A Stern Mentor’s Counsel

Saranya’s eyelids fluttered, and she slowly opened her eyes.

“It’s already… morning?”

That was right; after what had happened in the dungeon yesterday, and then being forced by her mistress to endure half the night, she had truly gone to sleep too late.

“Wait… no…”

Looking around, she realized with a jolt that she was in a vast palace. Suddenly finding herself in such an expansive space, a sense of suffocation immediately washed over her.

The walls, made of cold, smooth white jade-like bricks, reflected a faint, ethereal glow. High above, a circular dome was suspended, densely adorned with countless blades, spears, and halberds. Blinding warm light streamed through rows of towering floor-to-ceiling windows on either side, enveloping everything within the hall like a shimmering, delicate veil.

At the far end of her vision, a pale throne, carved from a single block of moonstone, stood majestically. In the deepest part where light and shadow intertwined, a tall elven knightess sat upright, her pair of snow-white feathered wings gently folded behind her.

Saranya recognized the elf, and with hesitation, she uttered her name:

“Freya…”

Freya, the High Elf, twitched her perfectly sculpted, pointed ears, but offered no verbal response. Instead, she simply gazed at Saranya with a subtle, discerning look.

Pity.

In the depths of Freya’s bright eyes, a flicker of pity appeared and vanished in an instant.

That emotion held no warmth; Saranya felt like a creature struggling in the mud, while Freya, like a deity enthroned high above the clouds, looked down upon her with a faint sense of bewilderment and resignation.

“We meet again, spellbreaker.”

Freya’s delicate chin lifted slightly, her expression betraying a restrained detachment. Her milky-white hair cascaded down like a waterfall, then was gathered by an exquisite mithril circlet, lending her an aura of immaculate sanctity, much like the goddess statue before a cathedral.

“Excuse me, do you… is there something you need…?”

In her moment of crisis, Freya had bestowed upon her the power to sever arcane energies, helping her avert danger without demanding anything in return. She was, in essence, a great benefactor, deserving of Saranya’s utmost reverence.

Yet, considering her recent experiences and actions with her mistress, encountering the pristine and sacred Freya so unexpectedly made Saranya feel like a prisoner awaiting judgment.

“Do you recall what I told you before I departed last time?”

Perhaps due to her time spent with Paresha, Freya had shed her peculiar speech habits, no longer employing the archaic “I” and “thou” as forms of address.

“I do. You wished for me to use your power wisely… to become a strong warrior.”

“How have you fared in that endeavor?”

“I…”

Saranya felt a pang of guilt, her words catching in her throat.

Freya’s delicate brows furrowed slightly, and her rosy, thin lips parted gently:

“Commander Saranya, answer me: how have you fared?”

Saranya shook her head, casting her gaze downward, a mix of shame and vexation coloring her demeanor.

“Are you… here to humiliate me…?”

The High Elf on the throne remained silent.

For Saranya, she almost wished Freya would unleash a torrent of scathing reprimands. But she did not. Instead, Freya’s very demeanor inflicted greater anguish upon her.

She loathed herself—her weakness, and her soul, which was steadily sinking into the mire of depravity. The more she detested these aspects, the more enraged she became, and through gritted teeth, she burst out:

“Freya, what exactly do you want? Do you intend to repeat that tiresome drivel about me abandoning Kaelan and seeking freedom? Or have you regretted helping me and now demand the return of your power?! Stop being so cryptic!”

“I told you, I will not reclaim your power. As for your preceding remark, you chose Kaelan then, not me. I am well aware of this and have no intention of pursuing you further.”

Freya scrutinized her, her tone deep and tinged with disappointment.

“Are you mistaking me for Paresha? I would certainly not act like that pathetic girl, kneeling and crying out ‘Mistress,’ adopting such a vulgar, lowly posture, selling my dignity for your pity…!”

“You actually know…”

“I am her familiar. Do you truly believe I wouldn’t know?”

“Er…”

At the mention of Paresha, a sharp glint flashed in Freya’s eyes, followed by a sigh that echoed the weary resignation of an old mother whose daughter had eloped with a scoundrel.

“Saranya, who is next?”

“What…?”

“Last time it was Paresha, this time Lenix. Who is next? Aquilis? Cecilia? Or Vireta?”

