Chapter 92: Inside the White Carriage.

The woman beneath the veil turned her head toward the front of the carriage, unhurried, the motion barely disturbing the fabric draped over her face.

"Why was it destroyed, Guardian Larson?"

Her voice came out soft, almost gentle, at odds with the question itself. She crossed one leg over the other as she asked it, her attention settling fully on Larson, one of the Guardians assigned to escort her through the storm outside.

Larson wasn’t a tall man, shorter than most paladins riding alongside the convoy tonight. But no one who’d ever crossed him mistook that for weakness.

Beyond the green, S-tier Relic spear strapped across his back, he’d reached Tier 8 Core at an age most Guardians could only envy, and stood now as one of the handful of names most likely to join that rare circle of four, should his own Core ever break through to the ninth tier.

The Order carried roughly twenty Guardians in all, though only four of them had ever actually pushed their Mana Core through to the ninth tier, the rank Larson himself was still chasing.

A Guardian’s own Core tier decided a great deal, both their standing in the Order’s executions and the size of the force placed under their command.

Even holding the Order’s second-highest rank, just below Cardinal itself, a Guardian couldn’t act on their own initiative without direct orders from someone above them, an Oracle chief among them.

Their true function sat closer to an executioner’s hand than a soldier’s, the Order’s own instrument for punishing the faithless and shielding its leadership, Oracles and senior Cardinals alike, from threats posed by rival Orders.

With the Order’s entire Paladin corps organized and strengthened under Guardian command, and every Guardian’s own power shaped directly by an Oracle’s hand, it was little wonder the Order of Lumielle moved with the confidence it did.

To this day, not one kingdom, empire, or ruler across the whole of Arta had ever dared provoke them outright.

A woman with hair the color of deep ocean blue, riding close beside Larson, brought her open palm down hard against the back of his head.

"Larson. The Oracle is asking you something. Why are you just standing there like a mute?"

Larson’s hand shot up to his skull, wincing hard against the sting of it.

"I heard her, Sinclair. But must you hit this hard every time? Your palm’s gone harder than that monstrous hammer you carry around. Keep this up and you’ll crack my skull open one of these days."

He shot her a look, eyeing the small blue hammer hanging at her hip, deceptively modest in size. In a real fight, that same hammer would swell to its true form, Sinclair’s own S-tier Relic, a weapon capable of hurling out crashing waves of water with every swing.

Sinclair offered nothing in return, not even a flicker of guilt crossing her face. As far as she was concerned, she’d done nothing wrong at all. Larson should have answered the Oracle the instant she asked, without a single beat of hesitation wasted.

She also wasn’t the least bit afraid of him. The two of them held equal rank within the Order, each commanding their own Paladin forces as fellow Guardians.

Sinclair’s own numbers, if anything, outstripped his, thanks to her standing with the Order’s leadership, who favored her for a temperament that, on the surface at least, made her look pleasantly easy to manage.

That surface, though, was exactly where the resemblance to obedience ended.

Larson turned his attention back to the dispatch in his hands, reading further into the details of the destruction the Dark Beasts had wrought on Korven.

One detail kept snagging at him the longer he read. The attack had been unnervingly organized, the creatures advancing and retreating almost in unison, vanishing entirely within a short span of time. And every time they pulled back after a strike, it wasn’t bodies they left behind.

They were carrying people away, rather than killing them where they stood.

The Oracle listened to every word of his report, the scale of the destruction, the staggering estimate Larson gave for the dead and missing, close to a million souls. She took the number in without any visible reaction at all, one finger absently turning the ring on her hand.

"Guardian Terectora should have been stationed there, guarding the city and its cathedral both. His presence should have cut those numbers down considerably."

Her voice stayed perfectly flat.

Larson went quiet, his eyes sliding away from her, unable to hold her gaze.

Terectora was a close friend of his, and Larson knew, with absolute certainty, that the man hadn’t been anywhere near Korven when this happened.

Sinclair caught the shift in him instantly, that telltale flicker of a man hiding something.

Without warning, her heel came down on his foot, sharp and precise.

"OW! Have you lost your mind?"

Larson yelped, demanding to know what she thought she was doing, already reaching down to pull his boot off and check the damage.

But as he straightened, he found the Oracle had risen fully upright inside the carriage, standing directly in front of him now, her gaze fixed squarely on his.

Something in that stare seemed to pull his own eyes toward her against his will.

Sinclair, watching closely, noticed the veil had shifted along one side of the Oracle’s face, parting just enough to reveal a single eye beneath it, fixed on Larson with an intensity that seemed to see straight through whatever he was trying to protect.

That eye carried a faint glow of its own, visible even in the carriage’s dim lantern light.

"Ah. I see. He’s gone north, to meet Princess Andromeda."

Larson fell silent, with nothing left to deny.

"He’s only observing, though, Oracle, I promise you that much. Terectora might be a bit of a fool, but he’d never put himself anywhere near actual confrontation. He’s just there to make sure neither side lights the match for a real war."

He offered what explanation he could, reminding her that the empire’s own northern border currently sat in a dangerously tense standoff.

Terectora, with whatever wisdom he actually possessed, had gone to help hold that peace, hoping to keep Bravenheart from sliding into a full war against the six territories pressed against its border, a war that would cost far more lives than anyone wanted to count.

"You idiot. Do you want the Oracle digging through your memories again?" Sinclair cut in, unimpressed. "You think none of us know that big fool’s real reason for going? He’s infatuated with Princess Andromeda, plain and simple."

She wasn’t wrong.

One of Terectora’s real motives for heading north had always been the chance to be near Andromeda, a woman he openly admired and had been working, clumsily, to get closer to.

With opportunities to actually meet her in Korven or Peria practically nonexistent, he’d made the reckless choice to go north instead, leaving Larson behind to cover his post in Korven, promised some compensation for the trouble.

Larson had agreed readily enough, mostly because he’d never taken the posting seriously to begin with. Nothing strange had happened in Korven in years. He’d only learned the truth of tonight’s disaster while sitting right here, inside this carriage.

"Both of you. Terectora, and you, Larson. Your allotment of the Holy Tears will be reduced until Korven is fully restored to what it was."

The news would land like a blow on Terectora, who had no idea any of this was happening yet.

The Holy Tears were a sacred liquid, said to raise a person’s Mana Core with each careful use, and a single drop alone was rumored to be worth thousands in gold.

Having their allotment cut until Korven recovered meant, at best, an extraordinarily long wait. Rebuilding a city and restoring its economy was one thing.

Restoring its population to what it had once been was something else entirely, something that could easily take decades, if it was even possible to fully recover at all.

Larson said nothing, though some part of him had still held out hope for more of that liquid, enough to push his own Core forward.

The Oracle’s order stood regardless, and he knew better than to argue it.

He accepted it with as much grace as he could manage, offering his apology, and volunteering to make things right himself by clearing out every Dark Beast still occupying Korven’s streets.

The Oracle shook her head, telling him plainly not to bother.

Someone else, she said, would already be taking his place there.

"Who, Oracle?"

She turned back toward the window, where the rain had only grown heavier, hammering against the glass in relentless sheets. And yet, somewhere beyond it, the moon’s light still found its way through, bright enough to draw a small, private smile onto her face as she watched it.

"Maybe A new hero."