The Chronicles of a Fallen Star

A couple hours later Paola trailed a few paces behind Ayla, her gaze drifted inadvertently to the sword maiden’s silhouette outlined against the lush backdrop of the riverside path. Ayla's armor, minimal and peculiar with its strategic metal placements, caught Paola's eye once more. The metal thong seemed particularly uncomfortable, and Paola found herself curiously pondering the practicality of such an attire.

Lost in thought, Paola reflected on her past relationships—three significant ones, each with a man, and each marking a distinct chapter of her life. Her first love was a deep, youthful dive into romance, followed by a serious relationship that taught her much about her desires and boundaries. Then came Devon, a rebound that had stretched far longer than she had intended, morphing into something mundane rather than meaningful. And now, here she was, considering the physical attributes of a woman she barely knew, in a world that felt as alien as the concepts she was trying to grasp.

"Why am I thinking about this now?" she muttered under her breath, her eyes still on Ayla's form. "Focus, Paola."

Clearing her throat, Paola quickened her steps to close the distance between them, driven by a mix of professional curiosity and a genuine concern for comfort. "Um, Ayla?" she started, her voice faltering a bit as she broached the subject. "I have to ask—about your armor... is it... comfortable?"

Ayla slowed her pace, allowing Paola to catch up. Without turning to face her, Ayla’s cheeks tinged a cherry red that deepened the color already present from the physical exertion. "Comfortable isn’t exactly the priority," she replied, her voice tinged with embarrassment but laced with a hint of amusement. "It’s a magical set. The metal is enchanted to be light and to offer protection far greater than its appearance suggests."

Paola nodded, though she was still visibly puzzled. "But the, uh, the thong part? It seems like it would be... uncomfortable," she pressed, genuinely curious about the practical aspects of such an outfit.

Ayla let out a small laugh, the sound light and surprisingly open. "Yes, that part is less about protection and more about... mobility," she admitted. "It’s magically enhanced to adjust to movement and temperature, making it more bearable than it looks."

"Magically enhanced?" Paola echoed, her eyebrows raised. "So, it adjusts to you rather than you having to adjust to it?"

"Exactly," Ayla said, now turning to face Paola with a more relaxed expression. "The shoulder pads, boots, and even this 'thong,' as you called it, are part of a set that’s designed for my role as a Sword Maiden. We often find ourselves in situations that require both agility and protection."

"Hm," Paola still seemed skeptical, though she was growing increasingly intrigued. "I guess. If the magic really works like you say."

As they walked, Ayla seemed to sense Paola's lingering skepticism and hesitated before speaking further. Her eyes scanned their surroundings briefly, as if ensuring their privacy, before returning to Paola with a serious look. "If I tell you more, you cannot share this with anyone. I’m trusting you with this information in exchange for your trust in me with your life, as it stands."

Paola nodded, feeling the weight of Ayla's trust. "You have my word," she assured her, her curiosity piqued.

Ayla took a deep breath and continued, "The armor set I wear, it’s... unique. While it may seem that much of my skin is exposed, there’s more to it than meets the eye." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "The exposed skin, when activated using my mana, is part of a defensive ability known as Mirror Mantle."

Paola's eyes widened, trying to grasp the concept. "Mirror Mantle?"

"Yes," Ayla explained, her voice lowering almost to a whisper. "When activated, any damage that would be inflicted on my exposed skin is reflected back to the attacker. It's a skilled trade-off between protection and deception."

Intrigued yet bewildered, Paola glanced over Ayla's form again, noting the strategic placements of her armor combined with the exposed skin. "So, your... your skin actually reflects damage?"

"Exactly," Ayla affirmed, a hint of pride in her tone. "It turns vulnerability into a weapon. It's a risky strategy, but one that has saved me more times than I can count."

Paola bit her lip, mulling over the audacity of such magic. Her eyes involuntarily traced the contours of Ayla's exposed skin, acknowledging how such an enchantment added a layer of fierce grace to the sword maiden's appearance. Dios mío, she thought to herself, shaking her head slightly to dispel the distracting thoughts. It wouldn't work as her eyes betrayed her mind, lingering on Ayla's waist as her hips swayed lightly with each step. The curve of her hips was accentuated by the metal thong, which now seemed more like an accessory than an actual practicality. Ayla's bare cheeks, toned and sculpted by her lifestyle, were on full display with the exception of a few thin metal straps that crossed over its roundness, creating an effect that made Paola's mind wander.

