Morning sunlight gently streams through the windows, casting a soft glow on Agneyastra's bedroom. As she reluctantly prepares herself for the day ahead, a faint sound catches her attention. Curiosity pushing aside her morning lethargy, she eagerly follows the noise to the neighboring room, belonging to Ramil.

  Pushing open the door, Agneyastra is met with a bittersweet sight. Ramil stands amidst a sea of boxes, each one filled with his belongings. A mixture of surprise and sorrow washes over her, and tears begin to well up in her eyes.

  Unable to contain her emotions any longer, Agneyastra rushes into the room, her feet barely touching the ground. She throws herself into Ramil's arms, enveloping him in a tight embrace. Looking down at her with a mixture of concern and tenderness, Ramil's voice breaks through the silence, his question filled with both longing and uncertainty.

  “Did you miss me?” he asks, his voice filled with a yearning for affirmation.

  Still clutching onto him as if she fears he might slip away, Agneyastra's voice quivers with a mixture of relief and longing. She finds solace in his presence, in the comforting familiarity that had been absent for far too long. “It has been far too quiet around here,” she replies.

  Ramil stood, poised to make a move, but Agneyastra's embrace held him in place, like a vise imprisoning his desires. The room was filled with the scent of uncertainty and longing. “I have to finish packing up my stuff,” Ramil said, his voice tinged with determination.

  Agneyastra, her head resting upon Ramil's chest, looked up at him with pleading eyes. Her voice echoed softly, as if carrying the weight of her emotions. “I will do anything for you to stay,” she confessed.

  As Ramil lifted Agneyastra's chin, their faces drew impossibly close together. Their lips hovered just inches apart, teasing the air with their proximity. Ramil's voice trembled with longing as he spoke, his words barely a whisper. “You know what I require,” he said, his voice heavy with unspoken expectations.

  But Agneyastra pulled away, a flicker of frustration passing over her features. With a forceful shove, she distanced herself from Ramil. Her voice quivered with a mix of anger and hurt. “Why must you go there, without considering what it does to our friendship?” She questioned, her voice filled with a sense of disappointment.

  Ramil reached out, grabbing her arm in an attempt to hold on to what they had. His face betrayed a mix of determination and confusion as he spoke. “I can only be me,” he said, his grip tightening.

  Agneyastra, however, managed to free herself from Ramil's grasp. “This is not you,” she whispered, her words a plea. “Be careful not to lose yourself completely along the way.” With that final warning, Agneyastra turned and stepped out of Ramil's room, leaving him to ponder the weight of her words in the silence that followed.

  As Agneyastra stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, the soft glow of morning sunlight seeped through the windows, casting colorful hues on the cold stone floor. Her eyes landed on her uncle Tyson, making his way up the grand staircase, his steps measured and confident.

  With a warm smile gracing her lips, Agneyastra crossed the hallway, her anticipation building with each passing second. “Good morning, uncle,” she greeted him, her voice filled with eagerness.

  Tyson turned towards her, a look of determination etched on his face. “Come on,” he said briskly, his voice bearing the weight of their upcoming training session. “We have a lot of work to do.”

  In silent obedience, Agneyastra followed Tyson's lead for about an hour or so, trailing behind him as they made their way through the palace, their footsteps echoing in the vast emptiness. Finally, they arrived at a small castle nestled beside the grand Fire Kingdom palace.

  Inside the training room, Tyson took his place at the center, his presence commanding and powerful. Agneyastra stood by his side, mirroring his movements with slight clumsiness. She watched him closely, absorbing every detail, hoping to capture his skill.

  But Tyson noticed a flicker of distraction in his niece's eyes, a subtle shift in her focus. Concern etched across his face, he turned to face her. “What is wrong?” he inquired, his voice gentle yet firm.

  Agneyastra let out a sigh, her voice tinged with regret. “I feel bad,” she confessed, her gaze dropping to the cold stone floor. “Ramil had to leave his family's home because of me.”

  As Tyson turned the faucet, cool water cascaded into the glasses sitting patiently on the table nearby. The droplets danced gracefully before settling into a gentle ripple. With a careful hand, Tyson picked up one of the glasses and extended it to Agneyastra, an offering of refreshment and camaraderie.

