CHAPTER 68
The faint rustle of leaves echoed outside the tall arched windows of Sterella Academy, their whispers barely audible through the timeless stillness of the eastern tower.
Sorayael's footsteps echoed against the polished marble floors, each step a thunderclap in her chest. Deimon followed silently behind, eyes sharp and alert-his presence a tether to the promise left by a fading voice on the wind.
When they reached the grand oak door of the Headmaster's office, Sorayael lifted her hand to knock but the door creaked open on its own.
As if it had been waiting for her.
Headmaster Xiaven sat behind his desk, robes draped in flawless folds, eyes gleaming beneath the warm golden lights of his study. The scent of aged books and lavender smoke lingered in the air.
Sorayael stepped in, shoulders taut.
Xiaven gestured to the chair in front of him. "Come. Sit. I imagine your heart is heavy with questions."
She didn't hesitate. She sat, back straight, hands gripping the sides of the carved chair.
Xiaven... smiled.
Not out of mockery. But like a man who had long carried the weight of silence.
He turned slightly, his gaze drifting to the crackling hearth beside them. The firelight danced across the gold trim of his robe.
Sorayael blinked. "What?"
His voice fell into rhythm, and with it, the room changed-drawn into a recollection laced with longing.
The capital buzzed beneath a twilight sky.
The royal palace stood gleaming in the distance, its towers kissed by golden light. But outside the walls, beyond the marble and polished stone, life danced differently-slower, humbler, more alive.
A crowded marketplace pulsed near the lower quarter, its cobbled streets lined with food stalls and handcraft booths. In one modest corner, beneath a cherry-blossom tree beginning to bloom out of season, a girl arranged a row of small sculptures on a velvet mat.
Tiny animals-foxes, lions, ravens, owls-each one carved from clay, then carefully glazed in hues that caught the sunlight.
The girl behind the booth had red hair tucked into a ribbon and wore a dark blue apron smudged with white clay. Her eyes sparkled brighter than any gem.
She leaned back and admired her work. Her stall wasn't grand. But it was hers.
Across the street, a man stood quietly in the shade of a building, watching.
He wore a hood pulled low, dyed-black hair falling just past his ears. No one gave him a second glance.
But under the disguise was someone who shouldn't have been there. A man whose face was rarely seen beyond the inner courts of the palace. A man raised behind layers of protocol, lineage, and burden.
And yet..
He crossed the street.
And approached her.
Eiravelle looked up and smiled genuinely. (kind of a seller thing)
The man blinked, caught off guard. "Name it?"
He stared at her for a bit longer than he should have.
She wrapped them in a silk pouch with care. "Do they have names?"
He hesitated at first and then, "One will be 'Larkspur.' The other... 'Bellshade.'"
She arched an eyebrow. "Unusual choices."
That was the first time.
Days passed.
And then he came again and again and again and.. again.
Always near dusk, always hooded, always picking something from her stall-a miniature squirrel, a sea serpent, a phoenix with opal wings.
She began to expect him.
Sometimes, he said little. Other times, they exchanged soft banter-trading stories about what the sculptures "meant" or what kind of life they might've lived if they were real.
He never told her his name.
She never asked.
But the silence between them wasn't awkward. It was waiting and growing.
One evening, a sudden rain scattered most of the vendors. Eiravelle struggled to cover her things as the sky cracked open.
Then he appeared, holding a cloak.
They huddled under a canvas awning, both laughing as thunder rolled across the horizon.
He was quiet for a moment.
That morning, her booth was quieter than usual.
She sat on a stool, sculpting a dragonling, her fingers stained with sky-blue pigment.
He walked up without a word and simply watched her.
He paused. "Of you."
She blinked.
He took a breath.
He looked down. Then up. Slowly, deliberately, he reached into his coat and handed her a pendant.
It bore no emblem. No crest. But the material, it shimmered like astral fire.
Eiravelle stared at it, then him. Her hands trembled slightly.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
Silence fell between them.
She stepped forward and placed the pendant back into his hand.
One afternoon, while Eiravelle painted the ears of a miniature fox, he leaned over and pointed.
He gently took the brush from her hand and filled in the faint smudge.
