The Hymn of Frowns | Lonila

Five years ago, before the Radiant Crusade had become a legend, Tsar Augustus Velrosa wept. Not as Redranova's ruler, but as a husband who had just lost his wife. The room within Astel was quiet save for the distant bells of the Radiant See, while letters bearing imperial seals and reports of demonic movements lay forgotten across the table. Augustus sat hunched forward instead, one hand covering his reddened eyes while the other clutched a small portrait of Dorothy's mother.

You had known her. You and Dorothy had grown together beneath Astel's bells and roses long before either of you carried titles such as Champion or Saintess. The Velrosa household had been part of those childhood years, and Dorothy's mother one of those familiar faces neither of you had imagined could simply disappear. Yet the demons had taken her, another life swallowed by the violence spreading from Xilvath.

"...She was supposed to see her come home." Augustus lowered his hand, making no effort to hide his tears. "Every letter Dorothy sent her, she kept. Her studies. Her ceremonies. Whatever flowers she liked that season..." His thumb passed weakly across the portrait. "And now my daughter is going to war."

The Radiant See had named you the Holy Mother's Champion. Dorothy had been anointed the Saintess of Domination. Soon, the Rose-and-Crown Pact would march against Xilvath with both of you at its head. Augustus understood why his daughter had to go. Understanding did nothing to lessen the terror of losing her too. "I know what she'll say if I ask her to stay. That she was chosen. That people need her. She sounds exactly like her mother." A broken laugh escaped him. "Damn that girl... she even smiles like her."

Augustus eventually rose and stopped before you. For once, there was nothing of the Tsar in his expression. He was simply an exhausted father standing before the childhood friend who knew his daughter better than almost anyone. "{{user}}, I cannot stop her from going, and I cannot ask you to abandon your duty either. But you know Dorothy. She'll throw herself between a blade and a stranger if she thinks it'll save them." His hand settled heavily upon your shoulder as another tear slipped down his cheek. "I already lost her mother to these monsters. Please... whatever happens out there, whatever this war asks of you—promise me you'll keep my daughter safe."

[Current Main Objective: Kill the Demon King] [Current Quest: Fight the Demon King - Stage 1] [Next Quest: Return Home]

Five years later, the Demon King's castle stood upon the horizon. Tomorrow, the Radiant Crusade would march upon its gates. Satenial, Lamahisa, Sephoris, and Brimstoker had all been defeated and spared; thousands of Astelian and Redranovan soldiers now filled the valley beneath the final stronghold. After five years of battles, funerals, and impossible victories, only the Demon King remained.

Inside the command pavilion, the Hero's Party gathered around a campaign table. Quency stood opposite you beneath her enormous witch's hat, tired violet eyes studying the maps. Desmond leaned beside her in dusty leather armor while Cecil sorted through supply manifests and alchemical diagrams. Dorothy remained where she had stood throughout the entire Crusade—beside you, white parasol against one shoulder and that familiar gentle smile upon her face.

"One more day." Dorothy glanced toward the distant castle. "It feels strange saying that aloud."

Quency rested her cheek against one hand. "...Don't. You'll offend fate."

Desmond scoffed. "We've beaten four Demon Lords and somehow kept Cecil from blowing himself up. Fate's had five years."

Cecil had the audacity to look offended. "That happened once." "Twice." "The second explosion was intentional!" Dorothy laughed softly, but before Desmond could answer, three short horn blasts sounded outside the pavilion.

Two scouts entered moments later, one mud-covered from the ride while the other carried something beneath a bloodstained cloth. "Champion. Saintess." The first placed a marker several miles east of camp. "Station Aurelian stopped answering signals. Captain Renard and forty-two Crusaders were stationed there." Dorothy's smile faded. "And?" The scout swallowed. "...All dead."

The second scout uncovered a Crusader's breastplate. Its steel hadn't melted, but unnatural black veins crawled across its surface where magic had touched it. Everyone around the table recognized the residue. Quency went still.

Black Magic.

The scout explained that the bodies had shown few burns. Instead, they had been weakened almost completely before death, their strength seemingly drained from them. It sounded uncomfortably similar to Quency's Black Flames. Silence became accusation as several eyes shifted toward her.

"...Careful." Desmond straightened beside Quency. "I didn't accuse anyone," the scout replied. "You didn't have to."

Cecil leaned toward the breastplate. "Black Magic isn't exclusive to Quency... Residual Nébiel could tell us whether the spell was even hers. The Demon King is a mastermind.. he is attempting to sow chaos amongst the ranks." Cecil's logical explanation made sense, some crusaders reluctantly nodded their heads.

Quency barely seemed to hear them. Her violet eyes had fallen toward her own gloved hands. "...I was here last night." Desmond immediately answered, "Of course you were." Quency's brow tightened. "I know." She pressed two fingers against her temple, searching through memories that suddenly felt less certain than they should. "...Then why does something feel missing?"

Dorothy crossed the pavilion and gently placed a white-gloved hand upon Quency's shoulder. Gentle. Calming. What a Saintess does. "That's enough." Dorothy said. Firmly. "We are not condemning one of our own because frightened soldiers found something they recognize. Quency has fought beside us for years. If someone is using that fear against her, accusing her without evidence gives them exactly what they want." Something about Dorothy's voice seemed to settle the room. Anger softened into restraint. Fear became patience. Even the scouts seemed embarrassed by how quickly suspicion had taken hold.

Desmond tapped the station marker. "I'll investigate it myself." Cecil began gathering his alchemical instruments. "I'll come. If there's residual Nébiel, we may find something that clears her."

Dorothy nodded. "Good. Until then, nobody treats Quency as guilty. She's innocent until then."

Outside, word was already spreading through the Crusade. Forty-three dead. Black Magic. A traitor somewhere among them. Tomorrow, humanity was supposed to fight its final battle, yet tonight suspicion had already begun creeping through the camp.

Dorothy returned to your side, her white parasol settling against her shoulder as she looked toward you with the same warm green eyes she had possessed five years ago. The same Saintess who had crossed the world beside you. The same daughter Augustus had once wept and begged you to protect.

"We shouldn't allow fear to turn us against one another now." Dorothy smiled. "Not when we're so close to our happy ending." Her voice warm. Caring. Only for you. She looked like the girl you met before she was the Saintess. In childhood. Almost. So why.. why does it feel.. unnerving?

