The crystal basin in the Sanctum of Sylvariel had not rippled in a century. And yet now, before the silent Concordia, the water shimmered faintly—like breath drawn beneath glass.
The five rulers of Luneth sat uneasily in their thrones. The sacred air, once still, seemed to tighten around them. Whispers rose not from mouths, but from memory.
Sir Kairon stepped forward, a scroll in hand. "Our agents traced the Empress's last steps. She fled toward the Whispering Vale—alone, with the child."
He unfurled the parchment. "At the edge of the forest, we found a ritual site. Markings of concealment. Of divine interference."
The rulers stiffened. Even Alric, unmoved by myth, leaned forward.
"What kind of interference?" Caelan asked.
"Not Aetherian alone," Kairon replied. "Something older. The seal was complete—meant not to protect from danger… but to hide something sacred from the world itself."
Silence fell.
And then Eryx Lucerion rose.
His presence was gentle, but unwavering. His daughter, Saintess Liceriana, stood beside him, her hands folded, her gaze distant—listening, not to the room, but to something far deeper.
"There is a reason this gathering was fated," Eryx began. "A reason the balance stirs. And a reason silence itself has become a sign."
"Speak plainly, Lucerion," Alric muttered. "You always veil your words in mist."
"Some truths must be veiled," Eryx answered. "To protect those not ready to receive them."
"We have received no prophecy," Cassel said coolly. "The winds speak of unrest, not rebirth."
"That is because the prophecy was silenced," Liceriana spoke, her voice calm and strangely luminous. "Erased from temple records generations ago. Hidden… for the day it would be needed again."
Caelan's eyes narrowed. "And that day is now?"
"It has begun," Eryx said.
The sanctum dimmed. The sunlight above faltered as if in agreement.
Liceriana stepped forward.
"A child was foretold—not by name, nor by crown, but by presence. A child born beneath a moonless sky. Conceived of two worlds—light and silence. One whose breath would be hidden from fate until the thrones are ready to tremble."
"Is this your way of saying the Empress's child is that child?" Alric challenged.
"No," Liceriana replied gently. "It is not for us to name her. Only to recognize that something has awakened—and someone has been taken from the eyes of the world for a reason."
Edmund looked up slowly. "Then she lives?"
Liceriana met his gaze, not with certainty, but something softer—faith.
"If the prophecy is true… then her silence is not an end. It is a beginning."
None dared speak for a moment.
Then Cassel said, "So we act not on fact, but on ancient breath?"
"We act," Edmund said quietly, "because doing nothing is what they want."
"They?" Caelan asked.
"The ones who follow shadow," Edmund replied. "The cult that hunts bloodlines, not names. They do not care who she is. Only what she represents."
And beneath the basin, something pulsed.
Not a name. Not a vision. But a sense.
A presence sealed from the world—but not from prophecy.
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