Paola's face flushed and she tore her eyes away, scolding herself for the distraction. Focus, she repeated, her mind reeling.

Ayla seemed unaware of Paola's internal turmoil as she continued, "This ability requires a considerable amount of mana control, which is why it’s not common. It’s most effective when you know your own strength and limitations well."

"Sounds powerful," Paola commented, her voice a bit unsteady as she attempted to refocus.

"It is," Ayla said, then gave a small, conspiratorial smile. "It also tends to surprise those who presume weakness based on appearance alone."

"I bet," Paola muttered, still recovering from her momentary lapse. Why are you so damn attractive, she wondered, exasperated at her own reaction. And why did I just now notice this?

"Paola," Ayla called, breaking Paola's daze.

"What? Sorry, what?" Paola snapped to attention, blinking her eyes.

"Are you... alright?" Ayla asked, her brow furrowed. "You seem distracted. Should we stop and rest?"

"No!" Paola blurted, a bit too hastily. "I mean, no, I'm fine. Let's keep going."

Ayla nodded, still looking slightly concerned. They walked in silence for a few minutes, the awkward tension dissipating as Paola's thoughts returned to the task at hand. Regaining some semblance of composure, Paola decided to steer the conversation back to something that had piqued her interest earlier. "You mentioned earlier about the Sword Maiden being a cross between the Lady and Warrior classes," Paola started, trying to keep her tone light and focused. "Can you explain a bit more about what that entails, aside from protecting the high-brow folks?"

Ayla glanced back, nodding thoughtfully before answering. "A Sword Maiden is trained in both combat and courtly duties. We are warriors, yes, but we also serve as advisors and protectors within the political spheres. Our role is to be both shield and counsel to those we serve."

Paola absorbed the explanation, finding the combination of roles fascinating. "So, it's not just about fighting. It's about strategy and diplomacy too?"

"Exactly," Ayla confirmed. "It's a balance of strength and wisdom. We must know when to draw our swords and when to draw upon our intellect."

Paola nodded, her respect for Ayla deepening. Yet, something else still tugged at the back of her mind. "Back in my world," she started, a bit hesitant, "walking around as we are now—me, completely without clothes, and you in your... um, attire—it would be considered quite... un-ladylike."

Ayla laughed softly, the sound rich and unguarded. "Here, the norms are perhaps different. My attire, while it may seem revealing by your standards, is considered formal and appropriate for my status as a Sword Maiden. It’s crafted to symbolize both the vulnerability and the strength of a leader who must balance the dual demands of battle and diplomacy."

"So, it's symbolic?" Paola asked, intrigued.

"Very much so," Ayla replied. "Each piece of this armor has been designed with intention. The exposure is a reminder of our vulnerability, a trait every leader must acknowledge, and the metal signifies our strength and resilience."

Paola found herself considering Ayla's words, seeing the armor in a new light—not just as a practical outfit but as a statement of philosophy and duty. "That makes a lot of sense," she said thoughtfully. "In my world, leaders often wear suits, which are supposed to convey seriousness and professionalism. But here, your armor says much more about your role and your responsibilities." It felt like a stretch, and she was sure it was, but, she didn’t have the ground to argue, she was naked.

Ayla smiled, pleased with Paola's understanding. "It's a different world, with different expressions of status and duty. But perhaps not so different in the underlying principles."

"Yeah, I'm starting to see that," Paola said, feeling a newfound appreciation for the sword maiden's outfit. Her eyes wandered to Ayla's curves again, and she swallowed hard. Maybe more appreciative than I should be, she admitted to herself, mentally rolling her eyes. "So," Paola changed the subject, eager to distract herself, "where, exactly, are we? In, uh, relation... to... where we were?"

Ayla smiled, relieved by the shift in topic, a sense of relief washing over her as Paola moved the topic away from personal attire to the broader landscape around them. She was more than happy to delve into the details of their surroundings, her voice taking on an enthusiastic tone that contrasted with the earlier slight discomfort.

"You see those formations in the distance?" Ayla began, pointing toward the horizon where jagged peaks loomed like ancient monoliths. "Those are part of the Miridian Mountains, specifically a region we call the Leviathan’s Ribcage."

