[THREADS OF THE UNKNOWN]
The ceremony was drawing to a close when the great doors of the Hall of Thrones creaked open once more. A hush fell over the gathered nobles as all eyes turned.
Queen Cecilia had arrived.
Regal in her deep crimson gown lined with black velvet, her crown glinting beneath the flickering torchlight, she moved with quiet authority. The nobles bowed immediately, parting to allow her a clear path to the front of the hall.
She walked where Xyran stood, her presence a familiar calm amidst the tension of ritual. Without looking, he felt her beside him the subtle shift in the air, the faint scent of night jasmine she always wore.
He turned slightly, just enough to see her.
Cecilia was smiling.
"I apologize I am late," she said gently.
Xyran gave a small nod in acknowledgment, his face as composed as always.
"No worries, Mother. Was the ride okay?"
Cecilia nodded, her smile softening as she reached out and locked her arm with his. She was proud to have raised him from a lost child to a fine young man. With her duty fulfilled, she could die in peace, knowing the responsibility entrusted to her had been honored. Her eyes held nothing but pride,pride for Zion's future king.
"It was." Cecilia said.
Xyran allowed a small smile to tug at the corner of his lips—brief, controlled, like all his expressions. He rarely allowed true emotion to show. But at the sight of Cecilia, his gaze would become warm. A glimpse of affection that he only felt for his Foster mother.
It was unspoken, but understood.
She was not his mother by blood. But in every way that mattered, she was.
Xyran turned his gaze forward once more, letting the smile fade as he focused on the remainder of the ceremony. Beside him, Cecilia stood tall, her presence a silent promise that he was not entirely alone.
The ceremony concluded on a graceful note, the final rites echoing gently through the Hall of Thrones. As the nobles began to depart, Prince Xyran stepped down from the dais, his hand firmly clasping the Apatite of Voltor, its green glow pulsing faintly beneath the fabric of his cloak.
Without a word, he turned and walked toward the eastern corridor that led to his private chambers. The heavy silence of the palace wrapped around him like mist familiar, yet never comforting.
Behind him, Queen Cecilia followed in quiet steps. Her presence was steady, respectful, neither intrusive nor distant just as it had always been.
They didn't speak as they passed through the long hallway lined with portraits of past monarchs, their eyes seemingly watching the heir of Zion carry the ancient relic with the grace expected of him.
When they reached the tall doors of his chambers, Xyran paused for a moment.
The stone still pulsed in his palm.
He exhaled, then stepped inside, the queen close behind.
Xyran placed the Apatite of Voltor gently on the obsidian pedestal near the fireplace, its green glow casting flickering patterns across the stone walls of his chamber. The firelight danced along the edges of the room, wrapping the space in a warm, golden hue.
Cecilia closed the door behind them with a soft thud. She remained silent for a moment, watching him as he removed his ceremonial cape and set it aside with quiet precision.
"You carried yourself well," she said finally, her voice calm and composed. "Your mother would have been proud."
Xyran didn't turn to face her. He stared at the glowing stone, its light reflected faintly in his eyes. "She would've hated how quiet the hall felt," he murmured. "She used to say silence in Zion was unnatural. She believed our halls should echo with life, with voices."
Cecilia stepped closer, her expression softening. "And yet she taught you how to hold silence like a blade."
Xyran allowed a faint smile, brief and barely there. "She did."
They stood in silence for a moment, a peaceful one this time. No ceremony, no eyes watching—just the space between them, filled with memories and understanding.
Cecilia reached out and gently touched his shoulder. "Sometimes, let this facade fell and live like your age, Your Grace."
Xyran looked at her.
"You shouldn't say that when you yourself is treating me with honour of the Title, Mother" Xyran said sitting on the couch.
"You have grown so much, Ari" a nickname only Cecilia calls him. She sat beside him. Xyran immediately lied down keeping his head on Cecilia's lap.
"Did I? Mother I know I am Zions heir to the Throne. But I never want you to treat me like a king " Xyran muttered silently.
Cecilia ran her hand through Xyran's thick hair, her touch slow and comforting.
