Among the thousand spires of the Capital, past the polished roads of the noble districts and beyond the ceremonial gardens of the court, stood the ancestral land of the Salvadors — vast, radiant, and untouched by time. While marble villas and gilded domes dotted the lands of other noble houses, nothing matched the ethereal splendor of the Salvador estate. It wasn't built — it was bestowed.
Generations ago, before the Empire ever crowned its first monarch, the Salvador bloodline had already etched its legacy in both sky and stone. They were not like the others. No bartering, no bribery, no titles bought through marriages or war victories. The Salvadors were chosen — by the heavens, by the stars, by the Moon herself.
And now, as the blue banners bearing the sigil of the Crescent Sword fluttered in the late afternoon wind, whispers rippled once more through the city.
"The Blue Paladin has returned," they said. "The Empress' Sword walks the capital again."
But behind the grandeur and reverence, there lay envy. Of all the noble houses — the Velmores, the D'Arselles, the Rothwells — none bore power. Influence? Yes. Coin? Certainly. But true power, magic born of divine covenant? That belonged solely to the Salvadors.
The holy temples, once revered as sanctuaries of divinity, now served only as vessels of tradition. Their priests chanted prayers they did not hear answers to. Their priestesses danced beneath the moonlight without ever feeling her gaze.
But the Salvadors… oh, they spoke to the heavens.
Their ancestral magic, shimmering silver and laced with the celestial runes of the old tongue, still flowed through their veins. It was said that during solstices, when the Moon Goddess crossed the Veil to bless the realm, her feet never touched the temples—only the courtyard of the Salvador estate.
Even now, as Caelion returned after months of campaign, the very air around the Salvador land shimmered faintly. Magic laced the wind like perfume — wild yet comforting, ancient yet alive.
As his stallion passed the wrought iron gates wreathed with moonsteel, Caelion's eyes softened. Home.
The estate was exactly as he left it — towering halls carved from white stone, gardens that bloomed in unnatural rhythms, fountains of silverwater said to grant glimpses of the past. Servants in moon-threaded uniforms lined the path, smiling widely, some hiding tears behind polished composure.
"You're back, young master!" Cried one of the older kitchen maids, Elanora, waddling across the garden path with a basket of plumcakes in her hands. "Look at you! Still haven't gained weight!"
He laughed — a rare sound. "Blame the battlefield, Elanora."
Inside, the manor buzzed with quiet excitement. Velvet drapes danced with the wind, enchanted candles hummed softly in greeting, and portraits of past Salvador descendants — eyes glowing faintly with captured light — seemed to smile at him.
At the far end of the hall stood his grandmother, High Matron Selendra Salvador, as regal as the Empress herself. The silver ring on her hand shimmered with divine magic — a gift from the Moon Goddess during the Celestial Accord.
"You return to us, Caelion," she said, her voice warm and commanding. "And I sense it... you felt her, didn't you?"
Caelion paused. "...Yes."
Her lips curved into a knowing smile. "The tides of prophecy stir. The stars shift again. Destiny walks near."
And though he hadn't yet met her, hadn't even caught a glimpse of her face — he knew. Something in the Capital had changed. A presence, soft yet vast, lingered in the corners of his magic.
Unseen… but never unfelt.
| ☾ |
She had no name—at least, not one anyone remembered.
The townspeople called her the pale girl, the whisper from the ruins, or the shadow orphan. But she remembered her own voice. It used to be louder. Brighter. Before the fire. Before the soldiers. Before she had to crawl through ash and silence to survive.
Now, she simply existed—watching, listening, hiding in plain sight.
That morning, the air felt heavier, as if the entire capital had exhaled at once. The church bells tolled as usual, merchants yelled over one another near the western gates, and nobles pranced in polished boots through the cobbled streets. But she felt it—the subtle shift, like the wind turning to face a storm.
Something—no, someone—had returned.
"Blue Paladin," someone murmured nearby.
She didn't turn her head, but her ears sharpened.
"The Salvador heir?" Said another voice, this time a baker's wife balancing a basket on her hip. "They say he returned just this morning. Rode through the West Gate like thunder."
"Three years gone," added a grumpy shoemaker, "and still the Capital stops breathing when a Salvador returns."
The girl's hands tightened on the edges of her ragged shawl. She wasn't sure why her heart reacted to the name—as if it echoed through the hollows of her chest and found a thread that had long gone untouched.
Salvador.
She'd heard it before. Everyone had. Whispers of a lineage older than the Crown. Of a family not born from mortal blood alone, but chosen by the heavens. Of magic—real magic—not the theatrics of temple priests with incense and memorized hymns.
The Salvadors didn't just pray to the Moon Goddess. They spoke to her.
They served her.
And now her heir had returned.
The girl kept her face down, drifting like a shadow through the streets. Her feet were bare. Her cloak thin. But she moved with purpose, drawn by a strange thread she could not name. It tugged at her ribcage, pulling her northeast—toward the towering hills and forests beyond the Capital.