Paola squinted, trying to make out the details through the dense canopy. "Leviathan’s Ribcage?" she echoed, intrigued by the name.

"Yes," Ayla continued, her eyes lighting up with the pleasure of describing one of her homeland’s more mystical features. "It’s formed around a massive crevice that cuts deep into the heart of the mountains, surrounded by a forest that thrives against all odds in a sandy desert biome. The contrast is striking—the lush greenery emerging from sands that seem too harsh for such life. I mean, as you can tell." She gestured to the ground under their feet, a mix of sand and grass that seemed to exist in a constant state of compromise.

"The name itself," she explained further, "comes from the old legends claiming that the crevice is actually the remains of a mythical beast, a leviathan, that fought with Gods in ancient times. Its bones are said to have formed the mountains around it, and its last breath gave life to the forest."

Paola listened, captivated by the vivid imagery Ayla painted with her words. "It sounds beautiful... and surreal."

"It truly is," Ayla affirmed. "The Ribcage is both a natural wonder and a sacred site. Many travelers and pilgrims visit it to pay homage to the spirit of the leviathan, believing it brings good fortune and strength."

"We are leagues away from it right now," Ayla noted, her gaze returning to the path ahead. "But even from this distance, it serves as a landmark and a reminder of the magic that permeates Seracian Sands."

The conversation turned from the immediate path to the broader expanse of the province they were traversing. Ayla elaborated on Seracian Sands, describing it as a province known for its vast deserts that somehow supported pockets of lush, verdant forests, all fed by underground springs that were as ancient as the legends themselves.

"The land here is full of contrasts and surprises," Ayla said, a note of pride in her voice. "Just when you think you understand it, it reveals something new, something magical."

Paola nodded, her earlier apprehensions giving way to a burgeoning sense of wonder. She felt a deepening connection to this strange land, not just through the sights and the stories, but through the evident love Ayla held for her home. The magical and the mundane intertwined so seamlessly here that every step seemed to draw them deeper into a living storybook. As they continued their journey, the distant silhouette of the Leviathan’s Ribcage served as a majestic backdrop, its peaks like the spines of a gigantic creature half-buried in the sands of time.

* * *

In the dimming light of dusk, a carriage glided silently along the rugged paths that cut through the Seracian landscape, its movement barely stirring the dust beneath its wheels. This was no ordinary carriage; it bore the weight of nobility, its dark wood panels polished to a mirror-like sheen, inlaid with silver filigree that caught the fading sunlight and scattered it in a thousand luminous flecks. Inside, the ambiance spoke of refined luxury, with plush velvet seats and an onboard cabinet stocked with an array of fine wines, the glass doors etched with intricate designs.

Seated within this cocoon of opulence, her posture rigidly perfect, was a woman whose presence was as commanding as the carriage was grand. Her hair, a striking shade of silver-white, was arranged in elaborate braids that coiled around her head like a crown, each twist and loop a testament to her high status. Her robes, a cascade of deep blue silk interwoven with subtle magical runes, shimmered with a light of their own, enhancing her personal defenses in a manner befitting someone of her standing.

Her face, framed by the high collar of her robe, was a map of sharp, angular features: high cheekbones, a stern jawline, and piercing ice-blue eyes that surveyed the world with a calculating, almost cold demeanor. This was Lady Marcelline, a figure of aristocratic poise and power, whose home was perched on the edge of the Miridian Mountains, overlooking the mystical expanse of the forest that encircled the Leviathan’s Ribcage.

Opposite Lady Marcelline sat Liora Moody, her expression tense, a stark contrast to the serene setting. Liora’s auburn hair was pulled back into a functional ponytail, highlighting her keen green eyes that now flickered with concern. Having just returned from a scouting mission in search of Lady Marcelline's protégé and fellow companion, Ayla Guinenne, Liora's usual vivacity was dampened by the weight of her findings—or the lack thereof.

The carriage, drawn by Three summoned Spirit Dragons. They moved swiftly across the sand, keeping pace with the sun that was steadily sinking below the horizon. The dragons' movements were silent and fluid, their long, colorful serpentine forms weaving through the dunes and rock formations as they navigated the winding road. One would never have guessed that the dragons were not a product of nature, but a result of the arcane skills of their Summoner. Their tongues flickered, tasting the air, and their bodies undulated through the desert like a flock of giant birds. To use such beasts in such a manner as a mode of transportation was a rare display of power, but nothing less than the standard Lady Marcelline expected.

