CHAPTER 61
In the three years that followed, time moved with relentless grace-marking change not just in the lands, but in the people who walked them.
And Sorayael Elaris... changed, too.
She was no longer the quiet girl hiding behind half-smiles and veiled words.
At fourteen, she had grown into a fine young lady-elegant, composed, and unnervingly perceptive.
Her silver hair flowed longer now, often pinned in intricate braids when formality demanded it, or left loose when she wandered the Grand Duke's manor with her usual quiet confidence.
Her golden eyes still gleamed with the warmth of a dreamer, but held a depth that came only from knowing the weight of secrets too early.
In those years, she never let go of her mother's memory-nor the thread of truth left behind.
She worked in silence, but never alone.
With the heirs, she trained and learned.
With Deimon, she sifted through arcane knowledge and fragmented data, slowly assembling something like a map to the past.
Reinhold, loyal as ever, remained her sword in the dark-traveling between regions, gathering what whispers dared to surface.
Even the forces loyal to the Grand Duke had begun to quietly align behind her, recognizing in Sorayael something far greater than a child of circumstance.
But beyond politics and shadows, she also found time for light.
Krios, now older and bolder, remained her greatest joy.
They spent many nights chasing starlight across the manor gardens, sharing stories, sweets, and songs only they remembered.
The halls of Aethenroth, once unfamiliar, now felt like home.
The staff adored her, not for her bloodline or potential, but for the warmth she brought, the way she remembered names, noticed pain, and smiled with the ease of someone who still chose kindness-even when the world didn't.
While the heirs rose through the ranks of power, Sorayael chose a different path.
She never entered the rankings.
Not because she lacked ability. But because she lacked the desire for spectacle.
Her focus lay elsewhere-on whispered truths, shadowed letters, and the slow unspooling of the mystery behind her mother's death.
She spent her time gathering intelligence with Deimon, strategizing with Reinhold, and nurturing ties with the heirs not for politics-but for something more enduring. Something real.
Yet the world around her did not slow.
Zarethian Kadvaris Aethenroth, ever unwavering, achieved the rank of S-ranker-a distinction earned not through nobility, but through fire and steel. He stood as a quiet juggernaut, fierce and protective, a shield at the ready even when the world did not yet call.
Ravelia Nytheris and Kieran Elias Everen also rose swiftly, joining Zarethian among the elite.
Three S-rankers. A record that sent tremors of pride and warning through the Aethelgard Imperium.
To have not one, but three heirs elevated to that level before even reaching adulthood-such strength was both a marvel and a prophecy.
The rest of the heirs-Karsen, Celene, Silas-all distinguished themselves as A-rankers, powerful in their own right. Honed, respected, and watched.
But amid it all, Sorayael remained... unranked.
She had no badge, no number beside her name. She did not step into arenas or attend ranking evaluations. And yet those who truly watched the shape of power rising in the Imperium knew better than to ignore her.
Because even without a title, Sorayael moved like someone preparing for something greater. Like someone who knew her time had not yet come-but would.
Yet even amidst all of this, some absences never ceased to echo.
In all her searching, not a single letter or sign had come from him. No word of where he'd gone, or how he fared. All she had was the memory of his promise that he will return.
And though the world urged her to forget, she never let that promise fade.
She waited, quietly, steadfastly. Just as he once waited for her.
Zacchaeus, on the other hand, had thrown himself into the tempest of survival.
The world outside the noble courts remained brutal and unforgiving, and he fought his way through it with grit alone.
His name rose quickly-Zacchaeus Solmere, A-rank gate clearer.
He sought no glory, only ground to stand on.
Word spread that he aimed to become a commander soon, taking charge of one of the border clearing units.
Some said it was reckless. Others saw it as noble. Sorayael saw it as survival.
All of the heirs carved their names into the annals of rising power.
Gates grew more unstable. Whispers of rebellion stirred beneath gold-clad cities. Ancient forces began to rouse from slumber.
And through it all, Sorayael remained steady-growing in the light of a thousand quiet battles no one saw. Waiting for the moment she, too, would be called to rise.
The next morning felt wrong.
Not in a loud, calamitous way-there were no black clouds gathering, no tremors beneath the earth. Yet something was shifting. Something subtle and deep-rooted, like the weight of a sword being lifted before the strike.
Sorayael stood by the window of her study, sipping cooled tea as soft wind stirred her silver hair. Krios had left a note on her desk, scribbled in childish flourish: "Don't forget to rest today! You promised!"
She smiled faintly. But that moment of quiet was brief.
A pulse flickered from the orb beside her-an urgent magical signal.
Then, one by one, the faces of the heirs emerged into view through the scrying link.
Zarethian, already armored, sunlight outlining the sharp angle of his jaw.
Ravelia, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
Kieran, standing, scanning a document.
Celene and Silas close together, the tension unmistakable.
Karsen, brows furrowed, pacing in what looked like a corridor.
Karsen's pacing stopped. "He's planning a summoning."
Then her chamber door opened behind her.
She turned swiftly, her hand halfway to her dagger.
Reinhold stepped inside, breath short, travel cloak still dusted in dirt and dried wind.
He nodded once. "Yes. And it's worse than we thought."
Everyone fell silent.
Reinhold moved to the center of the room. His voice, when it came, was quiet-but every syllable was heavy.
Zarethian's jaw set. "Which?"
Reinhold raised his gaze to meet Sorayael's.
A hush swept through the orb.
Ravelia's eyes narrowed. "The Martial King hasn't been invoked in over three hundred years."
Reinhold drew something from his cloak-a torn page, its ink faded and sigils half-burned. "I found fragments of an ancient method. Forbidden. Sealed under the Astrologicum's archives, in a chamber meant to never be found."
He passed the page to Sorayael. She barely glanced at it-her fingers already tense.
Reinhold hesitated.
Sorayael's eyes darkened. "He's using someone."
Zarethian spoke up, gaze burning. "And if the summoning succeeds...?"
A long silence followed.
Sorayael's voice, when she spoke again, was calm-but sharp as glass. "Do we know who the vessels are?"
Reinhold's face was grim. "Not yet. But it's likely someone within the palace. Or close to it."
The silence thickened.
Then Sorayael turned from the orb and walked toward her map, fingers tracing the markings etched over ancient seals.
Zarethian stepped forward in his frame. "Then we stop it before the stars descend."
Ravelia nodded. "Whatever it takes."
Sorayael's eyes flicked up, and in them burned something fierce. Certain.