They grew accustomed to each other's presence in that natural, fated way where silence spoke as much as words.
Until one day...
She handed him a sculpture shaped like a bird with folded wings. A rare piece she never sold.
He looked at her, distracted-staring at her face, not the carving.
Her brow arched, a smirk twitching at her lips. "Excuse me?"
He coughed. "I meant the carving. The bird. Yes. It's... very feathery."
'I thought ako na eh' her thoughts.
She laughed for nearly a full minute, and he swore the sound could have cracked his ribs.
............
One quiet evening, after the market had closed, they sat beneath the same cherry-blossom tree where they'd first met.
He stared at the stars while she tried to balance a tiny dragon sculpture on his knee.
She looked at him sideways. "Do I still not get to know your name?"
His lips twitched. Then he reached into his coat and pulled out the same pendant from before.
He placed it in her hand.
She blinked. The name echoed like a whisper from legend.
She'd heard it before—once or twice in palace rumors. A prince never seen in public. A shadow cloaked in protocol.
But now he sat beside her, wind tousling his hair, grinning like a fool as he let a bird-shaped clay piece peck his fingers.
He once tried to carve a sculpture for her. It looked like a turtle mangled by time. She kept it anyway.
He once got lost outside the palace at night and appeared at her door soaked from rain, clutching a bouquet of half-dead wildflowers. She made him soup and laughed until her eyes watered.
They exchanged letters. Notes folded into origami cranes. A diary shared back and forth.
He'd write:
She'd reply:
They argued, too.
But the anger never lasted long.
He kissed her once-under starlight, after an argument that had turned into laughter. She didn't speak for a full minute after. Then shoved his shoulder.
Two years into their love, Zyair came to her with his hood pulled low and his hands shaking.
Eiravelle blinked, sculpting tools still in her hand. "Are you feverish?"
His gaze dropped.
Eiravelle stared at him, torn between instinct and affection. But love had carved its roots deep.
So she nodded.
The wedding was quiet. No silk-lined aisles or fanfare.
Only a small, ancient shrine near the palace garden. One witness—Zyair's older brother, who said nothing, only clasped their hands with solemn grace.
Zyair kissed her under the moonlight with the weight of a thousand promises.
And for a while... the world was kind.
'Til death do us part.' they said to each other's selves.
They lived quietly in a small manor Zyair had tucked away from the royal eye. Just the two of them. No guards. No obligations.
They woke up late on rainy mornings.
They danced barefoot in the garden during spring showers.
They played guessing games with cloud shapes and named imaginary constellations.
She once chased him around the field with a wet paintbrush after he teased her for accidentally smudging her sculpture.
They spent nights with books stacked between them, arguing over myths.
And when Eiravelle first learned she was pregnant-
She didn't tell him right away.
She left a small, silver sculpture of a baby owl on his bedside table. With a tiny scroll tucked in its beak.
Zyair wept when he read it.
Then laughed.
And picked her up and spun her around until she screamed at him to put her down.
Eiravelle informed her friend, who was currently a teacher at Sterella Academy, that she was pregnant.
The very next morning, Xiaven stormed into her little cottage with uncombed hair and eyes wide like he hadn't slept a wink.
Xiaven's face twisted. "And how on earth are you pregnant if you're not even marrie-"
She nodded, all smiles.
Xiaven stared at her like she'd just told him she married a dragon.
'Oh no, our crybaby...,' Eiravelle thought, worried but still happy.
Xiaven sniffled against her shoulder. "I don't even know his name. I haven't even seen his face! You just kept saying, 'he's kind, he's sweet, he makes me laugh.' That could be anyone! Even a wanted criminal!"
'Mukha siyang wanted criminal because of his identity' Eiravelle kept the thoughts for herself.
Xiaven froze.
She hesitated. "...He's also the prince."
Xiaven pulled away, eyes enormous. "WHAT?! ARE YOU CRAZ-"
Before he could finish the sentence, the door creaked open-and walked a tall man with elegant posture, sharp features, and black hair falling neatly over one eye. He looked utterly out of place in the humble cottage.
Zyair's eyes locked onto Xiaven immediately.