Despite the physician's gentle protests and the stiffness still lingering in his limbs, Arion was scrubbed, dressed, and assembled before the hour's bell had tolled. No injury—be it bruised ribs or pride—was enough to delay the Presentation. Nobility, after all, did not wait. Not for aching children, not even for heirs.
He was clothed in a robe of black silk so fine it shivered in the light, embroidered with silver thread in the shape of stars and constellations—a subtle, glittering nod to the name bestowed upon him. He looked more myth than boy, which, perhaps, was the point.
"Try not to scowl," Lady Ariana murmured as she adjusted his collar, her hands smoothing down fabric that didn't quite sit right on his small shoulders. "You'll make the portraitist weep again." She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.
This was to be Arion's third portrait. The first, taken when he was a newborn, had captured him swaddled in soft blankets, serene and still. The second, taken on his first name day, had shown him with wide-eyed solemnity.
But now, at nearly three years old, he understood enough to resent the ritual. The portraits never captured him as he was—they were mere masks, forged for others' expectations.
The portrait was to be painted in the south gardens, though the real festivities were inside. The gardens had been shaped into perfection—white lilacs in full bloom, their fragrance delicate against the backdrop of the cool evening air.
A marble fountain murmured, almost imperceptibly, as if it too were part of the performance. Banners of House Aren—black and silver—fluttered against the stone walls. Courtiers strolled in calculated circles, casting glances toward the heir like hawks waiting for their moment.
Arion sat stiffly on the velvet-cushioned stool, his spine aching already. The seat was too tall for comfort, and his feet didn't reach the ground. He hated how small he looked in all this grandeur.
The air smelled faintly of beeswax and lavender as candles flickered, their flames dancing in time with the music. Musicians strummed soft, stately tunes on lyres and harps, melodies as forgettable as the faces in the crowd.
Servants moved gracefully through the space, offering trays of fruit and chilled wine, their eyes wary, their movements quick and practiced, as if they knew all too well what it meant to serve in noble halls.
Arion held his pose for what felt like an eternity, his jaw clenched and his muscles trembling with the effort to remain still. The painter worked in silence, capturing a version of him that wasn't quite real: serene, proud, untouched by the weight of the world. When it was over, he climbed down stiff-legged and took one last look at the portrait.
Even through his irritation, Arion had to admit one thing—he did look important. The boy in the portrait was everything his parents wanted him to be: calm, composed, untouched by worry or pain.
At Lord Sued's subtle nod, the herald stepped forward. His posture was perfect, a model of ceremonial precision. The servants moved swiftly to open the grand doors of the Great Hall, their hands barely visible behind the velvet curtains, ushering the guests inside.
Within moments, the hall was alive with nobles, cloaks sweeping across the floor, jewels sparkling beneath the light of the chandeliers. The murmur of voices hushed into reverent silence as each guest took their place, forming a semi-circle, all eyes turned toward the entrance.
The herald, stationed beside the grand archway, caught sight of Arion. With deliberate precision, he lifted his staff and struck the marble once, the sound sharp enough to cut through the hum of the crowd.
"All rise," he called, his voice slicing through the stillness. "And bear witness to the Presentation of the Heir of House Aren—Arion, son of Lord Sued and Lady Ariana, and grandson to His Grace Siegfried, Duke of the White Plains."
A rustle swept through the crowd—gowns swishing, boots shifting, heads bowing in graceful unison—as the nobles rose, their attention fully upon the child who would one day carry their fates upon his small shoulders.
As the evening deepened and the sky bled into shades of violet, torches ignited along the castle's ramparts, their flickering flames casting long, wavering shadows across the courtyard. The sounds of laughter and music, once lively, began to fade. A subtle shift was in the air—a heaviness, like a breath held too long. Something was coming.
Siegfried, Duke of the White Plains—Arion's grandfather—entered with an air of storm and command. His military garb was deep blue, his left shoulder cloaked in thick fur, making him appear as though he might crush the marble beneath his boots. There was blood on his gloves—or perhaps it was wine. With Siegfried, it was often difficult to tell.
He had been absent from the festivities since morning, and only now did he return, as though from some place far removed from the concerns of others.
His eyes swept the assembled nobles with a theatrical flourish before settling on Arion.
"There he is!" he bellowed, spreading his arms. "The child the heavens tossed down and we were lucky enough to catch!"
Laughter erupted from the guests—loud, sharp, and more startled than sincere. Arion's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, the image of his recent airborne adventure was still fresh in his mind.
Lady Ariana sighed through her nose. Lord Sued refilled his glass a bit too eagerly.
And then came the part Arion had dreaded.
Siegfried scooped him up—despite the boy's obvious stiffness—and hoisted him into the air with the ease of a man who lifted swords more often than children.
"Behold!" the Duke proclaimed, his voice swelling with grandeur, "A scion of fate, whose future will carve the very path of this realm, and whose name shall stir the winds of history."
A cheer rose from the guests. Not roaring, not thunderous. But enough. Enough to say they'd played their part.
As Arion was lifted, servants hurried to clear the center of the space. The nobles lingered on the edges, whispering behind fans and goblets of wine. Children were hoisted onto shoulders. The harp music faded.
Lady Ariana turned toward her husband, her voice low and sharp. "Did he warn you?"
Lord Sued's expression remained unreadable. "Only that it would be a 'small spectacle.'"
Ariana's eyes narrowed. "My father doesn't do small."
The trumpets sounded then—long and ceremonial.
From the western archway came a procession: white-clad standard-bearers, drummers in black, and behind them, a gleaming platform pulled by white stags, their silver armor gleaming in the fading light. Upon the platform, nestled in a cage of black iron, floated a pale blue orb, its surface pulsing with soft, otherworldly light.
A hushed murmur rippled through the crowd.
A herald stepped forward, his voice rising with precision: "Behold the gift of His Grace, Duke Siegfried of the White Plains, in honor of his grandson, Arion of House Aren. A vision from the stars, for the child whose name is now written among them."
The orb trembled, cracked, and then unfurled without breaking.
Light, soft and ethereal, rose like mist, weaving through the heavens, reshaping the very fabric of the sky. Stars unfurled above them, constellations swirling into life, their ancient symbols flickering and dancing in the vast expanse.
A comet streaked across the firmament, trailing a ribbon of fire, and from its fiery tail emerged the image of a boy—crowned in starlight, his arms outstretched, his gaze drawn upward, as though reaching for the heavens themselves.
A collective breath was drawn, and the crowd gasped in unison. The vision, both awe-inspiring and otherworldly, filled the night, its majesty too grand to grasp fully, yet undeniable in its power.