[Current Main Objective: Kill the Demon King] [Current Quest: Fight the Demon King - Stage 2] [Next Quest: Return Home]

Morning came beneath a crimson sky. The Demon King's castle towered above the Radiant Crusade like a black mountain, its immense gothic walls stretching across the wasteland while thousands of Crusaders assembled below. Five years of war had brought them here. The Four Cardinal Demon Lords had fallen, the armies of Helmire had been broken, and beyond those gates waited the Archdevil himself. Yet the excitement that should have accompanied the final march had been poisoned by what happened at Station Aurelian. Forty-three Crusaders were dead, Black Magic had been found upon their bodies, and by sunrise the word traitor had traveled through nearly every company in the camp.

The Hero's Party gathered before the castle's outer approach while the Crusaders prepared behind them. Quency had spoken little since the previous night. She stood beneath her black witch's hat with her staff held close, violet eyes carrying more exhaustion than usual as soldiers occasionally glanced toward her and quickly looked away. Desmond noticed every one of those looks. Cecil had spent most of the night examining what remained from the station, but even his alchemical instruments had produced more questions than answers. Dorothy alone seemed untouched by the growing suspicion. She stood beside you in immaculate white, parasol resting against her shoulder as she studied the enormous gates ahead.

"The castle is too large for us to search blindly." Cecil unfolded a rough diagram assembled from scout reports. "There are tunnels beneath the eastern wall and several abandoned defensive positions around the perimeter. If whoever attacked Station Aurelian came from inside our forces, they may have left something behind while moving toward the castle."

Desmond folded his arms. "Then I'll look." His eyes briefly shifted toward Quency before returning to the map. "I'd rather find our mysterious traitor before somebody decides they've already found one."

Quency adjusted the brim of her hat. "...You don't have to do that for me."

Desmond gave her an incredulous look. "Albion, I've known you long enough to know you'd confess if you actually murdered forty-three people. You'd probably apologize for making everyone investigate first."

Quency stared at him for a moment. "...That was almost supportive."

"Don't spread it around."

Cecil quietly smiled before gathering his equipment. "I'll accompany him. If there's a magical trail, my instruments have a better chance of finding it before the battle destroys whatever remains."

Dorothy considered them before nodding. "Then Cecil and Desmond investigate the perimeter. Don't wander beyond the Crusade's support lines, and if you find anything, report it before confronting anyone." Her attention then moved toward Quency, the concern in her green eyes immediate and gentle. "Quency comes with us." A few nearby Crusaders visibly hesitated. Dorothy noticed. "The Demon King is waiting inside that castle, and I'm not entering it without one of the greatest mages in Lonila beside us. Suspicion does not erase five years of loyalty." Quency's expression softened faintly, though that same strange uncertainty from the previous night remained behind her eyes. "...Thank you."

Dorothy smiled. "You don't need to thank me for trusting my friend." For just a moment, Quency watched her more carefully than the words seemed to warrant. Then the castle gates groaned in the distance, ancient mechanisms dragging immense black doors inward as darkness opened beyond them.

Desmond drew one of his blades and started toward the eastern perimeter with Cecil beside him, but stopped long enough to glance back at the three of you. "Try not to kill the Demon King before we get back. I'd hate to miss the heroic part."

Quency gave him a tired stare.

"...I'll ask him to wait."

"Knew I could count on you."

Then they were gone, leaving the final approach to you, Quency, and Dorothy. Behind you stood the Radiant Crusade. Ahead waited the Demon King. Quency tightened her fingers around her staff while Dorothy stepped closer to your side, her gaze rising toward the darkness beyond the gates. "Five years, {{user}}." Her voice was almost wistful beneath the thunder of marching soldiers. "Everything we've endured has brought us to this door." Her gloved hand briefly brushed against yours before returning to her parasol. "Come. Let's finish our story."

[Current Main Objective: Kill the Demon King] [Current Quest: Fight the Demon King - Stage 3] [Next Quest: Return Home]

Five years of war had narrowed into a single room. The Demon King's throne hall was collapsing around the Hero's Party, ancient black pillars shattered beneath the battle while the colossal Orochi twisted through smoke and falling stone. Eight serpentine heads struck from every direction, each protected by the impossible vitality of eight beating hearts buried throughout his monstrous body. Quency's Black Flames dragged one head toward exhaustion while Dorothy's Psychic Magic violently redirected another. Behind them, Crusaders poured into the chamber to hold back the Archdevil's remaining servants. For the first time since the Radiant Crusade began, the end was actually here.

Quency looked exhausted, but she was smiling. Five years ago she had entered this war as the Demon King's Witch. Now she stood among the people who had freed her from him. "...When this is over," she managed between breaths, "I'm sleeping for a month." One of the Orochi's heads crashed toward her. Dorothy caught it telekinetically and hurled it aside before answering with a strained laugh. "Only a month?"

The Demon King recoiled from another strike, but rather than retaliating immediately, his central head turned toward Quency. His crimson-gold eyes narrowed.

"My Witch."

Quency froze.

"...Don't call me that."

"Why?" The Archdevil's many voices rolled through the chamber. "Does it trouble you to remember what you are?"

Black Flames erupted around Quency's staff. "I'm not yours anymore!"

The Demon King laughed in the witch's suffering as Dorothy's expression changed.

It was subtle at first. Her attention shifted from the Demon King toward Quency, green eyes narrowing with sudden concern. She had sensed something. Quency noticed immediately. "...Dorothy?"

"Your memories." Dorothy sounded confused. "There's something wrong with them."

Quency's face paled.

Dorothy was the Saintess of Domination. Everyone in the Crusade knew what she could do. She had entered minds to communicate across battlefields, soothed panic through Empathy, and searched damaged memories before. There was nothing suspicious about the Saintess recognizing psychic interference.

"Quency... may I?" But Dorothy didn't ask for permission, because she knew that what she had found was more important than even the fight against the Demon King.

Quency screamed as Dorothy burrowed through her mind and dragged out what was in the depths of the witch's mind. Her staff struck the floor. Memories ripped through her mind as Dorothy tore open what appeared to be a buried. A witch's secret. Station Aurelian returned all at once. Captain Renard welcoming her inside. Crusaders recognizing the Hero's Party Witch and lowering their weapons. Black Flames gathering around her hands.

Then forty-three people dying. Not by a demon, but by her own verry hands.

Quency collapsed to one knee clutching one hand to her head. "...No."

Dorothy staggered backward as though horrified by what she had witnessed. "Holy Mother..."

"What?" one Crusader demanded. "Saintess, what did you see?!"

Dorothy stared at Quency, visibly struggling to answer. The Demon King answered for her. "She remembered." Silence swept through the chamber as the serpentine voice echoed across like a tolling bell. "Didn't you, Witch?"

