Orin Alpheratz (15 years old) Location: Solaris Date: Year 873 / Crow Cycle (3) / Bard's Day (9)

  Orin found himself inside what looked like a kitchen—dimly lit, and faintly coated in dust. It wasn’t filthy, but it had the feel of a place that hadn’t seen daily care in some time. A few scraps of food were left on the table, and a pantry door hung wide open, its contents ransacked.

  From outside came the muffled sounds of chaos—clashing steel, shouted orders, and the distant thud of hooves. Whether it was Altair and the others fighting the Church soldiers or reinforcements arriving, Orin couldn’t tell. Either way, he knew one thing: time was running out.

  He slipped out of the kitchen and moved through a narrow hallway lined with closed doors, ignoring them for now. Then, he continued walking until he reachead a hall opened into a sitting room where a small fire burned in the hearth. It looked as if someone had tended it recently—the scent of burning pine still lingered in the air.

  Armchairs surrounded the fire, and a modest table sat between them. The place felt austere, far simpler than one would expect for a princess’s home.

  “Is anyone here?” Orin called out softly. “Andromeda, it’s me… Orin.”

  No answer. Only the crackle of fire and the faint tremor of distant battle filled the silence.

  He scanned the room quickly, searching for any sign of movement, any trace of her presence—but nothing stood out. Crossing to the main door, he noticed it was bolted from within. A nearby window offered a narrow view outside, and he leaned toward it, peering through the slit between the curtains.

  From that limited angle, he could make out soldiers in full armor—several units, maybe more—but not a single sign of Altair or Felis.

  “They have to be out there somewhere,” he murmured under his breath. “There’s no way they’d just abandon the fight.”

  Pulling back from the window, Orin turned and crossed the living room, his footsteps muffled on the wooden floor. One of the side doors was half-open, and beyond it, the scent of old paper and ink reached him.

  A library.

  Inside, shelves stretched to the ceiling, overflowing with volumes of different colors and bindings. A few tomes were scattered on a desk by the window. Orin glanced over their covers—titles on alchemy, spirit summoning, and one about the lost civilizations before the Great Cataclysm.

  “I know the princess loved to read,” he whispered, flipping through one of the books. “But these don’t seem like her taste… they must belong to the old knight.”

  He searched every corner of the room—moved small shelves, checked behind furniture—but found nothing useful. The space showed signs of recent use, yet no clear trace of who had been here or where they’d gone.

  “Then maybe… one of those doors in the hall,” he thought aloud, stepping back toward the corridor.

  He stepped back into the hallway, listening carefully—but the house remained eerily still.

  Every footstep echoed faintly against the wooden floorboards. He reached one of the closed doors and slowly turned the handle. As soon as it opened, a gentle fragrance enveloped him—sweet and lingering, like a field of wildflowers in spring. Its source was a small vase of blossoms resting on a bedside table.

  Orin froze. He didn’t need to guess.

  This was her room.

  Unlike the rest of the house, this place felt alive. Paintings of landscapes adorned the walls, delicate ornaments shaped like mythical beasts rested on the shelves, and a few hand-sewn dolls sat neatly upon a perfectly made bed.

  A quiet peace filled the air—one that clashed painfully with the chaos raging outside.

  Orin began to search.

  He crouched and looked beneath the bed: nothing but a few blunted arrows, perhaps forgotten during target practice. He opened the wardrobe next—rows of dresses and fine garments greeted him, each one perfectly folded, untouched by time.

  “She’s not here either…” he murmured, a mixture of disappointment and anticipation flickering in his chest. “But she has to be close. I can feel it.”

  He lingered for a moment longer, torn.

  Part of him wanted to rush onward—to keep searching, to act before it was too late.

  But another part didn’t want to leave this place at all. There was warmth here. A tranquility that made him forget the smoke, the shouts, and the endless pursuit of the Church. It was like stepping into a memory.

  Finally, his gaze drifted toward a cluttered desk by the window. Papers, books, and quills were scattered across it. One sheet in particular drew his attention—it lay at the center, with a pen resting beside it, as if someone had been writing only moments ago.

  He approached carefully and lifted the page.

  It was a list.

  Each line written in elegant, hurried strokes:

  -Find an alchemist.

  -Decipher the book.

  -Make the pact.

  -Find the ruins

  -Free T

  The last word ended abruptly, the ink trailing off as though the writer had been interrupted mid-stroke.

  Orin read it again and again, trying to make sense of it.

  “An alchemist…” he muttered. “That’s impossible. They vanished after the last Alchemical War.”

  But the next line caught his attention—Decipher the book.

  He glanced at the table. Beside the note rested a heavy tome, its pages filled with detailed maps of the known world: trade routes, mountain ranges, and scattered annotations. Nothing that seemed secret or hidden.

  “I don’t get it…” he whispered. “Free T? Who is T?”

  The name Wind surfaced in his mind—enigmatic, connected to both him and Andromeda.

  “Could this… have something to do with him? If Wind isn’t his real name…”

  He knew there was a clue here, something vital just out of reach. But the meaning slipped through his grasp like sand between his fingers. Setting the paper down, he picked up the map book once more, flipping through its pages.

