Chapter 12— Where Time Refuses to Follow.

  The dining room had been calm—too calm for a palace that thrived on anticipation.

  Head maid Layra entered quietly, her steps measured, posture precise, as Elara and Sylvaris sat across from one another, their meal half-finished, their conversation unremarkable.

  “Your Highness. Greetings, Sir Elara,” Layra said, bowing respectfully.

  Sylvaris did not look up at first. “Why are you here?” she asked coolly. “I instructed you to train Ray for five days.”

  “Your Highness,” Layra said, her voice tightening despite herself, “Princess Rynvaris… has passed the trial.”

  Silence broke.

  “What—!” Sylvaris rose so sharply her chair scraped against the floor. “What did you say?!”

  “What?!” Elara echoed at the same instant, choking as water went down the wrong way. He coughed once, hard, setting the cup down with a sharp clink.

  A moment passed.

  Elara steadied his breathing, wiped his mouth, and spoke slowly, as though weighing each word.

  “That child… truly possesses the potential to become a queen.” His brow furrowed. “Or else the trial allows entry under conditions we do not yet understand.”

  “Perhaps,” Sylvaris said, her voice lower now, more guarded. “But I have watched her for years. She never once displayed talent.”

  “We will know once she returns,” Elara replied.

  Sylvaris exhaled through her nose. “For her, it may be three years. Two. Perhaps even one.” Her gaze drifted, distant. “For us… it will be three days. Or less.”

  “I wonder,” Elara said quietly, “how many questions she will answer correctly.”

  “She is my sister,” Sylvaris said firmly. “And my student. She will answer at least two.”

  Elara stood. “I will inform Her Majesty.”

  Without waiting for a response, he turned and left the room.

  Inside the First King’s Tabu, time moved without measure.

  “Oo… man,” Rayvaris muttered, lowering her sword. “I’ve been practicing Crescent Bloom for seven days now. I’m doing everything right… so why hasn’t anything changed?”

  “Child,” the First King said calmly, “come here. Your food is ready.”

  “Old man, I’m coming!”

  She turned toward him without hesitation.

  This place still unsettled her. The old man could shape anything at will—space, objects, even meals. Food appeared as though it had always existed, warm and complete. No effort. No ritual.

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  He truly was the god of this domain.

  She did not say it aloud.

  Rayvaris sat and ate quietly, the simple meal grounding her restless thoughts.

  “…Thank you for the food,” she said at last.

  The First King inclined his head slightly.

  “Old man,” she continued, setting the bowl aside, “do you know what’s wrong with my training?”

  “I have been observing you,” he replied. His voice carried no doubt. “And I have learned that something within your body is misaligned.”

  Her brows knit. “What’s wrong with my body?”

  “When you attempt to release miki through your sword,” he said, “you simultaneously draw miki from the surrounding air.”

  She stiffened.

  “The two flows oppose one another,” he continued evenly. “They collide. And in doing so, they cancel out. That is why Crescent Bloom refuses to manifest.”

  …Is this because my soul entered this body?

  The thought surfaced unbidden, then sank without answer.

  “There is a solution,” the First King said, as though reading neither her doubt nor her fear. “I will create a chamber devoid of ambient miki. There, you will release only what exists within you—until nothing remains.”

  “And after that?”

  “You will return to the open space,” he replied. “And replenish yourself consciously. You must learn separation before harmony.”

  “So… that’s how it is,” she murmured.

  From that day onward, her routine changed.

  She emptied herself within the sealed chamber—again and again—until her limbs trembled and her core lay hollow. Then she stepped back into the open world and drew miki from the air, slowly, deliberately, refusing haste.

  What once took a full day… returned to her in little more than an hour.

  Days passed.

  Then more.

  And at last—

  The sword moved.

  Crescent Bloom unfolded without resistance.

  It was quiet. Complete.

  Possible.

  Year later— only single day had passed beyond the Tabu—

  “Old man, look!” Rayvaris said, breathless but steady. “I’ve mastered the second form of the Flowing Moon Sword—Wind Serenade. I can strike multiple targets in a single flow now.”

  The First King watched her in silence.

  This child… is not flawed, he realized.

  She is divergent.

  A normal human required a full day to replenish their miki.

  She required hours.

  Perhaps less, in time.

  Rayvaris returned to her stance, blade lifting once more.

  And beneath the First King’s unmoving gaze, her training continued.

  Time within the Tabu continued to erode itself, day after day folding into quiet repetition.

  Rayvaris trained.

  Again.

  And again.

  The first form—Crescent Bloom—unfolded without hesitation now. Her stance settled naturally, breath aligning with motion, miki flowing cleanly through blade and body as though it had always belonged there.

  The second—Wind Serenade—followed. Smooth. Controlled. A continuous arc of movement capable of striking many without breaking flow.

  She repeated them until sweat darkened the ground beneath her feet. Until muscle memory burned deeper than conscious thought.

  Then she stopped.

  The third form would not come.

  No matter how many times she attempted it, the motion fractured midway. The flow collapsed. The sword resisted—not violently, but decisively, as if the form itself refused her.

  Rayvaris lowered the blade, chest rising slowly.

  “…Still nothing,” she murmured.

  The First King observed from a distance, saying nothing.

  She tried again.

  The opening step was correct.

  The miki circulation—stable.

  The intent—clear.

  And yet, the moment she attempted to transition beyond Wind Serenade, something closed.

  Not pain.

  Not resistance.

  Absence.

  As though the path forward simply did not exist.

  Rayvaris exhaled and stepped back.

  For days after that, she stopped attempting the third form altogether.

  Instead, she refined what she already possessed.

  Crescent Bloom—until every release was identical.

  Wind Serenade—until each transition carried no wasted motion.

  No impatience. No desperation.

  Only repetition.

  Only endurance.

  Time passed.

  And then the First King spoke.

  “Two months remain,” he said calmly.

  Rayvaris froze.

  “…Two months?”

  “Before the forest completes its two-year cycle,” he replied. “And you are returned.”

  She looked down at her hands.

  Two months.

  The third form still beyond her reach.

  Her grip tightened—not in frustration, but resolve.

  “Then I’ll make the first two flawless,” she said quietly.

  The First King’s gaze sharpened—not with approval, nor disapproval.

  With recognition.

  Rayvaris raised her sword once more.

  If the third form would not answer her—

  She would ensure the first two never failed.

  And so she practiced.

  Not chasing what refused her.

  But perfecting what had already chosen to remain.