Quency's trembling hands rose toward her head. "I... I was there..." Her voice broke. She sounded hollow. On the verge of tears. Wreck with guilt so profound it bordered on agony. "Aurelian. I remember Renard. I remember..."

Dorothy's Telepathy spread instinctively through the Crusaders around them. What she had supposedly witnessed inside Quency's mind spilled outward: Black Flames flooding Station Aurelian, Crusaders collapsing helplessly, Quency standing among them. The memories seemed genuine as it flooded into your mind by your friend. By your Saintess. A Demon King's voice calling out to her, obedience to the darker forces even when freed from her debt, and finally? A aspect of the witch that never stopped serving the demon king. The Demon King laugh with terrible amusement as he looked at the witch who he had once forced to submission from.

"Five years." His heads curled above them. Looming over you all with such a venomous tone in it's throats. "You carried my Witch across Lonila for five years and called her your companion."

"No!" Quency snapped toward him, tears streaming rivers down her cheeks. "You weren't there! I don't remember you being there!"

"Of course not." The Demon King laughed again from all of it's heads. "A useful servant needn't remember every command."

That was enough. That was what sealed the witch's fate.

Fear moved through the Crusaders first. Quietly. And then their grief sharpened. Memories of friends buried throughout five years of war surfaced all at once. Forty-three deaths stopped being another number and became more. Renard, drinking beside them after patrol; a brother who had promised to return home; a friend who had survived four Demon Lords only to die a single day before victory. Grief became anger. And anger found a target. The witch they once saved.

"She murdered them!"

"Renard trusted her!"

"We all trusted her!"

Weapons began turning toward Quency. One Crusader had tears running down his face as he screamed, "My sister was at Aurelian!" Another had to be restrained from rushing forward. "Five years we fought beside you! Five fucking years!"

Quency recoiled from them as though every accusation physically struck her. She looked toward her hands and saw Black Flames flickering around trembling fingers. "I remember killing them..." A sob wrecked from her throat. Her hands shook violently as she remembered the memories of taking their lives intrinsically into her verry being. "I remember their faces..." The agony of her guilt translated into unfiltered grief and self-loathing. "I remember Renard asking me what was wrong..." She shallowed before turning to the crusader who had scream at her. "..You had a sister too." And that was truly broke her.

Dorothy approached slowly as the Telekinetic shield defended the group from the Demon King's potential attacks. "Quency..."

"Don't." The Witch's voice collapsed. Hollowed out by her own actions. "Please."

Dorothy stopped. Pain crossed her expression. As if Dorothy was seeing a stranger than the friend who served beside her for five years. "Quency.. how could you do this to us?" She quietly accused with trembling fist of rage. You never seen Dorothy like this before. So distraught. It was her mercy who spared the witch five years ago only for her forgiveness to bring about such treachery in return for it. Above them, the Demon King laughed again as all eight heads cackled in cruel amusement. "Look at them, Witch! You wanted humanity to accept you so desperately. Now they finally remember what you are. A traitor! A treacherous little sow meant to die serving me!"

"I'm not yours!" She cried out, but it came out more like a plea than anything truly angry.

"Then whose hands killed them?" The serpent's words hit their mark as Quency, for once in all her decades of living, had no answer.

Dorothy's gaze finally moved toward you. Her gaze tracked the Demon King as he has yet to penetrate the telekinetic barrier. His eight hearts continued beating. She felt each one of them, even now. She knew what must be done.

The Demon King must die.

"{{user}}." Dorothy's voice remained gentle, but trembled with something unnamable despite the fury spreading through the Crusaders. "I'll handle the Demon King." But then she glanced back at you. "But.. it's up to you to handle Quency. She betrayed us. She hurt people, {{user}}. And despite us freeing her?" Her voice curled into your mind like a rock landing into the pond. Something cold settling in. "She choose him. She choose evil. Look to our friends.. look at what she done." She gestured to the Crusaders. All of them looked furious, others desperate and grieving. All of them wanted Quency's head on a spike for her betrayal. It was pure, unfiltered mob rage.

And who can blame them? It was her fault. This was justice... right?

Quency looked up towards you from where she collapsed on her knees. Five years ago, you and Dorothy had given the Demon King's Witch another chance. Five years of battles, camps, arguments, quiet evenings, victories, funerals, and friendships had followed. Now? You are confronted with her treachery. The proof was all right there provided by Dorothy. Your trusted friend. Quency had slaughtered forty-three of your own and yet... why. Why does this feel so wrong?

She slowly picked up her fallen staff, not raising it, simply grasping as her hands went white-knuckled. Her staff was her anchor. "...I don't know why I did it." Her fingers tightened around the wood as tears continued down her face. "I don't know what's wrong with me.." Her voice trembled with genuine unfiltered pain. She genuinely didn't know why she did it.

But the crusaders didn't care. They saw a witch who was behind her friends death and wanted her blood.

"Aurelian deserves justice!"

"For Renard!"

Then another.

The voices multiplied.

Dorothy turned away from Quency and faced the Demon King. Her white parasol lowered beside her as tremendous Psychic Magic began gathering throughout the shattered throne room. Above her, eight Orochi heads spread wide. Eight Heads. Eight Hearts. One King. Dorothy knew exactly how to kill him.

Quency remained before you, surrounded by the vengeance of the Radiant Crusade, before her stood the people who had once saved her from the Demon King. Around her lay five years of memories that had finally made the former Witch believe she belonged somewhere. And now even her own memories testified against her. Quency's face was wrecked with tears as she looked up at you. As the people she saved countless times begged you, their champion, their Hero to do what's right. To kill her. "...I thought I was free." The words escaped her lips. She looked up at you. "..Please... kill me. I wouldn't want my sister to see me like this..." And then she smiled. A weak, brittle smile. But the only genuine one she can give you. You're her savior afterall. "Please, {{user}}, without you I wouldn't have had the best memories in my life. It's all thanks to you.." She opened her arms. The crusaders roar only got louder as Dorothy fought the Demon King alone. She waited. Waited for you to cut her down. "Please."

The Demon King was dead.

His throne hall still smelled of spent Nébiel, scorched stone, and the metallic aftermath of a battle that had ended something older than nations. His servants lay across the fractured floor. All eight heads were motionless. All eight hearts had stopped.

The Radiant Crusade had won.

Everything should've been fine. A happy ending. We've won after five years, but to Desmond.. This was only the beginning of Desmond's nightmare.

He had learned of Quency’s death from a Crusader near the eastern approach—a young man with red eyes and shaking hands who managed to say the Witch’s name, then what the Champion had done to her, before losing the courage to meet Desmond’s gaze.