As the carriage approached the sprawling estate, the setting sun cast long shadows over its sandstone walls, which blended seamlessly into the surrounding desert. The high walls encircled a lush courtyard oasis, a stark contrast to the arid beauty outside. The estate's towers loomed in the background, standing as silent sentinels over the Seracian capital.

Inside the carriage, the air was thick with unspoken tension. Liora’s hands were clasped tightly in her lap, her palms sweaty as she rehearsed the words she would soon have to speak. The last trace of Ayla she had managed to track led to a collapsed bridge, beyond which all signs of the young sword maiden vanished.

Lady Marcelline’s gaze was fixed on the passing scenery, but her mind was clearly elsewhere. The rhythmic motion of the carriage seemed to offer little comfort as she contemplated the potential loss of her protégé. Her eyes, usually so sharp and assessing, now reflected a rare glint of vulnerability.

"Lady Marcelline," Liora began, her voice hesitant. "The last trace of Ayla... I found it at the collapsed bridge. Beyond that, there’s nothing. No tracks, no signs of struggle—nothing."

Lady Marcelline turned her gaze slowly to Liora, her expression unreadable. "And you are certain you searched thoroughly? That no stone was left unturned?" Her voice was calm, but there was an underlying edge to it that spoke of her inner turmoil.

"Yes, my lady. I and the others scoured the area. If there were anything to find, we would have found it," Liora replied, her voice steady despite the tremor she felt inside.

Lady Marcelline nodded slowly, turning her gaze back to the window. The carriage was now pulling into the estate, the familiar sight of the high walls and the lush greenery of the courtyard offering no comfort. Lady Marcelline remained seated in the plush confines of her carriage, her eyes gazing pensively out at the expansive view from her estate perched on the edge of the Miridian Mountains. The shadows of evening began to stretch across the Seracian sands, casting the land into a soft, contemplative twilight.

As the carriage pulled into the stately courtyard of her manor, Lady Marcelline’s thoughts were interrupted by Liora's report, the uncertainty of Ayla's fate pressing heavily upon her. She considered Liora's words carefully, parsing each detail for a sign of what might have transpired at the collapsed bridge.

"Could she have made it across?" Lady Marcelline mused aloud, more to herself than to Liora, her voice tinged with both hope and apprehension. "Could Ayla have been the cause of the bridge's collapse in her attempt to escape the Cave Hounds?"

Liora nodded, her expression grave. "It's possible, my lady. Her tracks led directly to where the bridge once stood, and the hounds were not far behind. If anyone could make it, it's Ayla."

"Then we must act on that possibility," Lady Marcelline decided with a resolute tone. "Upon return to the manor, send one of the others into Valarian. Inform the guard to be on the lookout for Ayla—she may yet return."

Liora hesitated, her brow furrowed in confusion, but before she could voice her concerns, Lady Marcelline continued, "I believe she made it across. We must keep faith."

With that, Lady Marcelline gave a dismissive nod, signaling the end of their discussion. Liora stepped out of the carriage, her mind racing with the tasks ahead, while Lady Marcelline lingered a moment longer, her gaze drifting towards the sprawling vista of Valarian below.

From her vantage point, the capital appeared as a maze of lights and shadows, nestled within what was known as the Leviathan’s Ribcage. The mythic origins of Valarian were well-known, a tale of a great leviathan whose fallen body gave birth to the lush expanse that now cradled the city. Its last breath, legend said, had transformed the harsh desert into a thriving oasis, a stark contrast to the barren sands beyond. Yet, even in the barren sands, small patches of green could be seen clinging to any bits of life it could.

As Lady Marcelline lingered in the carriage, her gaze settled on the sprawling capital city below her estate. The sun had set, casting long shadows over the landscape, transforming the city into a tapestry of light and darkness nestled within the Miridian Mountains. These mountains, known locally as the Spinal Range, were crowned by enormous ribs—long, curved structures of dusty white that arched majestically over Valarian, as if the earth itself bore the ribcage of a mythical beast. Like fingers closing in on the city, the massive ribs encircled Valarian, as if protecting the sprawling metropolis within.

