Chapter 52: Ragnar’s New Vision

Qazaethel and Eiravelle arrived at the Manor in the clouds, its silhouette was cutting against the pale sky like a memory made of solid. The air up here was thin and cool, carrying the faint, sweet scent of something ancient and growing—something that existed far beyond the reach of ordinary gardens and ordinary hands.

Eiravelle barely waited for Qazaethel to settle before she scrambled off her back, her boots were hitting the cloud-stone path with a soft thud that echoed strangely in the stillness. She rushed forward to the grand door of the manor without looking back, her movements were frantic and ungraceful, driven by a desperation that had been building for days and had finally found its outlet.

Tall windows lined the front, their glass was dark and unreadable, and the door she approached was carved from wood so dark it looked almost black. It was the kind of place that demanded respect, that whispered of age and power and things that should not be disturbed without good reason. Eiravelle did not care about any of that. She had come too far to be intimidated now.

"Master Ragnar?" Eiravelle cried, her fists were pounding against the dark wood. The sound echoed in the quiet, swallowed by the vastness around them, but she did not stop. "Master, this is Eiravelle, please let me in!" Her voice cracked, pleading and knocking loudly without pause, each strike of her small hands against the door were growing more desperate than the last.

Qazaethel returned to her human-like form again, the shift rippled through her like water settling into a new shape. She approached Eiravelle from behind, her steps were silent on the cloud-stone path, and watched how loud the girl was knocking, how her small hands were turning red from the impact.

The sight worried her. Eiravelle would hurt her fingers if she kept this up, and the last thing they needed was an injury on top of everything else. Gently, Qazaethel reached out and stopped her by taking her hand, stilling the frantic motion with a firm but careful grip.

"Stop," Qazaethel said, her voice was calm but firm. She gently put Eiravelle’s hand away from the door, holding it for a moment longer than necessary to make sure the girl would not resume her assault on the wood. "Let me do it."

But Qazaethel didn’t knock. She simply announced her presence, her voice was carrying a weight that Eiravelle’s desperate cries lacked. It was the voice of someone who had known Ragnar for a long time, someone who understood that the master of this manor did not respond to pleading or pounding.

He responded to presence, to the quiet certainty of someone who belonged in his world. "Ragnar, it’s me, Qazaethel. I am humbly asking you to open the door and hear Eiravelle’s cries." She said it without shouting, without pleading, as if she knew the door would open simply because she had spoken.

A few moments passed in silence, and Eiravelle’s heart hammered against her ribs. She could feel the blood rushing in her ears, the cold air biting at her cheeks, the weight of everything she had sacrificed to get here pressed down on her shoulders.

Then, the door opened with a low, groaning creak that seemed to come from somewhere deep within the manor itself. Eiravelle’s breath caught in her throat, and she nearly lunged forward, but Qazaethel’s hand on her arm held her back.

Qazaethel remained neutral, her expression was unreadable, and gently took Eiravelle’s hand again. "We have to go. He seems not in a good mood," she added, and guided Eiravelle inside the manor.

The entrance hall was vast and dimly lit, the kind of space that made footsteps echo and voices seem too loud. Ornaments hung from the walls, their colors are faded with age, and a grand staircase curved upward toward the upper floors.

The air inside was warmer than outside, but it carried a heaviness that made Eiravelle feel like she was walking into something she did not fully understand. She clutched Qazaethel’s hand tightly, her eyes are darting around the shadows as if expecting something to jump out at any moment.

They walked inside and stopped midstep when a familiar voice echoed through the entire place, sharp and amused. "I am not expecting Qazaethel’s presence in here. Shall I be delighted that her majesty decided to visit my manor?" Ragnar asked, and both Qazaethel and Eiravelle looked toward the direction of the voice.

They saw Ragnar above the stairs, standing at the top with his arms crossed, looking down at them like a king surveying uninvited guests. He wore simple robes—loose and dark ones—but there was nothing simple about the way he carried himself. He radiated power the way a fire radiated heat, and Eiravelle felt small beneath his gaze.

"Ragnar... It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other," Qazaethel answered, her tone was measured. She did not flinch under his stare, did not look away. She met him as an equal, or at least as someone who refused to be cowed.

"I’ll dismiss the theatrics. What is your business that you two decided to come in here?" Ragnar asked, his voice was flat and impatient. He descended the stairs slowly, one hand trailing along the banister, his eyes are fixed on them with an intensity that made Eiravelle’s skin prickle.

Eiravelle took a few steps forward, her legs are trembling but her resolve was hardening.

"Master, may I ask for a magical peach? Even just one. Please? I... I have to... To save my older sister." Her voice was small, but it carried the weight of her desperation, and she did not look away from him as she spoke.