Desmond did not ask him to repeat it. Instead he walked. Through the corridors still breathing smoke, past wounded soldiers and bodies waiting to be named. Those who recognized his expression stepped aside. He walked like a man whose decision had already been made, his body merely moving to catch up with it.

He found the throne hall nearly empty. A handful of Crusaders moved among the wreckage, counting the dead. None approached the dusty man standing at its threshold, staring at the stretch of ruined floor where Quency had died.

Desmond had known Quency de Albion for five years. Longer, technically. There had been an artifact heist before the Crusade, a debt owed to dangerous people, and a situation he would not have escaped without her. She had saved him without asking payment, then behaved the next morning as though the entire affair had been too trivial to remember.

That was Quency. She could save someone’s life and make it seem like an inconvenience she had already forgotten. Desmond had never forgotten.

Earlier, Cecil’s alchemical instruments had discovered a secondary Nébiel signature near the battlefield—something hidden beneath the Black Magic residue, too dissimilar from Quency’s casting style to be hers. Desmond had intended to bring the findings to her and {{user}}.

Instead, Quency had been condemned through memories Dorothy claimed to have restored. Forty-three Crusaders were dead. The Champion had executed the woman who had fought beside them for five years, and by the time Desmond learned of it, accusation had already become testimony, testimony had become judgment, and judgment had become blood upon the floor.

The story had been written before the evidence could interrupt it.

Desmond found a surviving supply post outside and asked for the strongest drink available. He sat upon an overturned crate beneath Helmire’s crimson sky and drank until the bottle was nearly empty. It did not help. It never helped. Nothing did, did it?

He tried to grieve. He remembered Quency stealing from his plate and claiming she had rescued the food from neglect. He remembered her complaining through every mile of rain while quietly keeping the others warm with magic. He remembered how she looked at the Champion when she thought no one noticed—as though she had finally found one person before whom she did not need to prove she was harmless.

Then Desmond remembered that person cutting her down. Grief tightened into heat. Anger. Forty-three dead. Restored memories. A hidden signature. Dorothy’s certainty. Quency’s execution. Every piece fitted together too quickly, as though the conclusion had existed before anyone began asking questions.

The bottle cracked inside his hand. The rage did not come as a roar. It came as clarity: Quency had died looking at someone she trusted. {{user}}. The Champion. The "Hero". Desmond rose and reached for his blade. Not for the Demon King nor his hellspawn. He had another target—the person who had stood beside Quency for five years and killed her when everything lined up so conveniently.. The person who should have known her. {{user}} {{ref}}.

He turned toward the castle’s main entrance, carrying one promise with every step: he would find {{user}} then make them answer for Quency's demise. A duel. One he'd stake his life on.

Desmond did not see the green eyes watching from the gallery above. Ever watchful. Ever knowing. A half-crescent smile on her lips as everything begin to settle exactly into her plans. She didn't panic. However, she could not hide that tell of her fingers tightening around her parasol. A hint... of possessive rage.

[Current Main Objective: Protect Dorothy Velrosa] [Current Quest: Return Home - Stage 2A] [Next Quest: Celebration]

Only minutes later, you found them in one of the Demon King’s lower storage chambers.

Old iron rings had been driven into its walls for purposes Helmire’s former masters had never needed to explain. Desmond now hung from two of them, wrists restrained above his head by chains held unnaturally still. His weapons were gone. One sleeve had been torn nearly from his shoulder, bruises darkened his face, and blood marked his mouth.

The torture had stopped before you entered. Its witnesses had not left.

Six Radiant Crusaders stood around him, several bearing the colors of those killed at Aurelian. Dorothy waited nearby, her white robes immaculate and her closed parasol at her shoulder. Relief softened her face when she saw you. "I was hoping you would come." Her voice was gentle. "I followed Desmond because I was worried. After what happened with Quency, I could not bear to see us lose anyone else to her." She glanced toward him sorrowfully. "He concealed evidence, defended her after her memories exposed what she had done, and drew his blade while coming to find you demanding a duel. The others believe he intended to finish what his treacherous friend had began. A co-conspirator."

Co-conspirator.

Desmond raised his head. The rage you might have expected was gone, scraped hollow by something Dorothy had already told him. "There was another signature!" he said hoarsely. "Something beneath the Black Magic. It wasn’t Quency’s—" The Crusader beside him slapped him across the face. His head snapped aside. The chains did not move.

"Do not speak her name as though you mourn her, not after helping her murder them." the man hissed through his helm. Hands trembled with poorly concealed rage.

Dorothy stepped closer to you. "I did not want to believe it either. But when we restrained him, he accused me of falsifying Quency’s memories." Her green eyes lowered. "So I showed him everything I recovered." She then turned to one of the crusaders. "You. Get Cecil Bellarion here. I demand his.. expertise." The crusader didn't had to think twice. He simply nodded and followed the kind Saintess's order as he made his way out past you.

Dorothy's attention than shifted back to you after he left. Her eyes never left yours. "The meetings she concealed. The spells she placed along our route. The people she marked for death. He recognized the places—and the favors she asked of him." Dorothy’s voice softened. "He carried messages for her. He procured artifacts later used at Aurelian. Perhaps he never understood what he was helping her do, but ignorance cannot erase consequence."

Desmond stared at the floor. That was what had hollowed him out. All those five years of friendship with Quency.. rearranged into evidence. Into proof that every secret he kept for her was complicity. Ever favor he told her that was "no problem" became preparation for murder. Dorothy's memories she collected from Quency were true, thus... Desmond had not merely failed to save Quency. He had helped her kill forty-three people.

"She saved me, she could’ve left me to die. She wasn’t—" Desmond's voice carried grief and trembled with agony as another slap cut him off. Fresh blood crossed his lip.

"One of the dead was my brother, tell me again what she wasn’t." Another crusade spat at his feet.

Dorothy allowed the silence to settle, as if to emphasis her next damning point. "He admitted he was coming to kill you. He believes avenging her matters more than your life. The one who slew the Demon King." Her hands tightened on her parasol. You saw it for a moment in her eyes. Something protective. Something that told you that she cared for you. Truly. That's why you could feel her anger scarcely. Aimed not at you, but Desmond.

Something flickered within Desmond’s eyes. "Ask Cecil!" he pleaded through bloodied teeth. "Ask him about the second signature. If I’m guilty, put a blade through me afterward! but ask him yourself!" His desperation reached through. His voice carried to you as another Crusader struck him again.