Her home was strategically positioned on the slope of these mountains, nestled gently between the top ridges and the valley below. This vantage point offered her an unobstructed view over the whole city and even to the smaller villages beyond, sprawling under the protective embrace of the Leviathan’s ribs. From here, she could see the entirety of her domain: the bustling market squares, the quiet residential wards, and the vibrant cultural centers that made Valarian a jewel of the Seracian province.

Yet, as she watched the city come alive with the lights of nightfall, Lady Marcelline's expression hardened. The beauty of the view did little to mask the undercurrents of darkness that she knew flowed through Valarian's streets. Beneath the surface of this mystical city, hidden from the untrained eye, ran deep veins of corruption and vice. Blood was spilled as often as wine in the shadows, and power plays were as common as market bargains.

With a quiet tsk, Lady Marcelline’s thoughts turned grim. "Such beauty," she murmured, "yet it stops at the surface." Her hands clenched slightly as she considered the tasks that lay ahead. The city, for all its splendor, was hers to protect and govern, and she was acutely aware of the threats—both seen and unseen—that sought to undermine her authority.

Lady Marcelline stepped out, her figure regal and composed as she faced her estate. Her eyes swept over the expanse of Valarian one last time, a silent vow forming in her mind. She would do whatever was necessary to protect her city, to cleanse it of its hidden evils, and to reinforce her rule. She was not the Duchess of Valarian, no, Lady Marcelline was the Lady of the Leviathan. Yet, that was her secret, her true power. Her time to emerge from the shadows would soon come.

"Besides," she whispered to herself as she walked toward the towering doors of her manor, the weight of her role as both protector and ruler heavy on her shoulders, "it is my city, after all."

The doors closed behind her with a resonant thud, sealing her within the walls of her ancestral home. Outside, the city continued to pulse with life, oblivious to the machinations of those who held its fate in their hands. Inside, Lady Marcelline’s silhouette disappeared into the dimly lit corridors of her manor, leaving behind a trail of whispered plans and unresolved intentions.

What precisely she meant by claiming Valarian as hers—whether a statement of responsibility, ownership, or something more ominous—remained uncertain, hanging in the air like the quiet before a storm.

* * *

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the rugged terrain, Paola trudged wearily behind Ayla. Her mind was a whirlpool of thoughts, each one dragging her deeper into a state of bewilderment and frustration. Despite the growing bond between her and Ayla—who, to Paola’s initial surprise, had proven to be quite the conversationalist—Paola couldn’t shake off the discomfort of her situation.

Trying her best not to stare inappropriately at Ayla's barely covered form ahead, Paola forced her gaze to the ground and then to the skies, anywhere but at Ayla's swaying hips. She cursed under her breath every so often, her arms tightly crossed over her chest in a futile attempt to preserve modesty and warmth. It seemed absurd; here she was, able to see her breath in the chilly air, feeling the occasional goosebump rise on her bare skin, yet she was far from shivering. Instead, there was a bizarre sort of warmth enveloping her, a magic-laden heat that defied the natural order of her comfort zone.

I should be freezing, she thought angrily. I’m practically naked. Back home, Paola was always wrapped up, always cozy. Here, in this alien world, her usual layers were replaced by nothing but air and vulnerability. The pink bunny slippers on her feet were a comical contrast to her otherwise dire situation. Somehow, these ridiculous slippers are the only things keeping me from feeling completely exposed, she mused grimly.

As she ruminated on her plight, Paola almost collided with Ayla, who had stopped suddenly. Startled, Paola's hands reflexively reached out, touching Ayla’s skin just above the hips before she quickly retracted them, her face flushing with embarrassment.

"I’m sorry," Ayla said, turning with a gentle smile that did little to calm Paola’s flustered state. "This looks like a good spot to camp for the night."

It was Paola’s second night in this strange world, and the first since she had regained full consciousness. The reality of having to sleep on the ground, make a fire, and possibly fend off who-knows-what filled her with dread. How did I end up like this? she wondered, her mind replaying the bizarre series of events that had brought her here.

"Don’t worry," Ayla reassured, misinterpreting Paola's silent panic as concern about the practical aspects of camping. "I’ll teach you how to survive out here."