  Tyson's gaze drifted into the distance, his voice carrying a hint of nostalgia. “Ramil,” he began, his words laced with both admiration and understanding, “is on a quest to prove himself to the world that surrounds him. It reminds me of my own troubled past, haunted by the shadows of my youth.”

  With a quizzical expression, Agneyastra tilted her head slightly and posed a question, her voice filled with curiosity and a hint of uncertainty. “Is it the same for women, Tyson? Do we too grapple with this endless quest for self-discovery?”

  Tyson raised the glass to his lips, letting the cool liquid quench his thirst and soothe his thoughts. He pondered Agneyastra's inquiry, realizing the limitations of his personal perspective. “My dear Agneyastra,” he began, his words measured and sincere. “I can only speak of my journey, the path I have tread upon. But perhaps, one day, you can seek insight from my beloved wife, Yeongi, who may illuminate your path with her own experiences.”

  Downing the last drop of water in her glass, Agneyastra placed the empty vessel back on the table. Her gaze locked with Tyson's, signaling her eagerness to embark on the lesson ahead. “Let us not delay any longer,” Agneyastra proclaimed, her voice saturated with a hunger for growth. “What shall I learn today?”

  Tyson placed his glass gently on the table, the cool touch of the smooth surface contrasting with the heat radiating from his fiery hair. With purpose in his eyes, he strode towards Agneyastra, an aura of intensity enveloping him.

  “I want you to create a shield of protection around yourself,” Tyson's voice resonated with power. “I will show you.”

  As if commanded by an unseen force, Tyson's hair transformed before Agneyastra's eyes. The once-black and red strands burst into flames, dancing and flickering like an inferno. The fiery embrace grew, enveloping his form completely, until the flames solidified into a wall of shimmering coal.

  Agneyastra watched, the flames morphed again, merging seamlessly into the fiery tendrils of his hair. The flickering reds and oranges swirled and spun, captivating Agneyastra's gaze. And just when she thought the spectacle had reached its climax, Tyson's hair returned to its original ebony hue, like shadows swallowing the flames.

  Agneyastra's voice trembled with anticipation as she asked, “How do I do that?”

  With diligence and patience, Tyson embarked on a grueling training regimen. Hours turned into days and days into weeks as he guided Agneyastra through the intricacies of the flame shield. Each time she attempted the technique, she grew more proficient, her control over her own inner fire expanding and flourishing.

  As the flames danced and shimmered around her, Agneyastra could feel the power of the shield coursing through her veins. Her confidence grew stronger, her movements more fluid. With Tyson's guidance, Tyson clapped his hands and exclaimed, “Bravo, Agneyastra!”

  ***

  The sun began its descent, casting a warm golden hue over the horizon. A woman stood eagerly on the porch, a glimmer of anticipation in her eyes, as she held a set of keys in her outstretched hand. In front of her, an imposing and grandiose house stood, with its majestic structure reaching toward the sky.

  A carriage pulled up, its wheels rumbling against the cobblestone path. With every step it took, a symphony of creaks and groans resonated through the quiet afternoon. The carriage's doors swung open, revealing a load of furniture being unloaded by a team of workers.

  Amidst the flurry of activity, Ramil appeared on horseback. His mount exuded an air of strength and grace as it galloped to a halt, allowing Ramil to dismount with agility and purpose. He joined the woman on the porch, his eyes shining with excitement.

  As the woman approached, the jingling of the keys filled the air, like a mystical melody echoing through the surroundings. With a smile etched upon her face, she extended her arm towards Ramil, offering him the keys.

  Gazing upon her with gratitude and anticipation, Ramil couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement building within him. The woman's words, spoken softly yet filled with assurance, resonated in his ears. “This one is exactly like you wanted,” she said, her voice laced with a hint of pride. “It's a two-bedroom house, with a large training room.”

  Ramil reached into his pockets, producing two bulging bags of gold coins. With a practiced hand, he placed one bag delicately into the woman's outstretched palm, a glint of anticipation in her eyes. Simultaneously, he deftly retrieved the keys from her grasp, their metallic weight heavy in his hand.

  Without missing a beat, Ramil effortlessly flung the other bag towards the two men who were diligently unloading the carriage. The heavy thud of the bag hitting the ground sent a resounding message: their services were no longer required. As the men gaped in astonishment, Ramil turned his attention back to the woman, his dark gaze fixed firmly upon her.

