eyes as he looked at the somber monarch. "Medicine has come far, my lord. We no longer just patch the body; we teach the body's own life force to rewrite its injuries."
The Patriarch slowly let go of the soldier's arm, staring down at his own bare hands. The awe in his eyes was instantly shadowed by a quiet, lingering grief, the ghost of his late daughter heavy in his heart. But he forced a warm, appreciative smile to his lips, turning back to Anastasia and the physicians.
"House Belessier is in good hands," the Patriarch said, his voice thick with emotion. "You have brought miracles with you from the future."
The jade hairpin tucked into Anastasia's silver hair suddenly began to throb with a soft, pulsing luminescence.
The Patriarch's sharp eyes caught the light instantly. "Child," he pointed out, his voice turning intrigued. "The Wanderer is calling for you."
Anastasia gasped, her hand flying to her hair. A sudden, heavy silence fell over the medical tent and the surrounding camp as anticipation rippled through the knights.
"How do you know, Patriarch?" she asked, carefully sliding the glowing jade ornament from her locks.
"Oh, that is just what usually happens right before the bastard decides to show up," the Patriarch replied with a casual shrug.
Aurelian's eyes grew as wide as saucers, and he began to jump up and down, cheering excitedly. "Is the man and the big horsey coming, Sis? Is he?!"
"U-uh, well... if that is what the Patriarch says, then surely..." Anastasia patted her little brother's head, though she was secretly wondering the exact same thing.
Suddenly, a violent boom of thunder echoed through the vast sky, shattering the quiet evening—even though the heavens above were completely clear and littered with stars.
"There he comes," the Patriarch remarked, a smirk playing on his lips at the impending arrival of the mysterious traveler.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The rhythmic, earth-shaking thuds of heavy hooves reverberated through the ground, growing rapidly closer.
"Tsk. An unnecessarily flashy entrance, as always," the Patriarch muttered in a playful, exasperated tone.
Out of the moonlit mist, the unmistakable, towering silhouette emerged from the darkness.
"The Midnight Stallion never ceases to amaze me," the Patriarch mumbled, watching the massive, shadowy beast approach the campfires.
Anastasia's eyes widened with genuine excitement, her heart fluttering at the prospect of seeing Allister again. But her joy was instantly cut short. As the horseman stepped into the light of the fires, she realized he wasn't wearing his signature casual overcoat. Instead, the figure clad in tattered, battered armor looked like a heavily bruised warrior, his body slumped over and barely holding onto the reigns as the stallion, Alexandr, trotted slowly toward them.
The Patriarch's playful smirk vanished. His eyes widened in pure horror as he saw that the enigmatic entity who had conquered time itself was now clinging to the last threads of his consciousness.
"My God, man! What happened to you?!" the Patriarch shouted, rushing forward on instinct.
But his horror lasted for only a fraction of a second.
Just as the Patriarch reached the horse, Allister completely lost his footing and fell off the saddle, crashing face-first into the dirt—only to instantly spring back up to his feet, completely unharmed.
"HAH! Got you, idiot!" Allister burst out laughing, a brilliant, mischievous grin on his face as he pointed a finger at the heart-attack-stricken ruler.
The Patriarch froze, his face twisting in a mix of sheer shock and utter rage. "FUCK! YOU SHIT!" he roared, throwing his hands up in the air.
The immediate, explosive banter between the two men spoke volumes, telling a silent story of just how deep and unbreakable their chaotic friendship truly was.
As Allister finished laughing, wiping a tear from his eye while sitting casually on the grass, his expression shifted into something incredibly soft. The Patriarch stood over him, still huffing in annoyance, until Allister quietly gestured toward the back of his horse.
"Look behind me," Allister murmured.
The Patriarch shifted his gaze to the saddle of the Midnight Stallion. Sitting gracefully behind the stirrups was a young woman. She possessed striking, breathtaking features—a razor-edged, aristocratic geometry and beautiful eyes that made the Patriarch feel as though he were staring directly at a mirror image of his own beloved wife.
The Patriarch staggered back a half-step. The world around him seemed to lose all sound. He couldn't breathe; he couldn't believe his own eyes.
Allister calmly sat down by the roaring campfire, stretched his legs out, and looked up at his old friend with a gentle, knowing smile.
"Happy birthday, Christoph."
The young woman stepping down from Alexandr was none other than the Patriarch's late daughter, brought back from the jaws of death.
Allister watched the scene unfold with a quiet, knowing gaze. He knew Christoph well—he understood that despite the immense, insatiable greed buried deep within the Patriarch's heart that allowed him to seize such impossible gifts, he remained a man of profound magnanimity toward his people and a truly just ruler.