Paola only nodded, her thoughts turning to the prospect of warmth from a fire. Maybe that will make me feel less... like this, she hoped silently, her discomfort with her state of undress gnawing at her.

Ayla began gathering materials for the fire, moving with practiced ease. Paola watched, feeling utterly useless, a spectator in her own survival story. She thought about how back home, the closest she’d come to this was roasting marshmallows over a store-bought fire pit in someone's backyard. The simplicity of those memories seemed like luxuries now.

With a deep sigh, she forced herself to focus on Ayla's instructions. "First, we need to clear a space. Make sure there are no dry leaves or twigs around that could catch fire unintentionally," Ayla explained, demonstrating as she spoke.

Paola bent down to help, her movements awkward. Every brush of the cold air against her skin was a reminder of her vulnerability. She longed for her sweatpants, her baggy sweaters, and even more for her socks—her normal, her shield against the world.

As they worked together to build the fire, Paola’s mind wandered back to her life before—so mundane, so safe. Now, each crackle of the wood as she stepped in her slippers seemed to mock her, a harsh reminder of her current reality.

"I used to think camping was just about s’mores and ghost stories," Paola said, attempting to find humor in her predicament. Her voice trembled slightly, betraying her inner turmoil.

"S'mores?" Ayla echoed, her head tilting in confusion.

"Oh, they're these sweet treats," Paola explained, her lips curving into a slight smile as she recalled the memory. "You roast marshmallows over a campfire, sandwich them between two graham crackers and some chocolate, and... they're delicious."

Ayla nodded, though her expression still betrayed her lack of understanding. "They sound... nice," she said, offering a polite smile. Clearly having no clue what Paola was talking about.

Paola sighed, her shoulders sagging as the weight of her predicament bore down upon her. "Yeah, they're nice," she agreed, her voice tinged with sadness. She watched as Ayla expertly arranged the logs and kindling for the fire, a sense of helplessness creeping over her.

Then, Ayla did the unthinkable, she pointed her finger like she was aiming a gun, "Ignis scintilla!" And out came a tiny spark, igniting the dry leaves and kindling.

What the actual fuck? She just used magic to start the fire!, Paola thought, her eyes wide with surprise and awe. "Did... Did you just use magic?!"

Ayla smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "It's a bad habit."

"No, no," Paola said quickly. "It's just..."

"Truly, it is. I'm not a registered mage. The last thing we need is the attention it will draw. And, truthfully, I'm a bit rusty," Ayla confessed.

Paola looked at the fire, its orange glow illuminating their surroundings. "Registered... mage?" she echoed, her curiosity piqued.

Ayla nodded, taking a seat on the ground. "In Valarian, or anywhere, anyone with magic ability is required to register with the government. It's a way to keep track of their skills and abilities, as well as ensure they are using their magic responsibly."

Paola shook her head, the information a lot to take in. "So, magic isn't something people just, uh, have?"

"Not necessarily," Ayla explained. "We do, we simply can't use it without registering."

"Huh," Paola replied, mulling over this revelation. "So, are you not a registered mage because you're a sword maiden, or...?"

"It's a combination of that and a few other reasons," Ayla replied, her tone evasive.

"Other reasons?" Paola pressed, sensing a deeper story behind Ayla's words.

Ayla gave a small, wry smile. "Well, let's just say there are a few benefits to not being registered. For now, I'd rather save that story for another time." Though her tone was light, there was a hint of sadness behind her words, a sense of loss and regret that Paola couldn't help but pick up on. Their eyes met, and Paola could see the emotions swirling in Ayla's deep red and blue irises.

"I understand," Paola said softly, her curiosity tinged with compassion.

There was a moment of silence between them, the weight of unspoken emotions hanging in the air. Ayla's gaze returned to the fire, her expression unreadable. Paola hesitated, sensing the change in Ayla's demeanor, and decided to steer the conversation back to the immediate task at hand.

"So, now that the fire is going," Paola started, "what's next?"

Ayla's eyes refocused, a slight smile returning to her face. "Now, we cook. Have you ever cooked anything over a campfire before?"

Paola shook her head. "I told you, the closest I've come to this is eating s'mores," she admitted sheepishly.

Ayla laughed, her eyes crinkling with amusement. "Well, then, I suppose it's time for you to learn."