The stone door shut behind Aether with a finality that rang in his bones.
The guards didn't salute him.
The nobles didn't notice him.
The palace staff barely registered his steps.
Perfect.
He walked the corridor slowly, as if he might get lost—head tilted, pretending to marvel at a tapestry depicting the founding of Veldenhar.
All mortal nonsense. Heroic poses. Too much gold. Too many swords.
"You'd think the gods never tripped over their robes," he mused.
His fingers brushed the carved archway as he turned the corner.
Behind his back, King Thalen still debated military lines.
Saela still doubted.
And Vos still muttered that he was "just a mop boy with good posture."
Good.
⸻
Outside the palace, the wind had changed.
Not just a breeze—a shift.
The kind that animals feel before the sky cracks.
Aether stepped into the open courtyard just as the war horn blew—deep, three-toned, rolling across the city like thunder scraped through bronze.
Veldenhar froze.
Children stopped playing in the streets.
Horses reared in the stables.
And on every tower, guards reached for their weapons.
The war had begun.
⸻
In the Eastern Riverlands, Dravarn's Iron Legion was on the move.
Smoke rose from burned fields.
Refugees streamed toward the capital in wagons and on foot, whispering of black-armored soldiers with no mercy and no banners—just blood-red cloth wrapped around spears.
⸻
Back in the palace:
Thalen gripped the edge of the war table.
"Report," he growled.
"They've broken the Black Bridge, Your Grace. The eastern watchtower is gone. They're advancing through the wheatlands. We've lost two outposts already."
Vos was barking orders. Saela's eyes were fixed not on the map—but the empty space where Aether had stood moments ago.
"He knew," she thought. "He knew it was coming, and he said nothing."
⸻
Meanwhile, in the Dustpetal Inn:
Aether returned in time to see a half-drunken bard tuning a broken lute and the innkeeper yelling about overcooked stew.
He walked to the back, poured water into a cracked wooden cup, and sat.
Just… sat.
The war horn still echoed faintly outside.
A boy ran past the window, yelling about Dravarn's march.
But Aether didn't move.
He stared at the cup, watching the water's surface tremble slightly.
"I warned them," he whispered, barely audible.
"Now they get to choose."
*
The barracks behind the outer wall buzzed with preparation.
Chainmail clinked. Warhorses snorted.
Pages ran from tent to tent carrying orders, curses, and battle bread that tasted like regret.
In the center of it all, Princess Saela stood with her hair tied back in a soldier's knot, her sword slung casually across her shoulder, and her coat already dusted in chalk from a map table she'd nearly punched in half.
"Third division rides at dawn," she snapped to the quartermaster. "Tell them I want boots packed, horses quiet, and no singing."
"Yes, my lady."
She turned away—stiff, silent, angry.
But not just at Dravarn.
She'd spent the night thinking about him.
That boy. That liar. That ghost in skin and charm and quiet deflection.
Aether.
He had been at the palace before the horn sounded.
Had smiled through questions about riots and death.
Had walked out like none of it mattered.
And still…
She didn't know why she couldn't stop thinking about the way he looked at the throne.
Not with awe.
Not with fear.
With pity.
⸻
She needed answers before she rode to war.
So she went back to the Dustpetal Inn.
⸻
The city was chaos, of course.
Half-packed carts clogged the streets. Priests shouted doomsday prayers. A bard on a barrel declared love to the goddess of mercy and promptly got pelted with turnips.
Saela ignored it all.
She pushed into the inn like a stormfront.
The barmaid flinched. The innkeeper blinked.
But Aether—seated at the far end, scribbling something into a folded scrap of parchment—didn't even look up.
⸻
"You're calm," she said, crossing her arms.
"You're loud," he replied without turning.
She exhaled through her nose and walked to his table.
"The war's here. Two towns have already burned. My men are dying before they've even drawn steel."
"Sounds like you need smarter generals."
"You knew it was coming."
He paused. Just long enough for her to notice.
Then folded the parchment and tucked it away.
Finally, he looked up.
"I'm a boy who mops floors and burns soup."
"You're a liar who watches things fall."
Silence.
A fly buzzed. A bowl cracked behind the bar.
"You want something from me," he said flatly.
"I want truth."
"What if you can't handle it?"
"Then lie better."
⸻
He smiled then—not mockery, not cruelty. Just… tiredness.
"I could tell you the truth," he whispered. "But what would you do with it?"
"Use it."
"And if it kills you?"
"Then I'd die knowing."
He stared at her for a long time.
Long enough that, for just a second, she thought she saw something behind his eyes—
A weight.