  “Why don’t you show me what I have purchased?” Ramil's voice, smooth and low, danced with a hint of amusement. With a flick of his wrist, Ramil beckoned to the team of movers, urging them to begin unloading his most prized possessions first – his bedroom furniture. The anticipation heightened as he stepped towards the grand entrance, key in hand.

  As the door swung open on well-oiled hinges, Ramil marveled at the vastness of the space. The emptiness held a certain promise, a blank canvas ready to be painted with his desires and dreams. The woman trailed behind him, silent yet attentive.

  Descending down the grand staircase, Ramil's eyes scanned the lower level, his sharp senses homing in on the training room and kitchen. The possibilities seemed endless, the rooms pulsating with potential. The aroma of fresh paint mingled with the scent of newly polished wood, filling the air with the heady promise of transformation.

  Meanwhile, the movers swung into action, their hands skillfully maneuvering the furniture into its designated places. The clatter of their movement reverberated throughout the empty halls, a symphony of progress. Each piece found its rightful position, transforming the barren space into a haven of comfort and luxury. The woman realtor bid her farewell and left, leaving behind a sense of quiet that filled the air. Ramil sank into the plush comfort of his couch, his tired muscles aching from the day's events.

  Suddenly, a sharp knock echoed through the silence, pulling Ramil from his thoughts. Rising from the couch, he crossed the room. With a twist of the doorknob, he swung the heavy door open, revealing Sandra standing before him. In her hands, she held a large glass case on wheels, glinting in the fading light.

  Sandra's voice broke the stillness, her words laced with both purpose and relief. “Your armor has been repaired,” she announced, a hint of pride evident in her voice. Ramil nodded his gratitude, his gaze briefly flickering to the shiny engagement ring adorning Sandra's finger.

  “Congratulations,” Ramil offered, his tone soft but genuine. “Jake mentioned your engagement just before we faced the battle the other day.”

  A smile curled on Sandra's lips, a mixture of joy and warmth glimmering in her eyes. “Thank you,” she replied, her voice carrying the weight of cherished moments. She turned, her steps gracefully carrying her away from Ramil's doorway and toward a waiting carriage.

  Ramil lingered for a moment, taking in the sight of her receding figure, before closing the door behind him. Stepping back into the quiet solitude of his new home. Ramil found himself growing restless. Boredom began to seep into his bones, urging him to seek out something to occupy his mind.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  With resolve, Ramil set to work organizing his belongings. He moved with purpose, meticulously arranging each item in its designated place. The room slowly transformed from a chaotic mess to a semblance of order. As Ramil reached the final box. With gentle care, he lifted the lid, revealing a collection of memories and mementos. Amongst the treasures lay a photograph, a snapshot frozen in time.

  Startled, Ramil's eyes widened as he gazed upon the image. There, captured in the frame, were the intertwined figures of himself and Agneyastra, peacefully slumbering. Beside them stood his two Emathion and Sinai, innocence radiating from their youthful faces. A handwritten note, bearing Agneyastra's unmistakable handwriting, accompanied the photograph. Ramil's lips curled into a smile as he read her words.

  Yet, his attention was drawn to one particular photo amongst the collection—a portrait of Agneyastra by herself. As his fingertips grazed the glossy surface, a surge of warmth pulsed through him. Her radiant smile, her eyes filled with an enigmatic spark, captivated his gaze. It was a snapshot that captured her essence, her vibrant spirit frozen in time.

  Determined to keep these cherished memories close, Ramil carefully placed the photos on his nightstand. But not content with simply laying them there, he tucked them tenderly into the folds of an old alarm clock.

  Ramil's spacious home as he descended the stairs, the dull thud of his footsteps echoing in the silence. As he reached the bottom, a persistent knock resonated through the grand hallway, drawing his attention to the heavy wooden door.

  With trepidation, Ramil turned the brass handle, revealing Marudeva standing on the threshold. The fading light danced upon Marudeva's weathered face, his eyes glistening with a mixture of regret and hope. Ramil's voice trembled as he uttered, “Father.”

  With a nod, Marudeva stepped inside and followed Ramil into the living room. His gaze swept over the expansive space, his eyes lingering on the polished marble floors and the tall bookshelves that lined the walls. “This home is very big for one person,” Marudeva observed.

