CHAPTER 71
The halls of the old palace had grown unfamiliar, shrouded in the cold quiet that followed the fall of a great king.
Zyair, cloaked in night's shadow, moved through its corridors like a ghost retracing the steps of a memory.
He reached Ashvonn's room-his twin's sanctuary. The door creaked open, dust dancing in the silver moonlight spilling through the curtains.
It looked untouched... yet hollow. A room that once held laughter and the scent of spiced tea now reeked of abandonment and unspoken sorrow.
Zyair stepped in, his hand brushing along the familiar desk, the edge of the bed they once shared in childhood. He remembered the warmth of Ashvonn's embrace, the way his brother would shield him from scolding tutors, or sneak him midnight pastries just to see him smile.
He knelt beside the bed-his knees hitting the same creaky floorboard they used to crawl over as boys.
Then an instinct stirred in his chest.
He rose and walked to the far wall.
The cabinet.
With quiet fingers, he pushed it aside, revealing a narrow gap. Tucked into the hidden hollow-a notebook, brown leather softens with age and frayed at the edges.
Ashvonn's diary.
Zyair sat on the bed, his hands trembling as he flipped it open.
Page after page, Ashvonn's voice echoed through the ink:
"Why does training have to be this brutal? My bones ache-Father says I need to be strong. I think he just wants me to beat Zyair at fencing."
"Zyair brought me almond pastries today. They were terrible. But it tasted like freedom."
"I miss him. The palace feels like a cage when he's gone. Sometimes I sleep on his bed when I can't sleep alone."
"They want to name me Emperor. But sometimes, I think Zyair would be better. He feels more alive."
Zyair's chest tightened. Every line was a thread, winding around his soul like ivy.
He flipped to the last page, the paper more worn than the rest-almost as if Ashvonn knew it would be read long after he was gone.
Zyair's vision blurred.
His hand clutched the diary to his chest.
And for the first time since Ashvonn's death, he wept.
He stood, wiping the tears from his cheek, his jaw clenched with new resolve.
He turned to leave. He needed to go-back to Eiravelle, to Sorayael, to the son he had yet to meet.
But the gravity shifted.
A sudden, monstrous force pressed him to the marble floor-unseen, unrelenting.
His breath hitched. Muscles strained.
From the shadows, a voice-like velvet soaked in venom.
Lysander.
His silver blade shimmered with runes, and his smile carved like a crescent moon dipped in blood.
Zyair tried to rise, but the force grew heavier.
Zyair's eyes burned. But his limbs refused to move.
Lysander leaned down beside him, almost fondly.
And with one swift motion, he drove the blade through Zyair's heart.
The palace was quiet again.
Only the flickering candlelight bore witness to the fall of Zyair Amadeo.
.......
Eiravelle lay in bed, pale and trembling, her body still bearing the wound left by betrayal-but it was nothing compared to the one carved into her heart.
Sorayael, only three years old, stayed by her side day and night, her small hands always reaching to check her mother's warmth, her breath, her heartbeat.
She had seen far too much-things no child should ever witness.
Xiaven sat across the room, his expression unreadable, but sorrow clung to him like a second skin. Visions had haunted him for days now-burning stars, shattered crowns, and the sound of a name he never wished to speak in vain.
Then came the moment he dreaded.
He stepped forward, hesitant, and knelt beside Eiravelle.
Sorayael stood by the door, clutching the edge of her tunic. She didn't understand it all, but she understood the pain. She understood heartbreak.
She ran to Xiaven, tears streaking her cheeks.
He bent down, arms wide, and held her close-but his arms could not shield her from the truth.
That night, both mother and daughter collapsed in each other's arms, their sobs tangled in silence. The pain is too heavy. The sorrow is too sharp.
The morning after.
Xiaven sat at Eiravelle's bedside. A wash of soft sunlight streamed in through the window, casting muted gold across the room. He sipped tea quietly, eyes flicking toward the child still asleep at her mother's side.
And then Sorayael stirred.
She blinked slowly, sitting up.
Xiaven stood, hopeful. "Sorayael?"
She looked at him, recognizing his face, his voice.
He smiled weakly. "She's here, sweetheart. Sleeping beside you."
She nodded. "Okay..."
Then came the question Xiaven feared most.
A beat of silence.
Xiaven knelt down beside her. "Do you.. remember what happened?"
She blinked. "What happened?"
Xiaven's heart dropped. Her brain had locked away the unbearable pain. Every memory tied to her father is gone. It was as if suppressed. A silent defense of a grieving soul too young to carry such weight.
Every night, Eiravelle always weeps about her husband's death. She always whispers his name "Zyair Amadeo Linnaeus Aethelgard" as if she was trying to remember him, as if someone will take her memory of him.
She gave birth to Krios. She barely made it. Everyone thought that she would have miscarriage, but fortunately, she didn't.
The emperor continued his evil deeds. He sealed the memories that all of the people have regarding Eiravelle, Auctoritas, and the entire thing about Sorayael. But Eiravelle will always remember everything they went through, everything they lost.
Sorayael stood frozen in Xiaven's office, pale and breathless.
Xiaven nodded solemnly. "Your mind did what it had to do, to protect you. It locked the truth away. You watched your world crumble in a single week. Your mother... nearly killed. Your father... murdered. And you.. too young to understand-forced yourself to forget just to survive."
Sorayael blinked, tears forming in her golden eyes.
She clutched her chest where the pain bloomed like fire.
Xiaven stood from his chair and gently approached her, kneeling just as he had once done all those years ago.
She turned to him, her voice trembling.
Xiaven's lips parted. He looked away for a moment.
A silence came, only the rustle of old pages in the shelves echoed in the room.
Sorayael's fists clenched.
Xiaven's gaze hardened.
'Velthira started?'
Sorayael were confused about what happened in the past of Velthira. She wants to know it but it's not the right time for it.
She slowly stood, her figure now silhouetted against the tall window-like a goddess reborn in rage and sorrow.
Sorayael's chest rose and fell, shallow and sharp. Her throat tightened. Her fists clenched at her sides.
And all at once, the floodgates opened.
Everything made sense-and yet nothing did. The memories returned in fragments. A warm voice. A hand in hers. The warmth of a fire. A lullaby.
And the absence that followed.
She gasped, trembling.
Xiaven approached gently, his eyes glassy. "And now... it remembers."
Xiaven leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable, fingers laced loosely on his lap. The silence that followed their conversation lingered-heavy, suspended like the pause before thunder breaks.
Then, quietly, he asked, "Now that you know all of it... what will you do?"
Sorayael didn't answer right away.
She looked down at her hands-hands that once trembled as a child, clinging to a mother who swore to protect her... hands that now bore the quiet authority of Velthira's echo.
She raised her gaze.
Xiaven's eyes flickered, the corners of his mouth turning down slightly. "They do... but they've grown fainter as I age. More dream than prophecy, more whisper than certainty."
He stood slowly, as if the memory of his latest vision weighed down his shoulders. He walked toward the window, gazing at the afternoon sky turned dull with clouds.
His words slowed, a breath caught in his throat.
Sorayael's golden eyes sharpened, focused.
"What was it?"
Xiaven turned back to her. "You... will hurt the one you love." His voice cracked faintly. "And about the Emperor... I tried to follow the thread, but before I could see, the vision-"
He shook his head, frustration pulling at his brow. "It faded. I'm sorry, Sora. I failed to see."
For a moment, silence reigned again.
Then Sorayael stood, her silver hair falling around her shoulders like a veil of moonlight, her eyes no longer soft-but steady, resolved.