Ragnar’s brow furrowed, the lines on his forehead deepened. "But I gave you a whole basket, didn’t I?"

Hearing that made Eiravelle pause, her mouth was opening and closing as she tried to find the words. Guilt flooded through her, hot and uncomfortable, and she felt her cheeks burn with shame. She had not known that a situation like this would occur.

The peaches had been tasty, full of sweet fluid that soothes the throat in every bite, and Arielle had been so happy to eat them with Eiravelle together. It had felt like a small celebration, a moment of joy in the middle of so much uncertainty. She had not realized this kind of emergency will happen.

She shook her head, her gaze was dropping to the floor. "It... It’s gone..."

"What do you mean it’s gone?" Ragnar’s voice sharpened a little, and Eiravelle flinched at the edge in his tone.

"Me and sister Arielle ate the whole basket that day?" Eiravelle said, her voice was tilting up at the end like she wasn’t sure if it was a question or a confession. She knew how foolish it sounded.

A whole basket of magical peaches, gone in a single day, consumed by two people. It was wasteful and stupid, and she could not blame Ragnar for being angry.

Ragnar paused, trying to process the young omega’s answer. The silence stretched, and Eiravelle felt her heart sink lower with every passing second. She had ruined everything.

She had come here asking for more when she had already squandered what she was given, and now Ragnar would send her away empty-handed. Arielle would suffer, and it would be her fault.

"Well, she’s not just eating for herself, Ragnar. She’s pregnant." Qazaethel added, her voice was cutting through the tension like a blade. She spoke calmly, as if she were simply stating a fact, but there was a protective edge to her words that Eiravelle had not expected.

Ragnar sighed heavily and nodded, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The anger in his expression faded, replaced by something that looked almost like resignation. "I understand... Well... I can give you the last peach." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice had lost some of its edge.

"It’s nearing the end of the month, that’s why they’re withering away. All I can do is eat them. You’re lucky I saved one."

He raised his hand, and a soft golden light gathered in his palm, swirling and solidifying until a single peach appeared, its skin glowed faintly. It was beautiful, otherworldly, and Eiravelle’s breath caught in her throat at the sight of it again.

The peach seemed to pulse with a gentle warmth, as if it were alive, and she could feel its power even from where she stood. It was the most precious thing she had ever seen.

"Why can’t you just give it to others if it’s withering?" Qazaethel asked, her eyes are narrowing with suspicion. She had moved closer to Eiravelle, positioning herself slightly in front of the younger girl as if to shield her from something.

Ragnar looked at her as if she had asked something incredibly foolish. "You ask as if you’re stupid, Qazaethel. You knew what these peaches can do."

Qazaethel just rolled her eyes away with contempt, but she said nothing more. Eiravelle glanced between them, confused by the tension that crackled in the air. There was history here, old wounds that had never fully healed, and she was caught in the middle of something she did not understand.

"The peach is not just about healing properties," Ragnar continued, his voice was taking on a lecturing tone. He held the peach up, letting its glow illuminate his face. "It also has the power to increase your mana, energy, powers, or your overall cultivation level. Handing them to others may cause an inflation of supernatural energy."

"So you eat them to increase your powers?" Qazaethel asked, her brow was furrowing. There was genuine curiosity in her voice now, the suspicion was pushed aside by the need to understand.

Ragnar shook his head. "I’m the one who planted them. Even if I eat millions of them, my powers won’t grow. The ones who plant them won’t be able to benefit from their powers. I was aware of that when I accepted the gift to guard and take care of the sacred peach tree."

Qazaethel fell silent, finally understanding why Ragnar never gave the peaches to others. It wasn’t selfishness; it was responsibility. The power had to be controlled, contained, and given only when it was truly needed. Eiravelle listened to the exchange, her mind was racing.

She had eaten so many of them. She and Arielle had consumed an entire basket between them, and she had felt nothing—no surge of power, no sudden burst of energy. Maybe it was because she was not the one who planted them. Maybe the magic worked differently for those who received the fruit as a gift. Or maybe she had simply been too foolish to notice.

"Come forth, my child, Eiravelle," Ragnar said, his voice softened as he looked at her. The change in his tone was startling, and Eiravelle hesitated for a moment before stepping forward.

She rushed upstairs to meet him where he stood, her legs felt weak but somehow carrying her anyway. Each step felt heavier than the last, and by the time she reached him, she was breathless and trembling. She reached for the peach, her fingers are aching to close around it, but before Ragnar handed it to her, he spoke again.

"I have one condition," he said.