Freya turned her statue-like, perfect countenance to meet Saranya’s gaze, her silver-blue eyes shimmering faintly.

Freya had listed so many names, yet Saranya couldn’t shake the feeling that those names weren’t the true focus; she herself was.

“Tell me, who do you intend to target next?! Do not remain silent!”

“No, I don’t want to… I don’t want to do that…”

“You don’t want to?”

“It’s because I’m too weak. I… I’m afraid of Kaelan when she’s like that. I lack the courage to resist her, and I’ve been constantly deceiving myself. Sometimes she makes me feel so strange, I… I can’t quite describe the sensation… And—”

Saranya paused, her heart churning, completely treating Freya as a confessor, a nun listening to her sins.

“Perhaps, this is just my true nature… Kaelan, she merely tore away my hypocritical facade; this is how I truly am… I… *sob*…”

She had intended to describe her twisted desires to Freya, but shame choked the words in her throat. She feared she would utterly break down before Freya.

Freya sat quietly, observing Saranya’s struggle, her gaze taking in the shoulders that trembled slightly with shame. Only after Saranya had vented her emotions through tears did Freya slowly speak:

“Saranya, this is not about ‘true nature,’ nor is it about good or evil. I am not here to redeem you or to lecture you. I am here to remind you that you still have a path forward.”

“Eh…”

“Remember, as an increasingly powerful spellbreaker, you are inherently the bane of witches. Kaelan is far too arrogant; she cannot stably control you. You are not far from that critical point. What you must do is maintain your conviction. Once you break free from her control, you will be able to accomplish your own endeavors and obtain what you desire…”

“What I desire…”

Saranya mumbled, her voice as faint as a mosquito’s buzz,

“Kaelan…”

“Hmm?”

“I want Kaelan…”

“You truly are… beyond hope.”

Freya let out a sigh, so soft it was barely audible,

“Nevertheless, do not give up, Saranya. The Black Witch is adept at manipulating hearts. Do not drown in the whirlpool of subservience and depravity. That is all I have to say.”

Saranya stared blankly at the figure on the throne.

Undoubtedly, Freya wished to help her, even harbored a flicker of expectation, but she had suppressed this sentiment, striving instead to present herself as a stern mentor.

“Time is nearly up. You should return now.”

“Wait!”

To convey her respect and gratitude, Saranya straightened her posture and rendered an Imperial military salute to Freya.

“Thank you for comforting me!”

“I did not comfort—”

Without waiting for Freya to finish, Saranya directly interrupted her, voicing the greatest question in her heart:

“I don’t understand. Why are you helping me?”

“…”

Freya offered no reply. She simply raised an arm, resting it on the throne’s armrest. Her hand was slender and long, adorned with a form-fitting silver vambrace, from whose fingertips emanated a faint, moonlit glow.

Without incanting a spell or performing intricate gestures, Freya elegantly waved a hand towards Saranya, her motion as gentle as if she were brushing away a speck of dust.

“Om—”

A gentle arcane light enveloped Saranya’s entire body. Before she could react, her figure vanished completely from the palace.

****

Freya slowly retracted her spell-casting arm, resuming her regal posture on the throne, much like a tall and graceful divine statue.

She stared at the spot where Saranya had vanished, at the lingering swirl of arcane light that had yet to subside, until everything returned to perfect stillness.

Saranya Kerfen, a sharp blade meant to strike down darkness, yet destined to be dulled, rusted, and broken by it.

Such a fate, she found herself unable to simply overlook.

Even while trapped under the Black Witch’s dominion, mired in the most desperate depths, she still struggled at the precipice of depravity, desperately striving to grasp onto something. That small human girl, despite being tainted, had not allowed the flame within her heart to be entirely extinguished.

Truly, she was stubborn to a fault…

A minuscule upward twitch touched Freya’s lips, lasting only a fleeting instant before her expression returned to one of wistful loss.

“Why help you…”

“…”

“Because…”

She tilted her head to one side, her eyes gleaming brightly, and her red lips parted slightly, letting out a faint whisper of air. Though she was utterly alone, the words she wished to speak still caught in her throat.

Time within the palace seemed to freeze.

After a long silence, only an exceedingly soft, almost imperceptible sigh drifted down from the throne.