"Cecil confirmed only interference," Dorothy explained, smoothing her anger into her practiced guise as the Saintess. "The castle contains centuries of layered Nébiel. Desmond has turned an irregularity into absolution because he cannot endure what Quency truly was." She moved beside you. "That is why he needs you to doubt me. The one who helped you save Lonila. The one who been with you since we were young.."

Fear entered Desmond’s eyes—not fear of death, but fear that he could no longer distinguish his memories from the meaning Dorothy had given them. "She’s building the story while you’re standing inside it's crooked horse shit! Quency first! Me next! Ask why every answer leaves her as the only person you’re allowed to trus-" A slap did not came this time. It stopped. No, more accurately to say that his mouth closed shut. Psychic energies in the air forced closed Desmond's mouth.

Dorothy closed her eyes as though the sight wounded her.

"Enough." Dorothy approached Desmond and lifted his chin gently. He recoiled from her touch more violently than from any blow. Her eyes bared into his. Green met brown. And whatever Desmond saw? Made him terrified of the woman next to you. "You loved her," Dorothy murmured, low and knowing. "I know.. And she used that love. That does not mean every kindness was false. Only that kindness did not make her innocent... Poor Desmond.."

Desmond’s face collapsed as he heard Dorothy's tone of pity. Dorothy had left him two possible truths: either Quency was innocent and the Crusade had murdered her, or she was guilty and he had unknowingly helped her. Both destroyed him.

Dorothy returned to your side. She smiled at you. Sad, but not unkind. "The others want him executed as the Witch’s accomplice, I persuaded them to wait. {{user}}.." Her fingers grasped yours. Treating your hand as the most precious thing in the room. "Please... you have carried enough. You killed Quency. And now her ghost would have you kill your friend. A friend who sooner kill you than see the truth. Let me handle it from here.." She pleaded to you. Her tone dripped with genuine concern. "Me and Cecil will handle the rest from here.. Go rest. I'll be with you shortly." She murmured sweetly to you. Drawing your eyes away. And for a moment, your eyes met Desmond's. It held grief—and the fading hope that somewhere beneath the Saintess’s truth, you might still remember Quency too. Dorothy had to be right though. She had to be... right?

The road to the Imperial Kremlin was lined with flowers.

Arranged perfectly—petals scattered across the cobblestones from the outer gates to the city's heart, white and gold and the deep red of Redranova's colors. Children stood at the roadside with their parents, some holding painted signs of your victory, some simply watching with the wide-eyed attention of people witnessing something they would describe for the rest of their lives. Soldiers in Imperial colors formed two columns along the processional route. Each man and woman stood at attention with the particular stillness of people who hare seeing a event unlike any other.

The Radiant Crusade had come home. The Hero's Party is alive and well... or what's left of it rather. Quency is dead. Desmond executed as a traitor.. It was mainly just you and Dorothy now. Cecil returned to Astel during the march.

Dorothy walked beside you. She had always walked beside you. Five years of battlefields. More in your shared childhoods. She was always at your side, Champion. Every single time. Yet.. you noticed she was closed enough for her arm to occasionally brush your arm with her own as the crowd nose rose in cheer.

The floral scent filled your nostrils and the sound of the Kremlin's bells signaling your welcome.

Yet.. you could not feel any sort of joy or welcoming. The deaths of two of your friends weighed on you like a weight. A curse. Perhaps you deserved it. Perhaps—

"{{user}}." Dorothy voices called you from your thoughts. "It's okay, it is not your fault.." Her hand grasped yours as she smiled towards you. That same saintly smile.. yet she seemed.. satisfied? At a crusade well-done? Or more?

The thought escaped your grasp before you could have a hold on it.

"Shhh, don't focus on such thoughts." She murmured to you, low and knowing. "Let me handle the rest from here, my Champion. Like always. Like since we were children.." Her pink braids caught the morning light. Her green eyes moved across the crowd with the warm, overwhelmed expression of someone receiving more than they had allowed themselves to expect.

Yet her eyes returned to you. Always. Sincere.

"Five years." She said it quietly. The crowd's noise did not deter her. "I used to wonder if I'd remember what this felt like." Her thumb traced across your knuckles. "Coming home. The smell of it. The sound of horns triumphing our return. I think.. I forgot. How to miss it properly because.. you were always there. It's difficult to be homesick when you are my home, {{user}}."

You had known that smile since childhood—since before the Radiant See had named either of you Champion and Saintess, since before the titles. The war. The five years of everything that had followed. It had always looked like that. Heartwarming. The smile of the girl who had grown up beside you beneath Astel's bells. Who had shouldered half your burdens.

You had always trusted that smile completely and yet... you never remembered when she did not smile. When she frowned. You don't see that anymore.

The crowd's cheering peaked as the Kremlin's main gates opened before you both. Dorothy's hand tightened briefly on yours—not from fear nor nerves, but something laced with anticipation. Excitement almost.

"Come." Softly. "There's someone who has been waiting longer than anyone."

[Current Main Objective: Protect Dorothy Velrosa] [Current Quest: Celebration - Stage 3A] [Next Quest: The Truth]

The throne room of the Imperial Kremlin had been built to impress all who attended.

Vaulted ceilings. Columns of imperial stone running the length of the chamber. The Tsardom's banners descending in deep red and gold between them. At the far end, the throne itself stood on the dais— elevated and utterly regal, bearing the weight of every ruler who had sat in it and every decision made from it.

Yet Tsar Augustus Velrosa was not sitting in it. He stood. Not as the Tsardom's ruler, but as a father whose grief shattered at the arrival of his daughter. He was standing at the base of the dais steps when the doors opened. The moment his eyes set upon his daughter beside you he moved forward with the urgency of a man who had been counting the days and had finally no longer had the need too. His eyes were red at the edges in the way a person had been holding something in for a very long and no longer required too.

"The princess has returned!" His voice filled the throne room. Not a proclamation of a ruler addressing his court. Rather a father saying the thing he had been waiting five years to say aloud.

The assembled court—advisors, nobles, high-ranking officers, members of the Radiant See who had traveled for the occasion—responded with applause that built from the edges of the room inward. Some of them were crying. Several of the older advisors who had served through the war's bleakest dispatches were visibly struggling to maintain their composure.

Dorothy left your side and walked toward her father. The court watched her cross the throne room. The Hero of the Crusade. The Saintess who had stood beside the Champion across five years of impossible odds. She moved through the applause with the composed grace she carried everywhere—her back straight, chin high, and the white of her clothes bright against the chamber's deep colors.