"Hey, brute," Allister called out, his tone dripping with his trademark playfulness. "I'm raiding your private reserves of alcohol tonight."
But his words drifted into the air, reaching no one. Christoph was no longer listening to the world; he was trembling with a mix of disbelief and soul-shattering hope as he took a slow, unsteady step toward his beloved daughter.
Rosalyn stood beside the great Midnight Stallion, Alexandr, her hands clasped tightly before her. Tears were already welling in her eyes, blurring her vision as she saw her father approaching. With a soft, trembling breath, she raised her arms, silently pleading for the embrace she had been denied by the cruelty of time.
Christoph's composure, usually as unyielding as the northern glaciers, finally fractured. His feet stopped, and his knees hit the dirt with a heavy thud.
"Rosalyn?" his voice cracked, raw and vulnerable. "Baby... is that truly you?"
"Yes, Father," she whispered, her smile breaking through her tears as she lunged forward, throwing herself into his arms.
A few hundred yards away, Captain Gabriel noticed the sudden, eerie silence falling over the camp. Driven by instinct and concern for his liege, he abandoned his post and charged toward the campfire, his blade drawn and his eyes scanning for threats.
He didn't make it far. His subordinates, having witnessed the impossible reunion from the perimeter, surged forward to block his path. They quickly grabbed his arms, holding him back as they whispered hurried, breathless explanations of what was transpiring by the fireside.
Gabriel froze, his blade lowering as the reality of the scene registered in his mind.
Seeing the legendary Patriarch—the iron-willed monarch who never bowed to any man—weeping openly in the arms of his lost child, the tension in the camp shattered. Gabriel exhaled, a grin spreading across his face as he sheathed his sword.
He turned back to his men, his voice booming across the campground to break the solemn, heavy air.
"Then what are you fools waiting for?!" Gabriel shouted, waving his hand toward the supply lines. "We're raiding the Patriarch's liquor tonight!"
Without waiting for a response, Gabriel dashed full-sprint toward the Patriarch's personal luxury wagons, his voice booming across the entire valley as he excitedly announced the impossible truth: "Lady Rosalyn has returned! The first princess is back!"
Reality slowly started to sink into the rest of the army. The once-stilled, breathless camp suddenly erupted into a deafening roar of pure celebration. Gabriel's announcement rippled through the ranks like wildfire, and within seconds, an immense, cheering crowd of knights and attendants began gathering around the central campfires to witness the miracle with their own eyes.
Christoph, however, was entirely focused on his daughter. Pulling back slightly from the embrace, he began frantically scanning her from head to toe, checking her arms and shoulders for any lingering wounds, sickness, or bruises.
"I'm perfectly fine, Dad~" Rosalyn chuckled softly, catching her father's large, trembling hands as he patted all over her to ensure she was truly flesh and bone.
"What happened, child?" Christoph asked, his deep voice cracking as he desperately tried to gather his scattered marbles. "How... how are you standing here before me?"
"Sir Sinclair said that it wasn't my time yet," Rosalyn explained, looking over at the campfire with a soft, reverent expression. "And the next thing I knew, I was sitting on the back of Alexandr, running straight through the night sky."
The Patriarch's eyes snapped instantly toward Allister. The immortal wanderer was currently leaning against a log, casually lighting a thick cigar with a glowing piece of smoldering wood he had pulled from the fire pit.
"You beautiful, beautiful man, Allister!" Christoph exclaimed, his proud amethyst eyes completely filled with raw gratitude and profound joy.
Allister didn't say a word. He simply shrugged, blowing a thick ring of smoke into the night air with a knowing, gentle smile.
Phooo—
Suddenly, the roaring cheers of the army vanished into an abrupt, dead silence. The crackling of the campfires stopped, and the flickering flames froze like solid glass. Time had come to a complete standstill.
Amidst the frozen world, the massive midnight stallion, Alexandr, trotted over casually and plopped his heavy frame down right beside Allister. Allister reached up, pulling a heavy leather-bound ledger from the horse's saddlebag. He flipped it open to a specific page; as he watched, a dark line of historical text slowly dissolved, fading away into nothingness.
A soft smile graced Allister's lips as he closed the book and rested his head back against Alexandr's warm, powerful flank.
"You really love seeing happy endings, don't you, Alexandr?" Allister murmured into the quiet space between seconds.
The great stallion snorted softly, nudging Allister's shoulder.
"Well, who wouldn't?" Allister chuckled, puffing on his cigar as he looked out at the frozen images of the weeping Patriarch, his smiling daughter, and his awestruck descendants. "Seeing them enjoy themselves like this... it really puts my mind at ease."
He closed his eyes, letting out a relaxed, quiet breath. "Heh. It's pretty awesome huh?"