A war.
A sky that had once cracked open beneath his footsteps.
Then he stood.
"Your men will need you," he said. "You should go."
"And you?"
"I'll be watching."
*
The Seer's Wing had not been used in years.
The tapestries were sun-bleached.
The floor was lined with cracked marble mosaics, depicting ancient gods long out of favor.
And at the center of the hall, surrounded by flickering sapphire candles, sat Elda Verisse—the last Oracle of Veldenhar.
She hadn't spoken in over a decade.
Not since the eclipse.
Not since the blood moon.
Not since she said:
"When the sky falls, a stranger shall laugh."
⸻
Now, King Thalen stood before her. Alone. Cloak trailing behind him like a dying oath.
"Speak," he said.
Elda's eyes opened slowly—no pupils, only white fog drifting inside her sockets.
The flames around her pulsed blue.
"You ask about the war," she whispered.
"But you should be asking about the observer."
Thalen frowned.
"The invader is Dravarn."
"The invader wears iron," Elda said. "But the threat wears skin."
A long silence.
"He was here," she murmured.
"Today. In your court.
Wearing youth like armor.
Eyes like winter storms.
Name like wind."
Thalen's hands tightened.
"Aether?"
The candles flared—
Then died.
Elda's head dropped forward.
A moment later, she gasped—as if pulled back from the edge of a cliff.
"You must not ask his true name," she rasped. "Not unless you are ready to be judged."
⸻
Thalen stepped back.
His heartbeat sounded like war drums.
"Is he god? Demon? Mortal?"
Elda lifted her face again—and for the first time in her life, her voice cracked in fear.
"He is justice. But not the kind you can beg from."
"He is balance. But not the kind that favors kings."
"He is the silence before your kingdom drowns."
⸻
Later, in the private records of the palace, the scribes would note the Oracle's final words that day:
"The boy does not march. The boy does not kill. The boy does not scream."
"But when the veil falls…"
"…the boy will no longer be a boy."
⸻
Elsewhere, in the inn's quiet back room, Aether sat alone.
The parchment he had scribbled on earlier?
Gone.
Burned to ash.
And the ash rearranged itself in the air to spell one word before fading:
"Ready."
*
The eastern skies bled gold as the sun rose over the Vale of Erythra—the last open field before the walls of Veldenhar.
The wind tasted like ash.
And the banners of Dravarn crested the hilltops like shadows stretching too far.
⸻
Saela stood atop the cliff's edge with fifty of her best riders and the Third Division behind her. Dust stained her cloak. Her hands ached from cold steel and bad dreams.
She had slept only two hours.
Aether's silence still rang in her head.
"I'll be watching," he'd said.
But he wasn't here.
And now she would bleed without him.
⸻
Behind her, horns blew.
The king had arrived.
⸻
King Thalen rode not in armor of polished gold—but in the dragonbone cuirass worn by the kings of old.
Scorched. Dented. Ancient.
He looked tired.
But not weak.
He rode to war not as a ruler, but as a man who finally understood how little time was left.
⸻
The battle began without mercy.
Dravarn's front line smashed into Veldenhar's flanks like a tidal wave of rust and fury.
Screams echoed across the field.
Steel clashed.
Arrows blackened the sky.
And amidst the chaos, Saela fought like fire.
She struck down two soldiers.
Saved a boy no older than fifteen.
Watched her second-in-command take a spear through the chest.
And then—
A horn.
A roar.
And a single black-bannered warbeast tore through the front.
It reached the King's guard in seconds.
Thalen's horse reared.
A blade caught his shoulder.
He fell.
⸻
Saela turned mid-strike.
"Father!"
She tore through the field, her boots slipping in blood, her blade dragging sparks behind her.
She found him behind a shattered pike wall, one leg crushed, sword arm limp, breath rattling.
She dropped to her knees beside him, eyes wide.
"No—no, don't you dare—"
He coughed, blood painting his lips.
"You were right," he whispered.
"Shut up—"
"About… him."
"Stop—"
"The boy. Aether. He's not a boy."
He reached up with the last strength he had and touched her face.
"I should have listened… sooner."
"You still can," she said, voice breaking. "Stay with me. We'll win this. You'll see—"
"No."
His eyes turned to the sky.
"You'll win this."
"Because he's still watching."
Then—
nothing.
⸻
The King of Veldenhar died not in his hall,
not with crown on brow,
but in the arms of the daughter he doubted,
with Aether's name the last truth on his tongue.
⸻
From the distant city walls, a quiet figure stood, cloak flapping gently in the wind.
