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Chapter 25: The Fairyland
“To claim himself a member of the royal family—how audacious.” The princess gently tucked a strand of silver hair behind her pointed ear, lifted her porcelain teacup, and took a delicate sip before smiling faintly.
“But what do you make of this riddle, Lord Orville? When two moons shine together, in the valley where the king lies buried. What could it mean?”
Orville paused, his brow furrowing in thought. “It is no secret that most noble families across the kingdom possess hidden treasures. However, Eberton’s mention of a vow tied to the royal family suggests this particular treasure has some connection to them.”
“I doubt it’s so simple, Lord Orville. The sage’s vow might refer to my ancestor Eck.”
Orville nodded. “Emerald Lake and Sacred White Mountain likely point to the Goddess Lake in Jandel. It has long been whispered that a great sage rests there.”
“Indeed? What more can you tell me?”
“The local fishermen often speak of a knight seen through the mists, guarding the center of the lake. Some claim to have glimpsed an island made entirely of white stone—perhaps that is the Sacred White Mountain.”
“Thank you for sharing this, Lord Orville. But what of the two-faced statue?”
“That, I cannot say, Your Highness.”
“True. The allure of mysterious treasures often stems from their unknown nature. Perhaps this is part of the charm of such knightly tales.” She covered her mouth with a soft laugh. “Forgive me if I’ve amused you, Lord Orville.”
“Not at all, Your Highness. I too have been wondering who Eberton was in life. There is no record of anyone by that name serving as a royal knight.”
“Eberton may not have been his name in life,” the half-elf girl replied cleverly.
“I share your thoughts, Your Highness.” Orville bowed deeply.
The half-elf did not look directly at the middle-aged man but inwardly confirmed he had done his research. She couldn’t help but ponder why this minister, so highly regarded by her father, placed such importance on that young man. Was it solely due to personal ability? That seemed only part of the equation. More likely, they valued the forces behind him.
Did Highland Knight truly hold such significance? Could it restore Eruin’s former glory? Unlike the nobles or the royalists, she believed the kingdom needed a new force to revitalize itself. But where would this fresh power come from? Highland Knight? Militias? Or perhaps the Guard Units?
None of these seemed quite right. Something was still missing.
Thinking of the young man, she shook her head. No, it wasn’t him either. Yet she sensed a flicker of danger emanating from him—a subtle unease that startled her. Could it be jealousy?
She quickly dismissed the thought.
“Your Highness?” Orville noticed her distraction.
“Oh, forgive me, Lord Orville. Please continue.”
Orville gave her a curious glance but nodded.
……
As the first moon sank westward and the second rose high into the sky, mist began to gather among the fir trees, carrying a chill from the mountains. Brandon gripped the reins, scanning the horizon as the white stag led them eastward into lowlands.
Moments earlier, Retto had informed him that Magus and its zombie army had ceased pursuit. This came as no surprise; they must have sensed their own strength waning.
The valley lay silent.
When two towering statues, each over thirty meters tall, emerged through the thinning fog, even Freya and the mercenaries gazed upward in awe at the lifeless stone figures, speechless for a long while.
Who could have imagined such a sight beyond the secluded valley? Through the haze, it felt as though their eyes pierced through centuries of time to rest upon relics heavy with history.
For a moment, an unspoken weight settled in their hearts.
The statues wore robes beneath their armor, skirts below, and ancient winged, pointed elven helms atop their heads. One hand held a spear, the other a massive shield, their gaze fixed straight ahead. These were the archetypal warriors of holy wars, beings said to hail from golden races who fought alongside the Azure Knight against the Twilight Dragon during the dark ages, ultimately freeing Vonder from shadow.
In other words, they were guardians of all sentient life.
Refugees and mercenaries passed beneath them, feeling a cleansing wash over them—a renewal of spirit and vigor.
Some stopped, unsure if they were imagining things.
Brandon watched silently, withholding the truth: this was one of Vonder’s most powerful protective barriers, Ten Commandments’ Baptism of the Holy Word. Its effects were strongest on those steeped in darkness. While ordinary folk experienced purification and restored stamina, beings like Magus or White Knight Eberton would instantly undergo a moral inversion—from extreme evil to unwavering righteousness.
