Chapter 306: The Day the Rite Burned

Trafalgar lifted a hand before Aubrelle could continue."Wait."

She stopped at once.

He stretched his arms above his head, joints cracking softly, then settled back against the railing of the flying vessel. Below them, the dark ocean slid past like a silent mirror, far enough away to feel unreal. The sky pressed close overhead, wide and endless, the ship gliding through it as if it belonged there.

He exhaled slowly before speaking again.

"Don’t you think it was... too simple?" he said at last, eyes still fixed on the horizon. "I get it. A celebration means lowered guards. Drunk soldiers. Complacency." His gaze sharpened slightly. "But this wasn’t a duel. Or a raid for prestige. It was a battle in the middle of a war."

He turned his head toward her.

"Wars don’t forgive simplicity."

Aubrelle listened without interrupting. Then she raised her hand slightly, palm open. Pipin fluttered down at once, landing on her fingers with a soft rustle of pale feathers. Through his eyes, she looked at Trafalgar—really looked at him—and a faint, knowing curve touched her lips.

"I thought the same thing," she said calmly.

There was no hesitation in her voice. No need to pretend otherwise.

She shifted her grip on her cane, posture relaxed but grounded. "From the moment the plan was explained, I knew it was... optimistic. Clean perhaps."

Her tone remained gentle, but there was something firm beneath it now.

"But my family doesn’t decide these things," she continued. "Rosenthal isn’t one of the Eight Great Families. We’re tied to them. Bound by alliance. Not the other way around."

The wind brushed past them again, tugging lightly at her golden hair.

"The Sylvanel lead," Aubrelle said. "They decide. And Karon is one of theirs." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "Whether the plan was the best possible one... wasn’t the deciding factor. The fact that he chose it was."

Trafalgar was quiet.

Aubrelle lowered her hand slightly as Pipin settled more comfortably, his red eyes glowing faintly in the dark. "Power doesn’t always move where logic points," she added softly. "Sometimes it moves where hierarchy allows."

There was no bitterness in her voice. Just understanding.

Not everything could be solved by seeing the battlefield clearly.

Some limits existed long before the first soldier ever marched.

Trafalgar shifted his stance, uncrossing his arms only to fold them again across his chest. The motion was slow, thoughtful, like someone arranging their thoughts before speaking.

"Did you expect it to go badly?" he asked at last.

There was no accusation in his voice. No challenge. Just honest curiosity, sharpened by everything he had already heard. "I mean... did you think your side would lose that battle?"

Aubrelle didn’t answer immediately.

Pipin’s glow dimmed slightly as the wind passed between them again, carrying with it the cold scent of open skies. Then she nodded, once, small and unambiguous.

"Yes," she said. Her voice was steady. Clear. "I did."

She tightened her grip on her cane—not in fear, but in grounding. "Not because victory was impossible. We had numbers. Talent. Resources." Her head tilted slightly, as if looking past the present and back into that tent, that moment. "But because we were walking straight into a trap."

She lifted her chin a fraction. "A battle like that can still be won. Even inside a trap. But only if you prepare for it. If you expect it." Her words grew quieter, heavier. "Not if you march forward as if the enemy will politely fall apart."

Trafalgar exhaled through his nose, gaze drifting back to the dark horizon.

"It sounds like Karon didn’t expect a war between families at that level," he said slowly. "Or maybe..." He paused, choosing his words with care. "Maybe the Sylvanel never taught him what war actually is."

The word lingered between them.

War.

Aubrelle’s expression changed. The lightness drained from her voice as if someone had lowered it a notch inside her.

"...Maybe," she said. Just that. Nothing more.

The silence stretched just a little too long.

Aubrelle was the one who broke it.

"...Where was I?" she murmured, more to herself than to him. She lifted a hand to her lips, fingertips resting there as she searched her memory, a faint, thoughtful hum slipping out of her almost unconsciously. "Mm..."

Pipin tilted his head, feathers rustling softly.

Ah.

She straightened slightly. "Right. The next day."

Trafalgar glanced at her, then spoke without hesitation, his tone calm but precise. "The Sylvanel would advance head-on. Once they became the focus, the other Houses—Moonweave, Thorncrest, and Watercaller—would strike from the sides while the enemy was still off guard."

Aubrelle blinked, then turned her head toward him.

"...You’ve been paying attention," she said, a hint of surprise slipping into her voice.

"It would be disrespectful not to," Trafalgar replied simply.

For a moment, she didn’t answer. Then a soft laugh escaped her—quiet, genuine, carried away by the wind before it could linger too long.

"Alright," she said. "Then let’s continue."

The world shifted.

The open sky and cold wind faded, replaced by canvas walls and the muted scent of earth and mana. The present loosened its grip, and the past took hold—not as a story being told, but as a moment being lived once more.

Dawn came without ceremony.

A thin, pale light seeped over the horizon, washing the land in muted gold as the encampment stirred to life. Canvas rustled. Armor clinked. Orders passed in low, controlled voices. The air was heavy with anticipation, taut like a drawn bowstring that had been held too long.

The Sylvanel forces were already assembled.

From within the formation, Aubrelle could sense the structure even without seeing it directly. It was classic—almost textbook. Shield-bearers formed the vanguard, interlocking defenses meant to absorb the first impact. Behind them stood the mages, staffs and catalysts humming faintly as mana gathered beneath their skins. Further back, layers of specialized units waited in disciplined silence—scouts, ritualists, classes Aubrelle recognized... and others she didn’t.

That, more than anything, reminded her of how vast the world truly was.

Even at seventeen, even after years surrounded by elites and heirs, there were paths she had never seen, roles she couldn’t name. Power took too many shapes to catalogue them all. Experience had limits. Everyone’s did.