"I cannot do that, Ari," she whispered. "I was entrusted with the duty to raise our King."
Xyran stayed silent for a moment before responding, his eyes fluttering shut.
"Then do not expect me to live like a child," he said quietly. He knew too well what she meant but this was his way of telling her that no matter how much he longed for freedom, it wasn't something he could truly have.
"You've already turned eighteen, Ari. Next year, you will be eligible to take the crown," Cecilia reminded him gently.
He didn't reply. He hated the weight of that responsibility, yet he was bound to it—fated.
They both fell into silence, their thoughts unspoken, and simply sat there, staring at the moon.
NOREDA [Nympheas Realm]
The sun rose gently over Noreda, its golden rays filtering through the layers of mist that clung to the willows. Dewdrops shimmered like scattered diamonds across the silver leaves. The realm of the Nympheas, ever serene, was waking.
Elvera stood at the edge of the lake, barefoot on the cool moss. Dressed in soft tunic armor made from woven river-silk and reed leather, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The wind danced around her, playful and familiar, like an old friend.
Her training began in silence. Movements fluid as the waters of Noreda she spun, stretched, each motion laced with grace and quiet strength. The water responded to her presence, rising in ribbons, curling like serpents around her arms before falling again with a splash. She was learning to control her elemental gifts still young in mastery, but filled with potential.
After a full hour, she wiped the sweat from her brow and dipped her hands into the lake to cool her face. From the garden steps, a voice called out.
"Princess Elvera," said Aelion, the court attendant. "Your father awaits you in the court chamber."
She gave a quick nod, adjusting the silver clasp on her shoulder as she made her way toward the high citadel of Noreda. She was so worried about her father most importantly she missed him, his presence. Entering the court, she saw her father, King Eren seated on the throne of woven stone and waterglass, his presence calm and commanding as ever. Bowing her head with a big smile Elvera looked at him.
"Elvera," he said, his tone warm but firm. "You've returned from training early today."
"I felt the lake speak to me" she replied excitedly letting him know her progress, stepping forward. "It's... changing, Your Majesty" her voice as cheerful as ever.
"It will, my dear," King Eren said with a fond smile. "You are a talented child and my daughter, the Princess of Noreda."
He always found joy in praising Elvera, never missing a chance to express his pride. He liked to spoil his children, but among the two, it was Elvera who bore the weight of responsibility with quiet dignity. Though she was the younger sibling, she often acted as the elder. Her brother, Prince Erevan the first heir to the throne was quite the opposite: playful, carefree, and constantly finding ways to avoid his duties.
Elvera's expression softened. "Did you eat breakfast, Your Majesty?" she asked, her voice laced with concern and curiosity.
King Eren chuckled and rose from the throne. "No," he replied, walking toward her with a light-hearted smile. "I was waiting for you."
He extended his arm with a regal gesture. "Shall we?"
With a nod and a smile, Elvera took his arm. Side by side, the king and princess walked through the halls of the citadel.
As they walked slowly through the corridor, the sound of gentle fountains echoing in the distance, King Eren's expression grew more thoughtful.
"Erevan didn't come home?" he asked, glancing sideways at his daughter.
Elvera shook her head lightly. "No. I received a letter from him yesterday. He said he'll be late returning."
Eren nodded, though a faint crease appeared between his brows. "His training should have been finished by now," he murmured. "I just want him back home."
There was a pause between them, filled only by the soft rustling of leaves in the wind.
Elvera looked ahead, her voice calm but firm. "He's strong, Father. Maybe not in the way others expect, but he'll return when he's ready, most importantly when he will feel like it."
King Eren sighed, the weight of a father's worry momentarily pressing through the layers of his kingly composure. "I know. He's always had his own way of doing things wild and free like the rivers of Noreda. But this world is changing, Elvera. And I fear that freedom won't protect him much longer. He is the heir to the throne after me."
They reached the arched entrance of the royal garden, where a table was set beneath the flowering branches of a moonwillow tree. Their breakfast awaited steamed lotus bread, honeyed berries, and clearroot tea, still warm.
King Eren gestured to the seat beside him. "Come. Let's eat first."