The throne room of Aurealis Citadel had always felt like a stage of velvet and steel—its towering stained-glass windows casting divine patterns across the floor, its high vaulted ceiling echoing the clipped words of nobles and generals alike. Gold leaf glimmered along every pillar and beam, but for all the grandeur, Caelion Salvador stood like stone amid the shifting court, unmoved and unamused.
He was dressed in his full regalia—the cerulean cloak of the Ivory Order draped over one shoulder, the sigil of the crescent moon etched upon his breastplate. He said little, as always, letting the dukes and war ministers argue over territory, trade routes, and impending border threats while he observed, patient and unreadable.
Until it happened.
A sharp pull behind his ribs. A chill threading up his spine. And then, his eyes—
They glimmered.
A sudden flare of impossible blue, like moonlight striking still water. The chamber stilled.
Gasps fluttered like birds across the room. The chatter died, silenced by the unmistakable sign.
"He's been summoned," whispered Lady Elvira, her jeweled fingers clutching her fan.
"By the heavens themselves..." murmured one of the younger lords, eyes wide.
Even the Empress stilled atop her throne of sunstone, her gaze sharp. "Caelion?"
He blinked once. The glow in his irises dimmed, but it was too late. The sign had been seen, and the curse had spoken.
"They've called me," he said simply. His voice echoed in the vastness of the hall, cutting through politics like a sword through parchment.
"What do they command this time?" Asked the Empress, her voice carefully neutral. But he could sense the tension behind her words. Even she feared what task the heavens would dare give her most trusted sword—again.
Caelion didn't answer at first. The words had not fully formed in his mouth yet, only the sensation: heat, urgency, danger. But then he heard it. A voice—hers.
"South of the Solune Divide," said the Moon Goddess, her presence folding around his thoughts like a cloak. "Beneath the ruins of the Hollow Vale. A relic stirs. One we buried. One that must not be found."
He stiffened.
"A relic," he said aloud, the color in his voice dimmed with dread. "An artifact we thought lost. The heavens say... it's been found by mortal hands."
Gasps rose again. This time not in awe—but fear.
"You mean the relics?" Lord Marvayne asked, voice cracking. "The sacred weapons left behind by the Ascended?"
Caelion nodded. "One of them. A weapon that grants power even to the magicless. The relic of Thaelos."
Now the Empress stood. Her gold-embroidered gown trailed like sunlight, but her expression was carved from stone.
"Treasure hunters?" She asked.
"Or worse," Caelion murmured. "Those who know what they seek."
A moment of heavy silence passed. Everyone in that room knew what it meant. For a mortal to wield such a relic… would tip the balance of the world.
And yet, it was happening again.
Again, the heavens had chosen him. A Salvador. The cursed bloodline.
"Why always him?" Someone dared whisper.
"He talks to the gods like they're his kin," said another. "Like the Moon herself is just... an old friend."
"He speaks blasphemy and the skies still answer him."
"It's because of the curse," a third voice muttered. "Only a Salvador can carry their voice and live."
He heard them all, of course. He always did.
He turned to the Empress and bowed, sharp and precise. "I'll leave at once."
She stared at him, as if memorizing him—just in case. "Take who you need."
As he strode out of the throne room, the nobles parted like waves, some bowing, some stepping back in fear. Not of his sword—but of what followed him.
For when the Blue Paladin's eyes glimmered, the gods were watching.
And this time, they were afraid.
The forests of Elvaron whispered of old things—of forgotten pacts, of buried powers, of secrets long kept beneath moss and stone. And as the morning sun bled gold across the skies, Commander Caelion Salvador stood at the edge of those very woods, his sapphire-blue cloak rustling in the wind, flanked by a dozen of his most trusted paladins.
They had traveled for two days, on the Moon Goddess' command—silent, watchful, and guided by the ever-glimmering sigil etched upon Caelion's palm. It had burned with warmth since the Crown Room. A signal. A divine message. The sacred relic had been found.
The Hollow Vale was not marked on most maps. Only the Order of the Moonlight Flame knew of its existence. A place where wild magic still pulsed beneath the ground and time didn't always flow straight. It was there that the Heavens buried the Aetherblade, a relic forged not by man, but by stardust and celestial fire.
A weapon that could grant a mere mortal not just strength—but the ability to wield magic no human was ever meant to hold.
As Caelion and his men approached the jagged ridge that led to the vale's mouth, he raised his hand for silence. The wind had shifted.
Smoke.
Movement.
"They're already here," he murmured.
The paladins split in practiced formation, swords and spears drawn—not to kill, but to intercept.
Down in the Hollow Vale, beneath the crescent-shaped cliffs, they saw them.
Treasure hunters.
Not simple bandits. These wore relic-seeker's cloaks, enchanted to ward off detection. A few carried tomes in foreign tongues. One among them—a pale man with crimson eyes—stood too calmly, like he didn't fear the wrath of Heaven at all.
Caelion stepped down the stone path, alone.
"You stand upon sacred ground," he called, voice like tempered steel. "Leave now. The relic is not yours to take."
The pale man only chuckled. "And you must be the Blue Paladin. The heavens' little hound."
"I will not warn you twice."
"Then don't," the man said with a smirk, snapping his fingers.
The battle began with a spell.
A pillar of fire shot from the ground, separating Caelion from his men. Arrows flew, steel clashed, magic churned in the soil. But Caelion did not falter.
