Their quiet moment was interrupted by the door bursting open. Erwin and Iina stumbled in, looking slightly singed.
Wendelin sighed, leaning back. The events of the ancient ruins still played in his mind—the narrow escapes and the heavy burden of his growing influence. In this world, being the eighth son was supposed to mean obscurity, but here he was, the center of every political maneuver in the kingdom.
"Wendelin! You won't believe it," Erwin panted, holding up a blackened, vibrating magic crystal. "We found this in the storage of the spoils. It started humming the moment we brought it near your old practice wand."
As Wendelin stood to investigate, the crystal flared with a soft, azure light, projecting a flickering map of a mountain range he had never seen. It was a silent invitation—or perhaps a warning—from a past he was still struggling to understand.
Elise smiled with her usual grace. "Perhaps. But those treasures also allowed you to protect your friends. That is a value that doesn't age."
"Well," Wendelin muttered, a small, tired smile forming on his face. "So much for a quiet afternoon. Everyone, gear up."