  “The list mentions finding ruins… was she trying to locate them here?” he wondered aloud. “But there’s nothing marked—no ruins, no coordinates…”

  He closed the book gently, setting it back where he’d found it.

  Then it struck him.

  “The books on the table in the library,” he said to himself. “They were about alchemists, spirit pacts, and the world before the Great Cataclysm… exactly the same subjects as this list.”

  He stared at the page once more, the elegant handwriting dancing in the dim light of the fireplace.

  “Was it really Andromeda who wrote this?” he whispered.

  Orin wanted to believe the note was a clue—something that mattered.

  But even if he had no idea where to begin, he couldn’t afford to linger any longer. He folded the paper, slipped it into his pocket, and murmured to himself:

  “I’ll ask them directly when I find them.”

  He left the room and stepped back into the dim corridor.

  One by one, he began opening doors—each revealing nothing but emptiness. A small room with an austere bed, probably the old man’s. Another door opened to a pantry filled with utensils and a few weapons scattered along the walls. The next revealed a study thick with dust, as if untouched for years.

  Room after room, silence after silence—nothing.

  Until he reached the last door at the end of the hall.

  “Only this one left…” he whispered, tightening his grip on the handle. “They have to be here.”

  He drew in a breath and pushed the door open.

  A set of narrow stairs descended into darkness.

  “Is anyone there?” he called out. “It’s Orin. I’ve come to help you.”

  No answer.

  He hesitated, then began his descent carefully, one step at a time. The light from above barely reached past the first few steps, and the air grew colder with every breath. He had to rely on touch, tracing his hand along the rough wall until his boots met solid stone.

  The basement was cramped, the air thick with dust and damp. His fingers brushed against wooden crates and a shelf stacked with jars.

  “Is anyone here?” he tried again, louder this time. “If someone’s hiding, please answer! Andromeda—it’s me, Orin!”

  Still nothing.

  The silence pressed against him, heavy and unyielding. His frustration grew with every heartbeat.

  “It’s no use…” he muttered under his breath. “There must be a hidden passage somewhere—but I’ll never find it in this darkness. Maybe I can bring fire from the hearth… make a torch.”

  It was the only logical choice. Slowly, he began to climb the stairs again, feeling for each step.

  But as he ascended, a chill ran up his spine.

  From beyond the walls came the unmistakable sounds of battle—the clash of steel, the shouted orders, the screams.

  The fight had begun.

  “The battle’s already started,” he thought, his chest tightening. A wave of guilt struck him like a blade. “And I’m down here… while they’re out there fighting.”

  Orin quickened his pace toward the flickering fireplace. Before anything else, he went to the same window he had looked through earlier. Just as he expected, the outside world had descended into chaos—dust rising, silhouettes clashing, flashes of combat skills flaring and vanishing like dying stars.

  He didn’t have much time.

  Frantically, he searched for something he could use as a torch. Soon, he spotted a small pile of wood—thin sticks, likely meant for feeding the fire. But as he reached for them, a sudden noise echoed through the house.

  This time, it came from within.

  “The kitchen…” Orin muttered, tensing. “Could it be Andromeda, or…”

  He drew his dagger in silence and advanced carefully, each step measured. A second noise followed, louder this time, accompanied by faint whispers.

  When he reached the kitchen door, he leaned in and peeked inside. Two shapes stood in the dim light—indistinct, moving quietly. He didn’t have time to think; he had to act. If it was Andromeda, this might be his only chance to reach her. But if it was an enemy, hesitation would cost him dearly.

  “Who’s there?” he demanded sharply.

  “Orin, is that you?” came a familiar voice.

  “Sirius…?” Orin stepped into the doorway. Relief swept through him as he recognized Sirius and Cor standing by the broken window.

  “Yes, we came for you,” Cor said, lowering her bow slightly. “We had to use the window to get in.”

  “By the way,” Sirius asked, still catching his breath, “have you found them yet? The people you were chasing?”

  “Not yet…” Orin replied, his tone edged with disappointment.

  Sirius pointed toward a door at the back. “They could’ve escaped through there—the one leading to the courtyard. Maybe they slipped away that way?”

  “I doubt it,” Orin said, thinking aloud. “The courtyard’s surrounded by high walls; they couldn’t have climbed them without being seen. If they tried to flee, they’d have to go through the front entrance.”

  “I see…” Sirius muttered.

  “We don’t have time for this,” Cor cut in firmly. “Orin, that man—Varis—is outside. We have to flee! Altair and the others are engaging him right now.”

  “What?” Orin froze. “Varis is here?” His voice faltered slightly—he knew exactly what that meant. “But I think I know where the people in this house are hiding.”

  “I’m sorry, Orin,” Cor said, shaking her head. “We can’t stay. The situation’s too dangerous. We’re heading back to the Academy. Altair told me to tell you this—once you reach it, go to the West Gate and wait for them there.”

  The clash of metal outside grew louder, the air trembling with divine energy. Orin could feel it even through the walls—Varis’s presence, oppressive and suffocating, drawing closer with every heartbeat.