Garfunkel's voice cut through the lingering murmurs like a blade striking stone.
"The ceremony is over."
The weight of his declaration settled upon the hall, pressing down on the gathering like a silent command. Some nobles flinched at the abruptness, others stiffened in place. There was no room for debate in his tone—only finality, as if he had cast the words in iron.
Before the tension could escalate further, Samuel took a single step forward, his presence effortlessly redirecting the moment. His expression remained composed, imperial, yet edged with quiet restraint.
"We have all borne witness to a moment of great significance," Samuel said, his voice carrying through the vast chamber with the calm authority of an emperor. "Let us move to the banquet garden, where we shall honor this occasion as tradition demands."
Though his words were measured, they were not a request. They were an assertion, a reminder that while emotions may stir, dignity would not be abandoned. The empire would not falter in ceremony.
There was a beat of silence before the response came—not in words, but in movement. Nobles and dignitaries exchanged glances, some with thinly veiled amusement, others with the carefully schooled expressions of compliance. The merchants, always watchful of the political winds, were the first to bow their heads in agreement. The younger royals hesitated, still whispering amongst themselves, while the older generation understood that this was not a moment to linger in speculation.
One by one, they turned and began making their way toward the banquet garden, their steps carrying varying degrees of eagerness or obligation. The tension, though not fully dissipated, had been redirected—at least for now.
Yet, as the crowd trickled out, a select few remained.
The air within the great hall thickened, not with noise, but with an absence of it.
'He' had not moved, his presence still an anchor of silent weight in the chamber. The Priest of the Celestine Theocracy, Elder Sebastián, remained as well, his fingers idly brushing the beads of his ceremonial adornments. Garfunkel stood firm, his gaze unreadable as he observed those still present. Samuel remained in place, his posture unchanged, his expression calm but alert.
Woden lingered near his usual station, watching with the quiet patience of a man who had lived through too many of these moments to be unnerved by them.
Elder Sebastián's voice broke the silence, smooth yet edged with restrained force. "A birth that should not have happened. A child that should not exist."
Though his words were quiet, they struck the chamber with the weight of a hammer.
A shift rippled through those present. Some remained motionless, masks of decorum firmly in place, while others exchanged sharp glances. Woden's fingers twitched, ever so slightly, his body coiling as though preparing for something unseen.
Garfunkel's gaze darkened, his eyes narrowing as he assessed Sebastián, but he did not speak—not yet. The undercurrents of the room stirred, old wounds barely concealed beneath layers of formality.
Then, 'He' spoke, his tone carrying an unmistakable weight. "Send him to the academy."
The statement landed like a thrown gauntlet.
A murmur of protests rose almost instantly.
"The Phoenix Clan will not stand for this," an elder phoenix declared, golden eyes blazing.
"The Frost Giants do not throw their own into unknown storms, nor do we ignore the wrong eyes upon them," rumbled the Frost Giant Tribe Chief, his voice like grinding stone.
"The Royal Academy of Aroullis will not permit him to be sent elsewhere," the academy's principal said with careful diplomacy, his words weighed with unspoken implications.
Yet, before another word could be uttered, 'He' spoke again. Just one word.
"Jemica."
The protests died instantly.
A sudden, oppressive silence overtook the hall. Eyes widened, bodies tensed, and even those most used to masking their emotions showed brief flashes of uncertainty. Some looked as if they wished to speak but thought better of it.
Woden, his voice level but edged with caution, finally broke the silence. "Be careful with what you ask for."
There was no reply, only the weight of what had already been spoken.
After a long moment, Elder Sebastián exhaled, his gaze lingering on 'He'. A stare not of defiance, but of something deeper—an unspoken warning, an acknowledgment of forces at play beyond the comprehension of most.
Then, without another word, he turned and strode toward the entrance, his robes billowing behind him. He did not stop at the palace gates, nor did he look back. He left not only the hall but the empire itself, disappearing into the unknown.
'He' lingered a moment longer, surveying the remaining figures with the same unreadable expression before turning on his heel and departing, the echoes of his presence still hanging in the air long after he was gone.
The room remained still, as if holding its breath in the wake of what had just transpired.
No one spoke of what had just occurred, but they all knew—nothing would be the same after this.
Behind the thick wooden doors of her chamber, Aliena sat in near silence, her breath shallow as she held Alex close to her chest. The dim lighting of the room cast long shadows across the walls, the flickering of enchanted lanterns failing to dispel the heavy weight pressing upon her.
Her grip on him was firm yet fragile, as if she feared he might slip away at any moment. She had spent the last hour tending to him—wiping away any lingering traces of the ceremonial water, wrapping him in the softest cloths, ensuring he was warm, safe, untouched by the eyes and judgments of the world beyond these walls. But no matter how gentle her hands were, they still trembled.
A rare vulnerability clung to her features; her usual regal poise cracked beneath the weight of what had been spoken in the hall. She had expected the ceremony to reveal much, but not this. Not the depth of uncertainty, of conflict, of fate itself twisting into something so unshaped and raw.
Alex lay quietly in her arms, small fingers twitching slightly as if sensing her unease. Though he did not understand everything, he was aware—aware of the tension in her heartbeat, the way her breath hitched every so often, the way she clung to him as if she alone could shield him from the storm that had begun to form around his existence.
A sudden knock at the door broke the silence.
"Aliena," Cecilia's voice was soft, almost pleading. "Let us in."
There was a pause before another voice followed. "You don't have to be alone in this." It was Tzila, the Dragon Princess.
A third voice—Sylara, the elven mage—was quieter, hesitant. "Please."
Outside the chamber, Aliena's closest friends had gathered, their worry evident even through the thick door that separated them. But she did not move. She did not answer.
Another knock, more insistent this time. "Aliena," Cecilia said again, her usual warmth edged with frustration. "Open the door."
But Aliena remained where she was, pressing her forehead lightly against Alex's, letting his warmth anchor her.
She wasn't ready.
Not yet.
Beyond the door, her friends exchanged glances. Tzila's tail flicked in irritation. "She's shutting us out."
"She's grieving," Sylara corrected gently. "She's trying to make sense of what's happened."
Cecilia let out a slow breath, her fingers tightening at her sides. "She can do that with us."
But inside the chamber, Aliena had already made her decision.
She was not yet ready to let the world in.
And for now, that was enough.