  Ramil's eyes narrowed, a hint of irritation flickering across his face. “It has a large training room,” he explained, his tone tinged with defiance. “That's why I chose it. It's only two bedrooms.”

  Marudeva's expression softened, a flicker of fatherly pride shining in his eyes. “I am proud of you, my son,” he said, his voice filled with genuine sincerity. “And I am sorry for everything.”

  Ramil's shoulders slumped, a mix of guilt and sadness washing over him. “I was in the wrong, father,” he confessed.

  Marudeva approached Ramil, closing the physical and emotional distance between them. His voice was gentle, filled with understanding. “I know you rejected marriage because of how I took the death of your mother,” he said, his voice heavy with regret.

  Ramil nodded, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Yes, you are right,” he admitted, his voice laced with vulnerability.

  Marudeva's aged hand reached out and gently cupped Ramil's face, offering comfort and forgiveness. “If you choose to marry not for love, I will understand,” he said, his voice cracked with emotion. “You still considered it, my son. If not just for the companionship.”

  ***

  As the last rays of sunlight painted the Earth Kingdom Castle in hues of amber and gold, the serenity of the evening was interrupted by a fumbled misstep. Devereaux made his way out of the window into Moriko's bedroom. His usual task was to prepare the chess board near the crackling fireplace, a familiar routine like an orchestrated dance. However, on this particular evening, his attention was immediately diverted. Nestled on the ornate doorknob that led to the lavish bathroom, he glimpsed something unexpected - one of Moriko's delicate undergarments dangling in the air.

  Intrigued and slightly flustered, Devereaux seized the undergarment with a mixture of curiosity and haste. He crossed the threshold into the pristine bathroom. As Devereaux brought the undergarment to his nose, he was immediately enveloped in a symphony of scents. The delicate perfume danced through his senses, awakening something deep within him.

  Devereaux, consumed by yearning at his impending awakening, unzipped his pants, he pulled himself out, his face reflecting determination as he studied himself in the bathroom mirror. Gripping his arousal tightly, he took a deep breath, exhaling all the frustration and tension built up within him.

  With a swift, precise motion, he released himself into the sink. Devereaux couldn't help but let out a moan of pleasure as he dropped the undergarments onto the cold tile floor. Devereaux quickly washed his hands and exited the bathroom. His eyes darted towards Moriko's bedroom door, slightly ajar, as he made his way back to the chess table.

  As Devereaux sat at the intricately carved chess table, the sound of Moriko's and Emathion's voices reached his ears, drifting in from just outside the room. His eyes were drawn to the ornate chess pieces that lay scattered in front of him, their contrasting colors standing out against the polished wood.

  Emathion's voice carried a note of remorse as he spoke, his words dripping with regret. “I am sorry how I reacted the last time I was here,” he said, his tone weighted with the weight of his past actions. “I will apologize to him.”

  Curiosity piqued, Moriko inquired, her voice filled with a mixture of concern and confusion. “Why did you react that way?” Her words hung in the air, waiting to be answered.

  Emathion's response was laced with vulnerability, his voice tinged with a hint of sorrow. “The thought of someone mistreating you drove me mad for a moment,” he admitted, his words carrying the weight of his inner turmoil. “The dream just felt so real, maybe I felt he could give you what I never could.” His words were an admission of his own shortcomings, a confession of his deepest desires and insecurities.

  As Devereaux sits alone at the table in the dimly lit room, his attention is caught by the faint murmurs of voices just beyond the closed door. Inquisitive, he stands and walks cautiously towards the door, drawn in by the clandestine conversation unfolding outside.

  Through the narrow gap, Devereaux's eyes widen as he observes Moriko, her delicate frame embraced tightly by Emathion's strong arms. Her head rests gently upon his chest, a gesture of familiarity and trust. Their voices float towards him, their words tinged with a sense of urgency.

  “Don't be foolish,” Moriko whispers fervently, her voice laced with affection. “He will forever be a dear friend, but Emathion, you are my forever.”

  Emathion, though, seems hesitant, his face etched with confusion. “I don't know if you fully understand what that means,” he replies softly, sincerity resonating in his words, his brows furrowed in contemplation.

  Moriko's expression doesn't waver, her determination unwavering. “I know my own feelings,” she asserts.