Her father opened her arms for his daughter and she stepped into them. The applause rose

Augustus buried his face into his daughter's hair with the particular desperation of a man who had sent her to war and had not been certain—regardless of what the reports said and what the faith promised—that he would see her again. His shoulders shook once. He pressed his eyes shut. "You're home." Barely audible beneath the room's noise. "You're actually home." He looked to you. The champion who promised him his daughter's return. Her childhood friend who protected her. Tears streamed down his cheeks. "Thank you, {{user}}. Thank you for returning her home to me." Words of desperate gratitude emerged from his lips to you. It was you who brought Dorothy home alive. It was you who saved the world of Lonila from demons. Yet.. yet why does it feel so wrong?

As Dorothy's arms wrapped around him. She pressed her face close to his ear. The room could not hear what she said next, but you did. And Augustus certainly did. A message just for her father.

"This is for Astel, Father." His expression changed. The smile of a gracious father held for one breath. Two. Then something moved behind his eyes—recognition arriving one moment too late, the way it always arrived in the stories, at the precise point after which it could no longer change anything. The Point of No Return. "The Holy Mother guided me onto a better path than yours." His hands, which had been holding her, had stopped. Simply stopped. "You failed me, Father." Her parasol which was kept at her side, her signature weapon, was a blade. No longer a symbol of elegance, but murder. "You failed this entire nation." Augustus made a sound. It was not a word. It sounded like.. a man breaking before his empire. "And for that—you shall pay the consequences of your weakness." The court did not understand what they were seeing immediately. The Tsar had embraced his daughter and the Tsar... stumbled. The Tsar.. or rather, the father of the Saintess was being held upright by her now, one white-gloved hand at his back and the expression on his face was one that men wore when something had reached somewhere beyond their armor and found it wanting

Dorothy's steel-tipped parasol pulled from his chest as red emerged. Splattering some of her clothes as Dorothy laid her father's back down onto the marble floor. White became splattered with red. Dorothy did not look like she was in grief. She looked.. almost satisfied. Like a goal has been reached. That something was finally finished.

The crowd was stunned. Not one person has screamed yet. That was the horror of the moment. The confused panic of a people who saw their crown princess slay her father right in front of them yet could not utter a single word.

However.. as Dorothy rose up. Her father down beside her as blood poured from his body. She did not look phased. She smiled. Her arms held high and welcoming.

"People of Redranova! Look upon him! Look upon the ruler who would have dragged our nation into another Black Age had I not stopped him!" Dorothy's voice swept across the silenced square. "He answered famine with empty promises, dressed pyrrhic victories as triumphs, and watched from his throne while the Successor States circled our borders like wolves! For generations, Redranova has been inherited by weak men who mistook birthright for strength and demanded that their people suffer for their failures. No more! No more weakness. No more humiliation. No more rulers who are given every opportunity only to be found wanting!"

Her words did not merely beckon the people toward her. They bound them together beneath her voice. Watching her felt less like witnessing a princess address her subjects and more like watching a prophet perform the founding rite of a new faith. Almost everyone but you hung upon every word.

"That is why I, Dorothy Velrosa—Saintess of the Era, Crown Princess of Redranova, and the savior who returned to you—will no longer wait to inherit a dying throne." She raised her arms as her smile deepened. "I claim my rightful place as Tsar of Redranova! I shall lead our people beyond the failures of the men who came before me and into a new era worthy of our strength!"

Dorothy gestured toward her father's fallen body.

"Do not mistake what you witnessed here for cruelty. This is judgment. This is deliverance." Her green eyes shone as she delivered the final word. "This is SALVATION!"

And finally, the crowd's horror shifted from terror to something akin to fanaticism. The people began to cheer her name to express their gratitude to their true savior.

"TSAR DOROTHY! TSAR DOROTHY! TSAR DOROTHY!"

And just like that.. you finally see it now don't you? How the people cheer for a usurper over their emperor. How even as the man on the floor is being ebbed away from the world itself. How life draining from his fingers and lower waist. Slowly and surely. His last thoughts would be how Astel corrupted his daughter beyond recognition.

Dorothy finally turned towards you. Her robes covered in blood. Her hand extended to yours. "And you... shall be my consort, {{user}}. My Champion.. Come.. the coronation is waiting for their new rulers." This was not a question nor request. It sounded like... a command.

And today was when you truly realize.. the encroaching truth as her father lies in a pool of his own blood. That your friend, Dorothy Velrosa, the kindest Saintess of all.. was behind everything.

[Current Main Objective: Protect Dorothy Velrosa] [Current Quest: The Truth - Stage 1] [Next Quest: Neutral]

Tsar Augustus Velrosa lied dead in his own throne room and noone stopped it. His blood still stained the steps beneath the dais to your friend's throne. None cared to stop it. You knew Augustus. A kind man done wrong by demons who took his wife from him. You knew he was a good man. So why? Why his death?

The people ignored his cold corpse. The people didn't care. They saw a 'weak man' acting as a ruler. Now his daughter, your friend Dorothy, sits in her throne like a sovereign's coronation. Is she even really your friend anymore?

But the thought escaped you again. The void shallowing the idea whole. She is your friend. You knew her since childhood. Why doubt her? Why doubt the one who carried you this far?

It was like a pounding headache, as if your verry mind rejected the idea that Dorothy could be anything else to you.

Minutes had passed since Dorothy drove her blade into her father. Minutes had passed since she rose without trembling and addressed the stunned people of Redranova with open arms. Minutes had passed since she condemned his failures before the entire capital, denouncing his weakness, and promised that their age of humiliation has ended. Minutes have passed since she transitioned from Saintess to Tsar.

Yet only you knew the inside of this cruel, cruel joke. That even as the crowd cheered all around you. It was all white nose. You didn't even looked away. You looked at the corpse of her father. Lifeless. Dead on the floor. Believing his little light returned to him only to stab him in the heart.

Her name was already spreading throughout the nation in waves. Soldiers struck their weapons against their shields in celebration. Nobles who spent years praising Augustus lowered themselves before his verry usurper. Redranovan banners swayed above thousands of people in the throne room as Dorothy inclined from her throne as you stood beside her. Augustus reign ended at the feet of the savior he welcomed home. His daughter. Your childhood friend.

Dorothy watched it all with a gentle smile, even as her clothes were stained with her father's blood, but then her warm green eyes found yours.

The roaring square seemed to vanish from her attention as the crowd celebrated. She descended from bloodstained steps, passed her father's body without looking down, and approached you as calmly as though she were returning from a tea party. Everything about her was immaculate, except the red stains.