Toward the Salvador lands.
She stopped by a water trough and leaned slightly, catching her reflection in the trembling surface. Dirt smudged her cheek, and her hair was too long, tangled like brambles. But her eyes—those strange silver eyes—reflected back at her with a shimmer not of this world.
Just like the moon.
"You feel it too, don't you?" She whispered, not to herself, but to the reflection. To whatever it was inside her that stirred whenever the Moon rose high or when whispers of divine blood filled the air.
A wind blew past her—gentle, fragrant with lavender and starroot, the sacred herbs only found on the Salvador estate.
She closed her eyes.
For the briefest moment, she saw blue.
Blue cloaks fluttering like wings. Blue sigils glowing beneath armor. Blue eyes—not hers—piercing through a crowd.
She inhaled sharply, and it vanished.
She hadn't seen him. Not yet. But the world seemed to pulse around his presence. The capital hummed like a temple bell resonating after the strike.
And somewhere in the hills, he stood—unaware that a girl with eyes like moonlight had felt his return as surely as the stars feel the sunrise.
She didn't know his name. Not yet.
But destiny, as the heavens loved to remind the world, didn't wait for introductions.
| ☾ |
The golden double doors of the throne hall creaked closed behind him, muffling the layered voices of nobles that still echoed inside.
Caelion didn't sigh—he never did—but his shoulders dropped slightly as he stepped into the corridor.
He hated the palace.
Everything was too clean. Too polished. The tiles didn't groan beneath your feet like real ground did. There was no wind here. No sun. Only chandeliers pretending to be stars.
"Still allergic to compliments, Commander?"
The voice snapped him from thought.
He turned his head slightly. Standing at the foot of a marble column, draped in half-armor and half-nobility, was High Lord Talen of the Azure Wing—his old war companion, and one of the few nobles Caelion didn't outright loathe.
Caelion offered him a nod. "Still allergic to peacocks dressed as people."
Talen chuckled. "Then you're in for a long night, my friend. I hear the Empress commissioned a new song in your name. Something about 'he who walks with thunder, he who bleeds the stars.'"
"I preferred the one about stabbing the Duke of Dregan."
"That was less poetic and more... controversial." Talen stepped beside him. "Come now, Cael. Everyone knows this ball isn't for you. It's for them. You're just the centerpiece."
"I didn't return to be paraded."
"No, you returned because you're loyal," Talen said, quieter this time. "Because you always follow orders. Even when it hurts you."
Caelion didn't respond.
Because the truth in that stung more than any wound.
Night fell like a silk curtain. The capital buzzed. Lanterns floated. Banners bearing his crest were draped on balconies. Trumpets sang through the avenues.
But Caelion stood rigid just outside the ballroom doors, his ceremonial armor heavier than any field plate he'd worn in battle.
Behind him, a steward flinched as he struggled to fasten the silver clasp of Caelion's cloak.
"You're shaking," Caelion noted flatly.
The steward paled. "Apologies, Commander… I-I grew up hearing tales of the Blue Paladin."
Caelion didn't reply. But when the clasp clicked into place, he gave the boy a nod.
"You did well."
The steward blinked. "Thank you, sir."
The doors opened.
The ballroom was a storm of color—nobles in sapphire and starlight, musicians playing viols of crystal, and the clinking of golden goblets. But the entire room stilled the moment Caelion entered.
They bowed. All of them.
He hated it.
A young noblewoman with cascading blonde curls approached him first, eyes gleaming like she thought him carved from myth.
"Commander Salvador," she curtsied too low. "It is an honor. Might I claim your first dance?"
"I don't dance," he said.
She faltered. "Then... perhaps a walk? Or—"
"I said no."
Caelion stepped past her, expression unreadable, and made for the edge of the ballroom. He ignored the whispers.
He scanned the crowd with sharp, habitual precision. Emissaries from allied kingdoms. Senators from the western provinces. The Empress, watching from her elevated seat, flanked by her two youngest sons—children born of diplomacy, not love.
And then—
A memory tugged at him.
Brown eyes. Dirt-smudged cheeks. That girl.
The one from the village.
The one who had no title, no family, no reason to stare down a paladin like she belonged in the story.
He didn't even know her name.
But her voice echoed louder in his mind than all the music in the ballroom.
"People don't pray to paladins, you know. They pray to what comes after. Peace. Healing. You... you're just the bridge."
He had laughed then. Actually laughed.
He wasn't laughing now.
"Are you looking for someone, Commander?"
Caelion turned slightly. Princess Vaelora, his former comrade in training and now the Empress's niece, approached with a raised brow and a glass of red wine. "You look like you're preparing to charge through the ballroom with your blade."
"I'm restraining myself."
Vaelora smirked. "You always hated these things."
"They're political."
"They're survival. Appearances, Cael. That's what you are now—a symbol. You survive if you shine. You die if you rust."
"I'd rather be useful than shiny."
"You were never made to be either," she said softly, and her gaze lingered. "You were made to protect."
Caelion said nothing.