At the very front of the formation stood Karon au Sylvanel.

Mounted on horseback, straight-backed and unmoving, he cut a striking figure against the morning light. His presence radiated composure. To the soldiers watching him, it must have looked like nobility incarnate: a commander who did not hide behind lines or delegates, but chose to lead from the front.

And it worked.

Aubrelle could feel it ripple through the ranks—the subtle lift in posture, the steadier breaths, the quiet resolve settling into place. A leader who marched with his soldiers was a promise in itself. Whatever happened, he would face it with them.

Around the Sylvanel host, the allied Houses took their positions.

Watercaller units adjusted their spacing near natural terrain, mana already responding to their presence. Thorncrest elves moved with restrained efficiency, their expressions unreadable. Moonweave forces gathered farther to the side, illusions flickering faintly at the edges of perception, half-formed and waiting to be unleashed.

Behind them all, the Stonehearth dwarves worked without pause.

They did not take the field. Instead, they fine-tuned reality itself, invoking mechanisms, locking enchantments into place, handing off completed items with gruff efficiency. Each piece they passed on carried weight far beyond its size. Any one of them was worth more than a lifetime’s savings for an ordinary family.

Here, they were tools. Prepared. Distributed. Accepted without comment.

Everything was ready.

The plan had been set. The pieces had been placed.

All that remained was to move forward.

The Rosenthal formation stood slightly apart from the others.

Around a hundred summoners held their places in disciplined clusters, each one surrounded by close-range combatants whose sole purpose was clear. Blades, shields, heavy armor. Their bodies formed living walls, a constant reminder of the unspoken rule every summoner understood: if the summoner fell, so would everything they had called into the world.

Protect the summoner.

Preserve the invocation.

Aubrelle stood at the center of it all.

Her cane rested lightly against the ground, not as a crutch but as a point of balance. Pipin hovered close, his pale feathers catching the early light as he swept the formation with his keen gaze.

Through him, she felt it. The attention. The certainty.

Every Rosenthal present knew her story. Not in whispers or rumors, but in quiet, shared understanding. They knew what she had lost. They knew what she had endured. And more importantly—they knew what she was capable of when it mattered.

There had been doubts at first.

Some had questioned the placement. Others the responsibility. A blind heir, placed where command and reaction would matter most.

Aubrelle had not argued.

She had simply spoken. Her voice steady, unwavering, like water that knew exactly where it was flowing.

That had been enough.

The doubts faded. Shoulders straightened. Resolve took their place. These were summoners who trusted her judgment, combatants who would put their bodies between her and death without hesitation.

They would follow her.

Even if the path led straight into hell.

—

The memory loosened its grip, and the wind returned.

High above the land, aboard the flying vessel, Trafalgar leaned against the railing once more, the dark sky stretching endlessly beyond him.

"...They really respect you," he said, breaking the silence. There was no surprise in his tone—only recognition.

Aubrelle tilted her head slightly in his direction. "You interrupted," she noted gently.

He met her unseen gaze without flinching. "Because it’s obvious," he replied. "You have the makings of a leader. The kind people choose to follow."

For a moment, she said nothing.

Then she turned away—not from discomfort, but from dwelling on it—and let the past pull her forward again.

"There wasn’t time to think about respect back then," she continued quietly. "Only about what came next."

And with that, the battlefield returned to her once more.

Morning light spilled across the field, pale and cold, cutting through the lingering mist that clung to the grass. The air vibrated with restrained movement, armor settling, boots shifting, mana stirring beneath the surface like something half-awake.

It was time to move.

More than ten thousand soldiers stood ready on the Sylvanel side alone. Lines upon lines of disciplined figures, banners barely stirring in the early wind. From within the memory, Aubrelle felt the scale of it press down like a physical weight—an ocean of bodies and intent stretching farther than the eye could follow.

Far above the battlefield, aboard the flying vessel, Trafalgar listened in silence. Even without seeing it himself, he understood. This wasn’t a skirmish. This wasn’t a clash between small forces testing each other’s resolve. The numbers alone dwarfed anything he had for an army.

This was war, unfolding at full scale.

Then came the sound.

Laughter.

Music.

Distant chants carried on the wind, unbroken by fear or caution. From the edge of the forest, the Ritefield of Beasts was visible in fragments—fires burning freely, figures moving without formation, cups raised high. Alcohol flowed. Songs rose. Faces were open, relaxed, flushed with celebration.

There were no alarm signals. No defensive formations. No sign that they expected death to arrive with the sunrise.

From the front line, Karon au Sylvanel watched the scene unfold.

His jaw tightened.

He could not reconcile it, the sight of people celebrating so openly, so carelessly, knowing what they had done. This was the same ground where sacred rites were held. The same enemy who had defiled the sanctuary of his family, who had turned reverence into provocation.

And yet they laughed.

He raised his hand.

The Sylvanel elves moved as one.

Karon urged his horse forward, taking the lead without hesitation. Steel rang. Banners dipped. The ground itself seemed to tense beneath the weight of thousands moving at once.

For a single heartbeat, the Ritefield did not understand what was happening.

Music still played. Cups were still raised. Laughter carried on the wind, until it didn’t.

The first scream cut through the celebration like a blade.

Then another.

And another.

Shouts of confusion drowned out the songs. Faces twisted from joy to disbelief, from disbelief to terror, as fire overturned and bodies collided in blind attempts to flee. The laughter did not fade, it broke, snapping into cries sharp enough to pierce the air.

The Ritefield of Beasts became something else entirely.

The celebration did not end.

It transformed.