CHAPTER 69
Xiaven stood there frozen, lips parted in disbelief, pointing wordlessly at the man who just entered like a storm cloaked in velvet. The room, moments ago filled with warm banter and exasperated sighs, suddenly turned heavier with a different kind of tension.
Zyair blinked once, then narrowed his eyes. “I ask again... who are you?”
Xiaven stepped back. “I should be asking you that! Who barges into someone else’s house accusing someone’s wife of cheating?!”
Eiravelle, meanwhile, had her palm glued to her forehead, sighing so deeply it sounded like it came from her soul.
Xiaven pointed a dramatic finger. “Excuse me, I do not cry when scolded—”
Zyair blinked again, slowly processing. “You mean the one you said would one day adopt ten cats and still be lonely?”
Xiaven flushed red. “You so said it!”
Zyair’s mouth twitched. A laugh threatened to escape but instead, he extended a hand, solemn all of a sudden.
Zyair’s eyes softened as he watched the two. The pure affection between them warmed the space more than the hearth ever could.
He nodded. “She trusts you. That’s enough for me.”
Xiaven swallowed, his throat suddenly tight.
Eiravelle beamed, her hand instinctively resting on her stomach.
Zyair chuckled under his breath.
The tension faded then, melted by laughter and forgiveness, and they sat together until late morning—talking names, daydreaming about the baby, and trading stories of misadventures past and the strange, uncertain future ahead.
Little did they know, those quiet moments would become memories Sorayael would one day cling to like fading light in a storm.
The first light of dawn was barely a promise when the world itself shuddered.
.............
In the cozy nursery of Eiravelle and Zyair’s cottage, Eiravelle’s labor pains rippled through her like echoes of some ancient drum. Zyair hovered at her side, face pale and drawn, while Eiravelle gripped the edge of the cradle-to-be, breathing through each wave.
Then, every heartbeat in the land trembled in unison. Trees in the Western Forest bent as if bowing. The tide hesitated on the silver shores. Even the constellations overhead flickered, as though startled in their vaulted skies.
Eiravelle gasped between contractions. “Do you.. do you feel that?”
Zyair reached for her hand, eyes wide. “Yes. Something monumental.”
Above them, the air crackled. A distant chime of stars, unheard by mortal ears, resonated through wood and stone. A surge of mana poured from Eiravelle’s body—bright, living, demanding.
With one final, shattering cry, Sorayael Elaris was born.
The moment her first breath drew life, the world answered.
In the heavens, constellations shifted, realigning in silent ceremony.
In hidden shrines, statues trembled as if awakening.
In the courts of gods and goddesses, ancient thrones quaked at the resurgence of power thought lost.
In every heart tuned to magic, a single truth pulsed: She came.
Eiravelle cried out—both from pain and wonder—as the midwife handed her the babe. Silver hair gleamed like moonlight on water. Tiny fists flexed with unexpected strength. Sorayael’s golden eyes opened, luminous with uncanny light.
Zyair buried his face in Eiravelle’s shoulder, tears of awe and love mingling. “She’s.. extraordinary.”
Eiravelle gently held her daughter to her chest. “She’s everything.”
...........
Three days after, the joyous hush was broken by a sudden, urgent pounding on the door. Headmaster Xiaven stood there, eyes grim beneath his dark brows, robes dusted from travel.
Eiravelle blinked through tears. “Why? What’s happening?”
Xiaven’s gaze flicked to the babe resting in her arms, silver hair shimmering like a beacon.
“The power awakened. They will come for her. We cannot risk your home here.”
Zyair’s jaw clenched. “But this is our home—”
Xiaven stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “I’ll explain on the road. I will accompany you both.” He paused, looking to Zyair. “You too, Prince Zyair. You must protect her, no matter the cost.”
Zyair met his friend’s steady gaze. Though confusion clouded his eyes, resolve hardened beneath it.
Eiravelle gathered the few precious items they could carry—clay sculptures, the pendant Zyair had given her, Xiaven’s ancient spellbook.
As they strapped Sorayael securely against Eiravelle’s chest, the forest breath outside deepened—ready to hide them, to shield them.
And so, under a sky still trembling from her birth, the three departed into the waiting Western woods, carrying with them the fragile dawn of a power the world both feared and desperately needed.
The carriage jolted slightly as the road gave way to moss-laden roots and damp soil, trees thickening around them like ancient sentinels. Inside, Eiravelle clutched Sorayael close, while Zyair rode beside the driver, hand resting on the hilt of his blade, gaze sharp.