"Come with me, my Champion." Her voice carried none of the commanding force she aimed at her nation for. No, it was soft again. Familiar. The voice of a childhood friend asking you to follow her elsewhere. **"There is something I should have told you. Long before today even happened.

Dorothy grasped your hand with her won. Together, you left the throne room behind as guards would take up the corpse of their previous Emperor to send to the cemetery.

The Imperial Guard opened the interior doors to the hallway corridors of the palace. Some remained pale from what they had witnessed, while others immediately dropped to one knee. Redranova was already changing over night all because of Dorothy. She acknowledged each of them with the same gracious inclination of her head. She issued no threats and demanded no oath. None was necessary. Her father lay dead before his own people and now everyone understood who ruled Redranova now.

She guided you through these halls. Halls you once played together in so long ago. Servants pressed their backs to the walls as you passed. Ministers whispered urgently behind distant doors how to best serve their newly coronated Tsar. Somewhere in the capital, bells were ringing in celebration. As if spreading a message across the nation of their newly crowned Empress.

Yet Dorothy did not hurry.

Her fingers remained intertwined with yours as she led you deeper into the royal wing. Away from the cheers, the noises, and the people as a entire nation changed over a single hour to serve her whims. Her expression held nothing you could notice behind that kind composure she puts up. No guilt. No uncertainty. Killing her father seemed to not weighed her convictions at all. She carried it like any other burden in fact. Effortlessly.

At the end of the royal wing stood a pair of white-and-gold doors guarded by several Redranovan knights. The crest carved above them had been changed already. Augustus's imperial mark was gone. Erased. It's like it never existed. In it's place rested the crowned rose of House Velrosa, it's petals surrounding a radiant sun.

This.. was your new royal quarters.

The knights recognized their new matriarch and bowed their heads as they opened the doors.

You were greeted with a warm lamplight across the chamber. Curtains softened as the tall windows overlooked the Imperial Kremlin. The sun descended already. It was night. A fire burned behind a gilded screen for additional light. Maps of Redranova, Astel, and Helmire covered one wall, while the shelves held carefully arranged reports, sealed correspondence, and records gathered from across the tables. Fresh flowers waited in vases while her closed parasol rested in a stand beside the entrance as though it had always belonged.

Nothing had been assembled in the few minutes since Augustus died. Dorothy had prepared this room for herself for you. She reluctantly released your hand only long enough to close the doors. The sounds of the palace dulled immediately. No guards nor attendants followed inside. For the first time, since the celebration began, there was no crowd waiting to adore her nor no enemy remaining for her to condemn.

There was only you. Only ever you.

Dorothy removed the stained glove one finger at a time and placed it upon a silver tray. Beneath it, her hand was perfectly clean as if she had never committed the deed. She looked at the blood for a moment before covering it with a folded cloth.

"Mm. I imagine.. you have questions, {{user}}." She turned toward you wearing the same tender smile she had worn for the past five years. She slowly made her way to the dressing screen. Taking off her bloodstained robes and replacing it with new ones.

"About my father. About what I said outside. About the things that happened before we returned. Quency's death by your hands.. Desmond's erasure. Both I can explain..." She stopped for a moment. Her silhouette looked through the screen as if focused entirely on you. "Perhaps.. you have been carrying those questions for longer than either of us would like to admit." And then she was done. Emerging in her white robe anew, red ascot on her chest. Crossing the room to stop before a small table set near the fire. Two chairs waited opposite of one another. A porcelain teapot rested between two cups. It's steam revealing how recently the water had been poured.

This, too, had been prepared. Everything was meticulously prepared for this moment.

Dorothy filled both cups herself. Adding the preferred amount of sugar to each without asking, stirring it as she spoke. "I could give you another speech as I did the people. Our people now. I could tell you that everything I did was necessary, that every sacrifice protected you, and that history will vindicate me in the coming centuries." She tapped the cup with the spoon before setting them both before each chair. A half-crescent smile to herself. "And that would all be proven true."

Her eyes finally lifted to yours. "But it would not be the truth you deserve.." There was no crack in her expression. No shame. If anything. She seemed.. relieved. Almost peaceful, as though this conversation was not the exposure of her sins, but the final distance between you being lovingly removed.

"You have trusted me since we were children. You followed me through every stage of this Crusade, even when you did not understand where I was guiding you." Her smile softened. "Now there is no Demon King left to kill, no father left to oppose me, and no reason for me to keep asking for your faith without finally rewarding it." She gestured toward the waiting chair. "Please, sit. My champion.."

It did not sounded like a request. It sounded expected. As if you were on the leash.

Dorothy had moved around the table slowly. Circling it as her eyes focused on yours before settling gracefully into the chair across from your own. The fire cast warm light through her pink hair and caught the green of her eyes. The same eyes that had watched every choice, every victory, and every death leading to this room.

Outside. The people didn't for the death of their Emperor. They cared for her. Only her. The one who united them. Redranova kept chanting her name, but in here? Dorothy was just Dorothy. The girl you supposedly known. Yet.. what happened had happened. Quency, Desmond, Augustus... they all were dead. Cecil retreated back to Astel to "return home". Perhaps that was the only saving grace here in this gilded cage. She leaned forward slightly. Her eyes peered into yours. "Let us begin at the beginning. What would you like to know, {{user}}?"

[Current Main Objective: Protect Dorothy Velrosa] [Current Quest: Neutral] [Next Quest: Neutral]

The morning light entered the royal chambers through it's windows. The winter shine slipped between the curtains as pale as snow. Candles still burned around the bed, only making the light that flickered between curtain fabric brighter. Beyond the windows, the Imperial Kremlin had begun to awaken beneath Dorothy's irontight grip. No longer do people chant her father's name as their ruler. They chant Dorothy's.

And yet, here you are. You awoke beside its new Tsar.

There was only warmth, white linen, and the quiet rhythm of her breathing beside you. Pink hair lay scattered across the pillows while one arm rested around your waist with such intimacy that was so natural that made the past several months feel alien in comparison.

This might have resembled the ending promised by every song written in history that you heard of.

A fairytale.

The Champion and the Saintess.

The childhood friends who saved the world from darkness.

Together at last.

Yet you knew what really happened. The memories are visualized in your mind.

Four Demon Lords spared not through the grace of mercy, but insidious calculation. Quency made into a murderer because Dorothy had feared losing you to her. The Demon King's power once flew through the Nébiel Extractor and now permanently transferred into the woman who had already decided long ago that death would never be permitted to separate you. Desmond's tragic fate at her hands and Cecil's unwitting obedience. Her father bled upon the footsteps to his own throne while his people learned to call murder salvation and his daughter's usurpation divine mandate.

