Chapter 55 – The Prince of Peace
The invitations were printed in gold leaf.
Velvet-lined boxes. Hand-delivered by imperial couriers. Sealed with the crest of House von Ross.
The upcoming Solstice Gala—renamed The Ball of the Western Star—was no longer just a celebration of victory.
It was a stage.
For diplomacy. For ambition. For Sirius.
Whispers circled faster than the ravens that carried them.
"The boy returned untouched."
"He commands magic no one understands."
"They say he broke the earth with a sword and lit the sky on fire with a single word."
"Have you seen his face? The paintings don't do it justice."
"No one knows what he wants."
And that, more than anything, frightened them.
In the capital, Sirius's legend was growing into something more myth than man.
The Empire painted him as a symbol of peace.
The blade that no longer needed to be drawn.
The boy who ended a two-year war alone—now stepping into the courts of power.
The world adored that story.
Because it sounded safe.
Because it gave them a future they could control.
Inside the estate, Sirius stood before a mirror.
Not for vanity.
Not for preening.
He had simply never worn anything like this.
Layers of black and imperial silver. A collar embroidered with silent runes. Buttons shaped like the moons of ancient calendars.
He looked like a prince.
He did not feel like one.
He touched the lapel lightly, then turned away from the mirror and unbuttoned it.
He wore it only because he had to.
He would attend the ball only because he was told to.
But no one—not the tailor, not the generals, not the Emperor himself—could make him dance.
Because Sirius had never danced in his life.
And because the only person he might have wanted to dance with was not here.
Not yet.
The Grand Duchess watched from the balcony above the hall as the final preparations unfolded.
Strings of enchanted glass floated midair, catching candlelight like falling stars. The music was already rehearsing in the East Wing. Tables were set for kings.
And still, she was not satisfied.
"He should smile more," she murmured to one of her attendants. "We'll need a new portrait done. The one with him in the blue was too cold."
The attendant bowed. "Yes, Your Grace."
"And the music. Nothing tragic. No minor keys."
"Of course."
"Tell the poets not to mention the war. Focus on beauty. Youth. Destiny."
"Yes, Your Grace."
But as night fell and the lanterns were lit across the palace—
Sirius stood on the high balcony, alone.
The stars were pale.
The moon, veiled in mist.
He closed his eyes and rested one hand over his chest, where no medal was pinned.
Only silence lived there.
Not pride. Not sorrow. Not anticipation.
Just a memory.
Her voice.
Once, she had sung to him.
Once, she had called him by a name no one remembered anymore.
Once, she had cradled his dying soul in her arms and whispered, You will return to me.
He did.
But she hadn't.
Not yet.
Still, as the wind curled around him, brushing his sliver hair back like fingers from a dream—
He did not feel alone.