He moved like moonlight—silent, swift, inevitable. His sword, Selene's Fang, carved arcs of glowing blue across the battlefield. Magic erupted around him, not from spellbooks or incantations—but from the divine. He did not chant. He did not gesture.
He simply was.
One by one, the relic seekers fell or fled. The pale man, seeing his end, lunged toward the Aetherblade's resting place—half-buried beneath crystalline stone.
He made it only three steps before Caelion's sword was at his throat.
"This power," the pale man hissed, "was never meant to be buried."
"And yet," Caelion said coldly, "it will be."
With a gesture, the paladin stepped toward the heart of the vale. He knelt before the relic, hands glowing with divine light. The ground trembled, roots surged up like living snakes, and the earth opened.
"By the will of the Moon," he whispered, "be sealed again."
Stone closed around the blade. The energy faded. And the valley stilled.
Later, while his Order secured the outer cliffs and ensured no remnants of the intruders remained, Caelion stood alone near the sealed tomb, cloak fluttering.
The breeze whispered again.
Then—giggle. A soft, teasing, fluttering sound. Like starlight with a voice.
He blinked. Turned sharply.
Then another. This time behind him.
Caelion's brows drew together. He turned to his men by the ridge. "Did any of you hear that?"
They shook their heads, a little too quickly. One looked pale.
"I'm not joking," Caelion said, voice dry. "If you want to meet a star spirit in person, I will gladly catch one for you."
There was an awkward silence. Then nervous chuckling.
"No offense, Commander," said one paladin, "but I think the spirits like you a bit more than us."
Caelion sighed, rubbing his temple. "Of course they do."
Another soft giggle—this time more like a squeak of fear.
He glanced up at the branches, narrowing his eyes. "I can still hear you."
The leaves rustled with what might've been panic.
He crossed his arms, unimpressed.
"I said," he called to the trees, "go bother someone else."
The wind fled. The giggles vanished.
"…Cowards," he muttered.
The men tried not to laugh too loud.
As they prepared to depart the Hollow Vale, Caelion gave the sealed earth one last look. Though the relic was safe again, something in the air shifted. He could feel it in his bones.
The sacred weapons were stirring.
And Heaven was not yet done with him.
The spires of Elarandor stood tall beneath the dawn light, casting long shadows across the glimmering tiles of the Imperial Citadel. Caelion stood before the marble gates of the Palace of Aetherian Law, his cloak bearing the dust of travel and battle, the faint scent of the Hollow Vale still clinging to his armor.
He had ridden straight through the night after reburying the relic—a sacred weapon forged in the First Age—deep beneath the mountain roots. Now, the time for steel had passed. This was a war of whispers, and he needed the right ears to hear.
Inside the Crown Hall, the Empress sat upon her obsidian throne carved from celestial stone. Golden-robed nobles flanked her sides, and temple priests stood by like statues—faces unreadable, eyes keen with ancient wisdom.
Caelion dropped to one knee, his gauntlet clenched over his chest in salute.
"Rise, Commander Salvador," the Empress said, her voice laced with formality but also faint concern. "The temples speak of a disturbance. The heavens, too, have stirred. Speak."
Caelion stood. "The relic hidden in the Hollow Vale was nearly taken, Your Majesty. A band of treasure hunters, well-armed and guided by knowledge they should not possess, reached its resting place. I confronted them before they could awaken it."
Murmurs rippled through the chamber. One of the temple sages, an old man with sunken eyes and robes of midnight blue, stepped forward.
"You speak of the Blade of Umareth?"
Caelion nodded. "Yes, High Seer. Sealed by the Archons during the Twilight Reckoning. It still pulses with the old power. If it had fallen into mortal hands... the consequences would've been catastrophic."
"How did they find it?" The Empress asked sharply.
"That is what troubles me most," Caelion replied. "They had maps. Runes etched in tongues long lost. I believe this was not an isolated incident. Someone is hunting down the remnants of magic—relics, artifacts, even forbidden texts. Not for preservation… but for power."
Another priestess gasped softly. "Desecration of the sacred is a crime punished by divine fire. Who would dare such a thing?"
"Those who no longer fear the gods," Caelion said grimly. "Or those who believe the gods no longer watch."
A heavy silence fell upon the chamber.
The Empress finally spoke. "Then we must make them remember. What do you advise, Blue Paladin?"
"I ask for permission to send my Order to the sacred sites—discreetly. Temples must be fortified. Wards must be renewed. The relics of old must not fall into enemy hands. This is not yet a war… but it is the beginning of one."
The Empress gave a slow nod. "Your request is granted. You will have the backing of the Crown and the Temples. Find out who leads this silent rebellion—and stop them."
"I will not fail you," Caelion vowed.
Before leaving, he approached the high priests privately.
"You must guard the Cradle of Starlight," he warned. "And the Echoing Reliquaries of the Moon Temple. They may come for them next. If the relics tied to the divine fall… even the heavens may weep."
One priestess placed a hand on his shoulder—gentle, almost maternal. "The Moon watches over her favored child."
Caelion nodded silently, unsure whether the Moon Goddess truly watched… or merely waited.
He left the hall with a storm brewing in his thoughts. Somewhere, someone was gathering the old magics. And if left unchecked… it would not just be the relics that would awaken.
It would be everything.