He watched as Saela knelt over her father's corpse.
Watched as the banners dipped, the army hesitating.
And he whispered—
"You've suffered enough."
*
The battle raged through dusk and into blood-soaked twilight.
With King Thalen dead, Saela rose.
Her voice carried across the field like fire on wind.
"Form the line! For the king! For the crown!"
Veldenhar's soldiers, raw with grief and terror, stood behind her.
They had nothing left but the steel in their hands and the woman who refused to fall.
And yet—
They were outnumbered.
Outflanked.
Pushed toward the cliffs of Mount Esarein—where the cold air bit like teeth and the crags loomed like tombstones.
⸻
Above them, hidden in the swirling white heights, a figure stood among the snow.
Cloaked. Still.
Eyes closed.
Aether.
He was not breathing hard.
He was not casting a spell.
He was listening.
To the earth.
To the tension in the stones.
To the ancient language of weight, angle, silence.
The mountain spoke.
"They carved roads into me. Drove iron into my ribs. They burned my pines. They shattered my bones."
And Aether?
He whispered only this:
"Then take what is owed."
⸻
It began with a whisper.
A bird startled into the air.
A single stone sliding free.
Dravarn's eastern flank was gathered at the base of the cliff—marching strong, high on numbers, prepared to shatter Veldenhar's second line.
They never saw the snow shift.
⸻
And then—
it roared.
The sky turned white.
A wall of ice and stone, unleashed not with divine fire, but gravity and timing so perfect it felt impossible.
⸻
Veldenhar's soldiers turned at the noise—
And watched.
But none of them moved.
Because none of them needed to.
The avalanche curved like a blade.
It missed the ridge where Saela's command stood by mere feet.
Not a single soldier fell.
But below?
Dravarn's eastern force vanished beneath snow, boulders, and the unforgiving weight of nature given a tiny, invisible push.
⸻
When the wind died, and the silence returned, the mountain looked untouched.
As if nothing had happened.
Just…
a shift.
A moment.
A correction.
⸻
Saela, still atop the ridge, stared down in shock. Her hands trembled.
She'd seen weather.
She'd seen blizzards.
But this?
This was surgical.
⸻
Behind her, a soldier whispered,
"The gods favor us."
And far above them all, Aether turned from the mountain's edge—
And disappeared into the mist.
*
The banquet was a show.
Lavish. Grand.
All mirrors and music and flowing wine.
A palace drowning itself in gold so no one noticed the blood still drying outside the city gates.
Queen Saela sat at the high table, expression carved in steel.
To her left—generals.
To her right—nobles, priests, and diplomats.
At the far end, seated among the "guests of honor":
Aether.
Dressed in a clean tunic, hair roughly combed, eyes lowered.
Still playing the part. Still chewing carefully. Still too quiet.
People noticed him—
but only the way you notice a servant accidentally given a seat at the royal table.
⸻
Until…
She entered.
Oracle Elda Verisse.
Pale robes. Blind white eyes.
The royal seer who hadn't spoken in public since the king's death.
She walked the length of the hall with soft, sure steps.
No cane. No escort.
No hesitation.
And the moment she saw him—
She stopped.
The music faltered.
The chatter stuttered.
And then—
She pointed directly at Aether.
"He is not what he seems."
Silence.
Saela froze.
Aether looked up slowly, blinking like a caught deer.
"He wears a name that is not his."
"A face that is borrowed."
"But his soul—"
Her voice trembled.
"His soul is older than the wars we pray to forget."
"Older than this kingdom. Older than gods who fell."
"He does not serve justice."
She stepped forward.
"He is justice."
The entire court was still.
No one breathed.
Aether… simply tilted his head.
And smiled.
Just slightly.
⸻
Then she sank to her knees.
"Forgive me," she whispered. "I should not have spoken."
⸻
Saela stood. Quickly.
"Escort the Oracle back to her quarters," she ordered.
Guards moved. Hesitant. Shaking.
The room tried to breathe again.
Someone muttered about wine being cursed.
Someone else laughed too loudly.
The music restarted—but off-tempo.
⸻
Later, as the feast waned, Saela found Aether on the balcony.
Staring at the moon like it owed him something.
She didn't speak at first.
Then:
"You knew she'd recognize you."
"She already did," he replied.
"Why didn't you stop her?"
He turned.
"Because the court only believes what it's afraid of."
"And now?"
"Now they'll spend weeks telling themselves she was mad."
"Was she?"
Aether smirked.
"Very."
Then walked back into the shadows of the palace, leaving her alone with the stars.
*