  Watching the scene unfold, Devereaux takes a step back, submerged in a mix of astonishment and unease. He lets out a soft exclamation, “I was attempting to close the door,” his voice tinged with a tinge of embarrassment, as if he intruded upon a sacred moment.

  Moriko steps closer to Devereaux with a radiant smile adorning her face, her eyes reflecting a mixture of warmth and mischief. Emathion follows closely behind her, his towering figure somehow overpowering the room. He extends his hand, a gesture weighted with sincerity and reconciliation.

  Devereaux's eyes flit between Moriko and Emathion, struck by the unexpected turn of events. Emathion's voice breaks the silence, his words laced with a sense of remorse. “I apologize for the last time we met,” he says, his voice tinged with regret. “My dream was vivid, and I didn't handle it well.”

  Devereaux forced a smile to mask his growing unease as he looked at Emathion Devereaux musters a tight-lipped smile, his eyes shining with curiosity. “Now you've piqued my interest,” he says to Emathion, his voice laced with intrigue. “Pray, do tell me, what was my purpose in this dream?”

  Emathion glanced at Moriko before returning his gaze to Devereaux. “Some of my dreams,” Emathion began, his voice filled with a touch of mystery, “you were near a large glass window overlooking the endless expanse of the ocean, with Moriko by your side. But that is all I will reveal about that.”

  Moriko, watching the exchange between the two men, felt a wave of apprehension wash over her. She moved to the chess table and took a seat, with Devereaux seated across from her. As Emathion turned to leave, Moriko instinctively reached out and grasped his hand, her touch a gentle plea.

  “Stay for a little longer,” she whispered, her words filled with longing and a hint of desperation.

  As Devereaux and Moriko settled down for a game of chess by the crackling fireplace, Emathion sat nearby, engrossed in a book. A sudden cough escaped Devereaux's lips, causing Emathion to spring into action. He rose from his seat and hurried out of the room, only to return moments later with a tray adorned with a steaming kettle, delicate cups, and freshly sliced lemons. Pouring the hot water from the kettle and gently squeezing the lemon juice into the cup, Emathion presented it to Devereaux with a warm smile. “This should help with your cough,” he offered kindly.

  Taking the cup into his hands, Devereaux felt a surge of gratitude towards Emathion for his unwavering compassion. “You are a wonder, sir,” he spoke, his voice filled with admiration.

  Moriko, sensing the camaraderie between the two, joined in, wrapping her arms around both Devereaux and Emathion. With a twinkle in her eye, she shared, “You two are getting along quite well.” In that moment, laughter filled the air, bridging the gap between them and forging a bond.

  ***

  As the golden rays of the early morning sun filtered through the windows of the Water Kingdom Palace, casting a gentle glow upon the opulent furnishings, Prince Marius found himself immersed in a sea of paperwork. The weight of his responsibilities seemed to rest heavily upon his broad shoulders, evident in the furrowed lines etched upon his brow.

  In the midst of his solitary task, a figure with fiery red locks appeared at the doorway of his office. Marius, alert to the intrusion, straightened his posture, his royal blue eyes meeting those of Lady Nessy. With a slightly exasperated tone, he beckoned her forward, gruffly questioning her intentions.

  “Yes, Nessy,” Marius sighed, the weariness in his voice palpable. “What do you want?”

  Observing the tension that clung to her Prince's countenance, Nessy tentatively stepped further into the room. Her voice carried a gentle concern as she addressed his obvious state of distress, relaying the observation of the palace soldiers who had noted his weariness. “They said you look stressed,” she tenderly murmured, her emerald eyes searching his for a sign of vulnerability.

  Marius, perhaps unwilling to admit his own fragile state, mustered a dismissive reply as a wave of his hand urged her departure. The weight of his burden seemed too great to share, his solitude becoming a fortress against the cares that plagued him. “Just leave me alone,” he stated, the words dripping with exhaustion.

  Nessy, with her fiery red hair cascading down her shoulders, glided across the office floor. She moved with a sense of purpose, her steps light and graceful. Weariness etched across her face as she longed for Marius. She slide beneath the shelter of the desk, as her hand reached out to release Marius from his slacks, a momentary calm washed over Marus. She lifting his tip to her lips, with a kiss as she slid him into her throat, serving as a soothing balm to Marius’s stressful soul. She closed her eyes and took him deeper, savoring his liquid as it cascaded down her throat.