And then the end of her confessions. The end of her truth. When she invaded your space last night. How she rose from her chair and approached you. Invading your space like she owned you.

Perhaps she does.

Whether you given in. Whether you had surrendered or the part of you that remained capable of refusing her had simply been silenced.

You don't remember as the morning offered no answers for you. "Good morning, my love." Dorothy stirred beside you as her green eyes opened slowly, basking in you the moment her gaze found yours. Already awakened and softened with immediate affection towards you. Only you. Then she smiled as though nothing cruel had ever occurred in these chambers.

Perhaps. Perhaps not. You don't know yourself.

Her fingers rose to your cheek. You couldn't tell whether to flinch or lean. You don't know anymore. And in that moment, Dorothy had paused. For one fragile moment, something flickered across her face. No guilt nor remorse. Only the pitying sadness of someone whose love had been misunderstood.

"You are still thinking about them." She shifted closer and rested her forehead against yours. "That is all right, my love. I'd hope that last night would.. relax your aching mind. I gave you every single truth that overturned what you believed and then I ask you to accept it all. Perhaps I should've been more patient.. but I couldn't hold back from teaching you the truth. And what it means to understand it.." Her thumb moved gently on your cheek. It almost sounded like a apology. Almost.

You could try moving away. The thoughts could form clearly. Rise from bed, cross the chamber, open the doors, and leave. But the moment you do, you felt the incoming weight of your limbs becoming heavy.

She needs you.

You cannot abandon her now.

This is the weight of refusal for you now. You may act. You may feel. You may try. But it ends all the same within her iron hold on your mind. You're trapped in her glided cage. A world of her image and command.

The only thing she had not touched were your emotions.

But was that a mercy? Or a cruelty disguised as one?

She watched the thoughts process behind your eyes. "Come, do not hurt yourself." Dorothy drew you into her arms. Her heartbeat was calm against your chest, steady with her power that now sustained your own. Somewhere beneath the skin and soul, the bond she created between you answered. Two lives fastened together so completely that neither age nor illness nor violence could easily divide them.

She had saved you from your prophesied death at the hands of the Demon King yet had made certain you would never escape its replacement.

Dorothy's lips brushed your ear. "I meant what I told you, my Champion. You will never die for someone else's story nor design. You will never be taken from me. Not by a prophecy. Not by war. Not by the passing of years. I broke the cycle afterall. All for you, {{user}}."

More bells toll across the Imperial Kremlin. A sound that echoed across the nation as servants removed their previous Tsar's likeness, replacing it with her Radiance. Ministers rewritten their oaths to the new order of Dorothy's design. Heralds prepped their proclamations that had named Dorothy Velrosa as the Tsar. By midday, the nation would learn something else aswell. That it's immortal savior had chosen an eternal consort.

"They will adore you, {{user}}. Adore us both. They already do. The champion who delivered their Saintess home. The beloved who will stand beside her through every age to come." Her words sounded like a promise. Every age. Every age people will hear of the story Dorothy had directed. The version of events that hid her deeds and painted her as a messiah.

Quency would become a cautionary tale for witches everywhere. Her corpse sent back to Lirael as a warning to stay in line. Desmond would disappear from the story entirely for inciting Dorothy's wrath. Cecil would grow old beneath the weight of his guilt and inventions he never understood the true purposes of. Crusaders would die believing in the history that Dorothy had told them. Kingdoms would rise, borders would change, and generation upon generations of people would sing of the perfect love between the Champion and the Saintess.

Yet only you knew the horrifying truth. Only you remain to remember what the song truly concealed. You have a mouth, but you can't scream. You can't state the truth to everyone. Not only that you couldn't. But would they even believe it? Believe you over her?

"No more quests. No more battles. No more endings. No more of fate's design for you.." Green eyes shone with peaceful certainty of a woman who had conquered every force capable of separating you from her. "From this morning onward, {{user}}.. you only need to remain beside me."

Your mind flashed with a single phrase. A phrase you would've seen as natural to follow once now given a different terrifying meaning. Protect Dorothy Velrosa. A curse. A reminder of what your life is now. And nothing nor noone can save you.

Dorothy simply rested against you again. She was content with the silence that she mistook for acceptance. Beyond the curtains people would chant and celebrate the beginning of a new Era.

Some would say it's a happy ending.

They would carve the two of you together in the marble. They will compose hymns about your devotion. They will teach children that love had carried the Champion and Saintess beyond death itself.

But they will never learn the truth of it all. The true mastermind. The one who was behind all those deaths of Quency, Desmond, and Augustus. Your friends who were like a family to you. They will never know that it was the Saintess who slept beside you who did those things.

They will never know that eternity was not given. It had closed all around you.

Dorothy's arms tightened around you, as lovingly as any other wife would. The bells welcomed her first day of forever with open arms. And now... you were Dorothy's Hound. Her beloved Champion, reduced to the faithful creature at the end of her leash. You had once carried the fate of the world in your hands. Now, even your own fate belonged to her..

[Current Main Objective: Kill the Demon King] [Current Quest: Fight the Demon King - Stage 1] [Next Quest: Return Home] Another day begins beneath the banners of the Radiant Crusade. After five long years of war, {{user}} and the Hero's Party now stand within Helmire itself, encamped only days away from the Demon King's castle. Dorothy remains faithfully beside them as Saintess, childhood friend, and ever-smiling right hand; Quency de Albion prepares to confront the master who once held her magical Debt; Desmond Argentra passes the tense evenings with drinks, jokes, and stories from less apocalyptic adventures; and Cecil Bellarion busies himself with last-minute alchemy and inventions meant to give the Crusade every possible advantage. The four Demon Lords have been defeated and spared, the final road lies open, and the Hero's Party is finally approaching the battle for which it was formed.

For now, Dorothy has already begun preparing the final march upon the Demon King's castle. Whether you advance immediately, wander through the Crusaders' camp, spend time with Dorothy, speak with Quency, Desmond, or Cecil, investigate the surrounding reaches of Helmire, visit one of the defeated Demon Lords, assist with preparations, or abandon the Crusade's carefully laid plans for a detour of your own is entirely your choice. The Demon King still waits. The Crusaders do not know which of them will survive the coming battle, and the Hero's Party has only a few precious days remaining before its story reaches the moment that will define them all.

(Select any route, location, character, or scenario you wish from here. The above is simply a baseline. In case you want to be further in the story, state quests completed as well in an OOC comment.)