Eiravelle gasped, her hand froze in midair. She looked up at him, her eyes are turning wide with confusion and fear. What more could he ask of her? She had nothing left to give. "Master Ragnar, please," she whispered in urgency, her voice was barely audible. She did not know what he wanted, but she was afraid of what he might demand.

"I will give you the peach, but you must agree to come back to the Academy," he said, and Eiravelle’s brow furrowed. The Academy. The place she had left behind, the place that held memories she was not ready to face. She had not expected this. "This is the only thing I am asking something in return, Eiravelle, and I hope you understand me."

His face was contorted with worry, the lines around his eyes deeper than she remembered. He looked tired, burdened by something she couldn’t see, and for the first time, she realized that Ragnar was not just a powerful master in a floating manor. He was a being carrying the weight of things he could not control.

"I saw it... The destruction... Wars, and the whole world will vanish for a sin that the many had done. Even the innocent ones will die," he whispered.

Eiravelle didn’t know what to say. The words hung in the air between them, heavy and suffocating. She wanted to ask what he meant, what any of this had to do with her, but her voice wouldn’t come.

Her mind raced, trying to make sense of his words. Destruction. Wars. The whole world vanishing. It sounded like something out of a nightmare, too big and too terrible to be real.

"How’s that connected to me?" She finally whispered back, her voice was trembling.

"Along with the destructive vision came another salvation... I saw you in the other vision... You will become the light..." Ragnar paused, his eyes are searching hers. "And the vision was very vague and I am not sure about it... And it’s possible you’re..."

"What?" Eiravelle breathed, her heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.

"What’s taking you both so long?" Qazaethel’s voice called from below, sharp with impatience. The interruption was jarring, pulling Eiravelle out of the intensity of the moment.

Both Ragnar and Eiravelle glanced down before looking at each other again. "Just a moment," Eiravelle answered, her voice was surprisingly steady. She turned back to Ragnar, her eyes are pleading with him to continue.

"You will become our salvation..." Ragnar said, his voice was barely above a whisper. "Or... You are our destruction."

Eiravelle’s eyes widened, and she tried to hide her gasp, but the sound escaped her lips anyway. The words cut through her like a blade, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Salvation or destruction.

The weight of it pressed down on her shoulders, heavy and inescapable.

This is a prophecy she didn’t ask for, a future she couldn’t understand.

She wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, that she was just an omega with no power to save or destroy anything. She wanted to demand that he take back his words, that he admit he had made a mistake. But the look in his eyes told her he believed every word he had said, and the weight of that belief settled over her like a shroud.

Ragnar gave her the peach, pressing it into her trembling hands. The warmth of it seeped into her fingers, grounding her in the present moment even as her mind spiraled.

"You must go now... I won’t bother you anymore about whether you want to return to the Academy... What matters now is that I told you what I saw."

Eiravelle clutched the peach to her chest, the golden glow of it casted soft light across her face. She didn’t know how to process what Ragnar had just dropped on her. She could be the salvation, or the ultimate final act of their destruction.

The thought was too big, too terrifying, and she pushed it down, burying it beneath the immediate need to get back to Arielle. She could figure out the rest later. She had to.

"Thank you, Master Ragnar," she managed to say, her voice was barely a whisper. She clutched the peach tighter, feeling its power thrum against her palms, and then she turned and rushed downstairs.

Her footsteps echoed in the vast hall, but she did not slow down. She could see Qazaethel waiting at the bottom of the stairs, her arms are crossed and her expression was unreadable. There was a question in her eyes, but she did not ask it. She simply waited, letting Eiravelle come to her.

"We have to go!" Eiravelle said, her voice was filled with urgency. She grabbed Qazaethel’s wrist, her grip was tight and desperate as she began pulling her toward the door.

Qazaethel said nothing. She simply let Eiravelle drag her out of the room, her expression was thoughtful as she studied the younger girl’s face. She had seen the way Eiravelle’s hands trembled, the way her eyes darted around as if she were seeing the world differently now.

Something had happened up there, something that had changed the girl. Qazaethel did not know what it was, but she knew better than to ask. Not yet.

They burst through the doors of the manor and out into the cool air of the cloud realm. The sky was beginning to darken, streaked with shades of orange and purple, and the cloud-stone path glowed faintly beneath their feet.

Eiravelle did not stop running until they were far from the manor, her breath was coming in ragged gasps, the peach was still clutched tightly to her chest.

Once again, Ragnar was left alone. He stood at the top of the stairs for a long moment, staring at the closed door, his expression was unreadable. "I hope you agree, Eiravelle," he said quietly to the empty hall.

His voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, but it carried the weight of his worry. Then he turned and returned to his bedchamber, his steps were slow and heavy with the weight of what he had revealed.

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and the manor fell silent once more.