Xiaven sat across from Eiravelle, hands clasped tightly. His voice was low, but firm.
Eiravelle smiled and caress her daughter's cheeks.
Zyair’s voice rang from the front of the carriage, low but clear, “Ha.. then we’ll keep her hidden along with our daughter. We’ll protect her.”
Xiaven nodded. “I’ve prepared a seal. It won’t strip her of the Auctoritas... but it will muffle it, cloak her from the eyes of those who seek it. It will only last until she’s six. After that... nothing can keep it suppressed.”
Eiravelle bit her lip, eyes misting. “We’re only buying time.”
Silence fell again, heavy and solemn, until Zyair straightened and turned toward Eiravelle.
Eiravelle stared at him, eyes wide. “Zyair...”
He knelt beside her, cupping Sorayael’s tiny foot in one hand. “She is my soul. I would trade a thousand crowns just for her to call me papa in peace.”
Xiaven’s gaze lowered. He already knew what this meant.
Zyair stood. “I’ll go. And I will return.” He turned to Xiaven. “Seal her powers. Shield her for as long as you can.”
Eiravelle reached out, holding his sleeve. “Come back.”
He leaned down, kissed her forehead, and whispered, “Always.”
.
.
The towering gates of the imperial palace groaned open. Golden light spilled across the marble floor of the throne hall where Emperor Ashvonn Linnaeus Caspian Aethelgard sat atop the obsidian dais—robbed in ceremonial black, crown gleaming like duskfire.
When the guards announced the visitor’s name, the emperor’s gaze faltered for the first time that day.
Ashvonn rose to his feet.
Zyair stopped several paces from the throne. “I didn’t come as a prince, Ashvonn. Just as your brother.”
The emperor slowly descended the dais, eyes searching his twin's face.
Zyair inhaled deeply, voice trembling at the edges. “I have a daughter, Ashvonn. Her name is Sorayael.”
Ashvonn froze. “...A daughter?”
‘This fool, he made me participate in his secret marriage for the sake of getting away with the councils and now, I am hearing these things?’
Ashvonn’s eyes darkened, wariness blooming in his chest. “What are you saying?”
Zyair’s shoulders sagged—not in defeat, but in surrender of his pride. “She bears Auctoritas.”
Ashvonn flinched.
‘The powerful authority.. It’s not magic, I heard.’
Zyair pressed forward. “I don’t know how or why. All I know is that Eiravelle, my wife and I want to protect her. And the moment that power awakened, I saw the sky shudder. I saw the shift. Others will feel it, too. The gods, the fallen, the ones who still linger beyond the veil.”
Ashvonn’s voice was low. “You came here... to ask me to turn a blind eye.”
Silence settled between them like snowfall.
Ashvonn stared at his brother—at the man who once shared his heartbeat in the womb, the boy who once stood beside him in swordplay, who laughed under fireworks with him when they were too young to know what war meant.
He stepped forward and gripped Zyair’s arms tightly.
Zyair’s throat tightened. “I never wanted kingdoms. Just this. Just a life for her. A life untouched by crowns or fate.”
Ashvonn nodded once, firmly.
Zyair blinked, his voice hoarse. “You’d do that... for me?”
They embraced each other, not as princes, not as emperor and soldier, but as twin souls caught between duty and desire.
Ashvonn’s hand lingered on his shoulder. “And I’ll be here, holding the sky back for as long as I can.”
They parted with no further words.
One vanished into the woods to guard a light too fierce for the world.
The other remained in the palace, guarding that silence with the weight of an empire.
............
The forest was old—older than any map claimed, older than the empire itself. It bore secrets in its roots and protection in its silence.
There, in a modest home nestled deep among thick oaks and ancient stones, they lived.
Xiaven visited now and then, bringing books and stories.
Eiravelle taught Sorayael to speak with kindness, to run barefoot without fear. Zyair taught her how to read stars and hold a wooden blade. Xiaven sang lullabies to Sorayael when Eiravelle was tired, cried quietly when no one was looking.
They sealed the Auctoritas in a bracelet, and the light dimmed—just enough for the world to forget.
Sorayael’s third birthday came with laughter echoing through the trees. She twirled with a crown of dandelions, golden eyes wide, hair silver in the sun.
It was peaceful, the news of Eiravelle bearing another one child is a happy news for Zyair and the little Sorayael.