CHAPTER 70
The cottage nestled in the woods stood serene beneath a sky dusted with light. Wind whispered through leaves, and the scent of moss and pine gently surrounded the modest home where laughter often echoed between wooden beams and warm hearth.
Inside, the fire crackled softly as Eiravelle sat on a padded bench by the window, a gentle hand resting on her belly, swollen with new life. She hummed an old lullaby as three-year-old Sorayael clambered up beside her, her silver hair a messy halo, her golden eyes wide with delight.
Eiravelle laughed, brushing Sorayael’s bangs back. “Sweetheart, your brother isn’t born yet. He can’t take flowers just yet.”
Eiravelle nodded. “Yes, he can hear your voice.”
Sorayael leaned her face close to Eiravelle’s belly and whispered, “Hi, baby Krios. It’s me, your Ate. Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from the monsters under the bed. Okay?”
Eiravelle melted, her heart swelling with affection. “You’re such a good Ate.”
Just then, the door creaked open and Zyair entered, brushing dust off his cloak.
Sorayael gasped. “Papa!” She scrambled down the bench and ran toward him.
Zyair caught her mid-jump and lifted her into the air. “There’s my little sparkle!”
Eiravelle rolled her eyes. “You’re the one who eats cookies in the middle of the night like a raccoon.”
Zyair placed a hand over his heart in mock pain. “I’m wounded.”
Sorayael giggled from his arms. “Papa’s silly.”
Xiaven visited less and less—duties in Sterella Academy had multiplied after his promotion to Vice Master. Still, he sent enchanted letters, tiny flares of magic within their fireplace, always sealed with tiny drawings of cats and urgent, affectionate reminders to “kiss Sorayael for me.”
One evening, as twilight rolled across the treetops, Zyair returned from a trip to gather supplies from the Central district. But his face was pale, his eyes stormy.
Eiravelle met him at the door. “What’s wrong?”
He closed it behind him, securing all locks before he turned to her.
Eiravelle’s breath hitched. “What?”
Even the firewood in their hearth hissed, its flames dancing unnaturally. And through it, Eiravelle heard it too—the whispers of fate unraveling, voices brushing against her skin like cold wind.
She placed a trembling hand over her heart. “It’s begun.”
Zyair stiffened.
Eiravelle slowly said, “It’s Lysander, he’s one of the generals in the Astral realm. I see, he’s already moving. Ashvonn… he died in the hands of that corrupted star. He’s wiping the bloodline clean. He’s known for his selfishness and greed, claiming what he wanted to have.”
Zyair’s fists clenched.
In that moment, Xiaven's voice flickered through the fire, frantic and low.
Eiravelle turned to her husband, her heart pounding. “You can’t leave anymore. Not even for a moment.”
Zyair stared into the fire, jaw clenched, eyes brimming with unspoken grief and rage.
The morning mist clung to the trees like a warning, but Zyair stood on the edge of their secluded clearing, inhaling deeply, his silver hair bound and hidden beneath the hood of a plain cloak.
Eiravelle, arms crossed over her growing belly, narrowed her eyes. “Zy, huwag kang lalayo. You hear me? Diyan ka lang. If you feel the wind shift—come back. Don’t test fate.”
He smiled, stealing a kiss on her temple. “You worry too much, my wifey.”
But Zyair had already made up his mind.
Zyair, in the guise of a palace helper, moved through the Aethelgard Imperial Palace like a shadow. The banners hung heavier these days, their gold threads dulled.
In the servants’ quarters, the murmurs clawed their way into his ears.
Zyair’s chest tightened. Lysander. It had to be him. His twin’s murderer.
Without another word, he turned and slipped away before his presence could be noticed. Every heartbeat screamed to return home.
The very next day, news of the dungeons break and monstrous attacks near the central gates of Aethelgard spread like wildfire. Creatures that hadn’t stepped foot on imperial soil in decades—now prowled its borders, directed by unseen malice.
Zyair's fists clenched at the threshold of their home.
His voice was gentle. “This is the only way for me to protect the Aethelgard my brother died defending.”
He hugged her—tight, trembling. “Wifey, I need you to be strong. Stronger than I ever was.”
Her arms wrapped around him. She couldn’t say goodbye.
So she whispered instead, “Come back. Come back to us. Ad Astra Per Aspera.”
For two long months, Zyair became a silent guardian—a faceless warrior defending the borders under many disguises. He never sought recognition, only survival—for the empire… and for his family.
But his power, his presence, his resemblance, did not go unnoticed. It was only a matter of time.
Their peaceful illusion began to unravel.
..........
One night, Eiravelle opened the door to find him there—drenched in rain, his cloak torn, eyes wild with grief.
Zyair collapsed into her arms, trembling, as thunder whispered above them.
She pulled him inside, shut the door.
Eiravelle’s voice cracked. “But you're leaving anyway, aren't you?”
A pause.
Tears gathered in her mother's eyes as she held a small, three-year-old girl, Sorayael, wide-eyed and quiet, resting against her shoulder. Beneath her cloak, a gentle swell. A child not yet born—Krios.
The man leaned forward and pressed his forehead against hers. “I'm sorry. I couldn't stop him. But I'll find a way, I'll come back.”
And then he was gone.
Her mother collapsed to her knees, trembling, holding her daughter tightly. “I'll protect you... I'll protect both of you. Even if it kills me..”
Days turned into weeks.
Weeks into months.
And still.. Zyair never returned.
Each morning, Eiravelle would open the door—just slightly—half-hoping to see a flash of silver hair in the breeze, or hear the familiar knock that always came in threes.
But there was only wind. And silence.
The woods, once filled with the warmth of laughter and lullabies, had grown colder. Still.
Sorayael, too young to understand the aching silence, would ask in a soft voice:
And Eiravelle, with a smile stitched from splinters, would answer every time:
But her heart knew.
Zyair’s promise—the one whispered with trembling hands and aching love—was broken by something darker than death.
‘I know he didn’t mean it. I will always wait for you, my love.’
One stormless afternoon, when the clouds hung low and the world held its breath, there came a knock.
Three knocks.
Eiravelle froze, heartbeat halting. Hope flared and pain with it.
She opened the door, her breath caught in her throat. But it wasn’t Zyair.
It was Alexander Franca Olinze, an old friend from long ago—once a scholar, a quiet mind who used to share spells and sunlight with her with Xiaven.
He’s their friend. It started when Xiaven went to the Academy and Alexander always approached Xiaven.
Xiaven then after trusting him, went to Eiravelle to introduce him and that's the story of their friendship.
He looked tired. Gaunt. But his eyes still held that sharpness of old days.
He didn’t wait for pleasantries.
Eiravelle blinked, unsure. But the loneliness had clawed too long at her ribs, and desperation... was a tempting illusion.
She stepped aside and let him in.
They talked. About the past. About Sorayael, now giggling somewhere in her little room. About Zyair, whose name Eiravelle still said like it could anchor her soul.
And then—
The dagger slid into her back like it belonged there.
Her gasp wasn’t from the pain—but from the realization.
He stepped forward, raising the blade again—just as the firewood at the hearth roared, and Sorayael’s cry echoed from the other room.
But Eiravelle, bleeding and breathless, still managed to turn—
And smile.