But undead creatures seeking such transformation would first need to survive the divine fourteenth-tier lightning strike embedded in the tips of the statues’ spears. Not even Madara’s twenty-four Eternal Dukes could withstand such power without being reduced to ash.
Beyond the gateway, the valley widened, eventually flattening into a broad expanse flanked by endless mist. Within the fog, shapes shifted—winged angels soaring, knights mounted on steeds, fierce griffins—all vanishing as quickly as they appeared.
Amidst this eerie landscape, none dared stray far from Brandon. Refugees fell silent, their eyes darting nervously at the surreal sights around them.
Freya, trailing behind, marveled at the scene. Such a place seemed beyond ordinary comprehension, yet Brandon appeared unfazed. A pang of insecurity struck her. He was so enigmatic, and though they fought side by side now, she feared one day she wouldn’t measure up—a plain girl unable to keep pace with someone extraordinary.
Her gaze shifted to Roma. Though Freya said nothing, she knew Roma’s aunt harbored secrets. Perhaps someone like Roma, equally remarkable, was better suited for Brandon.
They belonged together.
The thought brought tears to her eyes, and she hung back, lowering her head.
Unaware of her turmoil, Brandon fielded Roma’s endless questions. “Where are we, Brandon?”
“Didn’t I tell you already? This is the Land of Saintly Relics.”
“But you never explained what that means!”
Brandon sighed, glancing at Chael, whose solemn expression offered no help. Roma sat atop her horse, caked in mud after attempting to teach herself to ride—a stunt that nearly gave Brandon a heart attack when he discovered it. To his astonishment, she’d tied herself to the saddle with rope and proudly showed off her handiwork.
Needless to say, she received a stern lecture about acceptable risks.
“The Land of Saintly Relics is where ancient kings and sages rest eternally. Their spirits forged realms known as ‘their kingdoms,’ offering sanctuary to their people while ensnaring outsiders forever.”
“So there are many places like this, Brandon?” Roma leaned forward eagerly.
“Of course.”
Brandon pinched the bridge of his nose, resolving to bathe her thoroughly once they were safe. How could any girl tolerate smelling like a swamp? Sometimes he wished he could open her skull just to see how her mind worked.
“Do they all call themselves the Land of Saintly Relics?” Roma tilted her head, awaiting his answer.
Their conversation drew others closer. Such a mystical place intrigued everyone, and they listened intently to Brandon’s explanations. The mercenaries, seasoned travelers with knowledge rivaling many nobles, found themselves baffled by terms unfamiliar even to them. Was Highland Knight truly so mysterious?
What they didn’t know—and what even Chael wondered—was that few wizards, even in the Black Tower, possessed expertise in ancient legends. As far as Chael knew, fewer than five individuals surpassed Brandon’s understanding of the subject.
Where had his lord acquired such knowledge?
Chael kept his questions to himself. After all, those who could see and use Fate Cards were no ordinary people.
Brandon answered Roma’s query with a shake of his head. “Each Land of Saintly Relics bears its own name, tied to the ruler interred there. Take this mist-shrouded valley, for instance. Its name is Fairyland…”
“Fairyland?”
“One of the eleven ancient kings, the King of Knights, served as humanity’s guardian long before King Geert of Flames. He struck a pact with the Fairy Queen, who granted him a golden apple to become king. Upon his death, his soul entered the Ideal Realm, resting here to uphold his promise.”
“This land exists outside normal time. Night here remains perpetually still compared to the outside world, resuming flow only during daylight. Legend speaks of a golden apple tree within the valley, beneath which the Fairy Queen resides—though no mortal has ever seen her. Those who do… never leave.”
He turned to find Roma staring at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Golden apples?”
Brandon groaned inwardly. “Is that all you heard?” he snapped irritably.
Roma nodded earnestly.
“Enough, little Roma. I’m done explaining.” Just as he prepared to lecture her further, he froze, turning sharply toward something in the distance.
Everyone followed his gaze. There stood a solitary tree—what was it?
Brandon stared, dumbfounded.
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