  Marius, his face strained with pleasure, fought to maintain his composure upon noticing the imposing figures of Arroyo, and Devereaux, standing just outside the open door of his office. Gripping the edge of the desk, his nails digging into the wood, he winced as Nessy was still throbbing and pulsating him in her mouth.

  Without a word, Arroyo entered the room, his regal presence casting a shadow over Marius. “Did you finish signing the permits for the crab village?” Arroyo's voice boomed, its authority echoing through the chamber.

  Summoning all his strength, Marius managed to muster a semblance of composure as he grabbed a stack of papers. His hands trembled slightly as he reached out to present the signed permits to his father. “Here you go,” he forced out, his voice strained.

  Arroyo, ever observant, narrowed his eyes, studying his son's face intently. Sensing something radiating from Marius, his voice laced with concern, “What is wrong with you?”

  With a deep breath, Marius fought to conceal his torture from Nessy, as if keeping his enjoyment locked away. He forced a smile, attempting to convince both himself and his father that everything was fine. “I am good,” he replied.

  Though Arroyo's gaze lingered, he said nothing more, respecting his son's facade. Devereaux cautiously steps into the office. With a mixture of anticipation and trepidation building inside him, Devereaux clears his throat. His voice, though steady, carries a slight quiver. “Father,” he begins, “I want to know if I can join Evain in battle today.”

  Arroyo and Devereaux stepped out of the oppressive air of the office, their footsteps echoing as they made their way down the dimly lit hallway. Arroyo turned to his young son and spoke in a voice laced with both pride and caution. “If Evain determines that you are ready, then you may join the battle.”

  Devereaux nodded, gratitude shining in his eyes. “Thank you, father,” he replied, his voice filled with a mix of excitement and determination.

  Without hesitation, Devereaux set off down the hallways, his steps quick and purposeful, driven by an eagerness that pulsed through his veins. He weaved through the corridors, his heart pounding in anticipation, until he finally reached the door to Evain's chamber.

  Knocking on the weathered wood, he waited anxiously for her response. The door swung open, revealing a scene of disheveled soldiers leaving Evain's room, their faces marked with sweat and determination. Ignoring their presence, Devereaux entered the room, his eyes trained on Evain.

  She sat at a small desk, her fingers tracing the outline of a map as if memorizing its every feature. Her gaze met Devereaux's, radiating both strength and expectation. “Yes, Devereaux,” she said, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity.

  Caught off guard by the intensity in his sister's eyes, Devereaux stumbled over his words. “What was it like?” he blurted out, a mix of awe and nervousness coloring his voice.

  Evain's expression hardened, her glare piercing through him like a sword. “It's not just fun, Devereaux,” she replied, her tone firm yet tinged with a hint of compassion. “it’s a different kind of battle that requires immense energy, dedication, and a steel resolve. It's not something to be taken lightly. Is that why you came?”

  Devereaux's excitement flickered for a moment, replaced by a sense of seriousness. He shook his head, trying to regain his composure. “No, that's not why I came here,” he clarified, his voice steady. “Father said if you agree, I can join you in battle today.”

  Evain slowly made her way to the antique closet tucked away in the corner of her room. Its polished mahogany exterior gleamed under the soft light of the flickering candle nearby. With a sense of purpose, she opened the door, revealing an array of weapons hanging neatly on hooks.

  Her eyes scanned the assortment until they settled on a sword, adorned with a delicate ribbon. The blade was etched with intricate patterns, whispering tales of battles fought and victories won.

  Gently grasping the hilt, Evain felt the weight of the sword in her hand. Its smooth surface was cool against her palm, as if it held within it a secret power, waiting to be unleashed. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face her brother.

  Devereaux stood tall and proud, his piercing eyes filled with determination. When Evain extended the sword towards him, he accepted it with reverence. With a voice filled with resolve, Evain spoke to her brother, her words carrying the weight of duty and responsibility. “Yes, but you must stay near me,” she cautioned.

  Devereaux nodded solemnly, his grip on the sword tightening. His voice resonated with loyalty and unwavering commitment. “I will, General,” he declared.

  As a smirk tugged at the corner of Evain's lips, she couldn't help but inject a thread of humor into the tension-laden atmosphere. “Well, I already regretting this,” she joked.