Azriel left the council chamber, the echoes of accusations and whispers fading behind him. Yet his mind was not on the council, nor on the fractured reactions of the elders. It was on his eyes the crimson, bloody depths that had carried Sanreon's power.
Behind him, Edward Stark remained seated on his throne, frost curling along the marble edges, his gaze fixed on the empty doorway. The shard of frost had vanished. The boy had not destroyed it he had erased it.
Edward's mind raced. What is this power? The energy… it radiates like mana, but it is not mana. Denser. Purer. Stronger.
His eyes lingered on the image of Azriel as he had stood in the council chamber: sharp features, jet-black hair, smirk faint and dangerous. And in that moment, Edward was struck by a memory a ghost of the past. He remembered her, his first wife, Azriel's mother. The way she had looked, the same curve of the face, the same fire in her presence. Azriel, in that instant, was a living echo of her, a reminder of someone lost to time.
Where is she now? Why did she leave? Unknown… yet somehow I know she is alive somewhere…
---
Azriel walked silently down the corridor, his thoughts focused elsewhere not on the council, not on the elders' chaos, but on his own eyes. He had never truly looked at them, never studied the crimson depths where Sanreon manifested.
Father felt it. Of that, I am certain. He said it quietly to himself, a calm certainty in his voice. He felt the energy of chaos. But my eyes…? How could he know? Did they change when I use Sanreon?
The questions lingered as he entered his room and closed the door. He stood before the mirror, observing his jet-black hair that framed his sharp, handsome face. His crimson eyes glinted with a dangerous light, alive and focused.
He concentrated and called Sanreon. The world slowed every sound stretched, every motion crawling, time bending to his will.
Then, it appeared.
A black triple crescent moon bloomed faintly across his eyes, spinning, a mark of his power. The pulse it sent through him was strange, deep, almost ancestral.
Azriel's lips curved into a faint, dangerous smile.
So this is Sanreon… this is what Father felt… this is why they see me differently.
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After the confrontation with his son, Edward Stark did not return to his chambers. His thoughts lingered too heavily on those eyes the triple crescent moon, the power that was not mana but something beyond. Instead, he turned toward the oldest heart of the Stark estate: the Library.
The Stark Library was no ordinary archive of books and scrolls. It was alive, a place of ancient binding. Only those whom the library acknowledged could set foot within its halls, and who could be more acknowledged than the Frost Monarch himself?
The great doors groaned open at his presence, the faint hum of ancient wards parting for him. He stepped inside, his heavy boots echoing across the marble floor. The vast hall stretched endlessly, shelves rising into the shadows above, each filled with tomes older than empires.
And she was there, as always.
A woman who was not human. Her beauty was sharp and serene, her presence commanding in a way that surpassed even the noble blood of elves. She was an elven fairy, her hair a vibrant green that shimmered under the pale light of the library, cascading like silk to her waist. Her eyes, ancient and clear, carried the weight of centuries. There was an aura about her that made even the Frost Monarch seem less imposing, a presence that placed her above mortals. And it was to be expected—she was the daughter of the Fairy Queen herself, bound here by the pact made with the very first Stark patriarch. She would not be freed until her purpose was fulfilled.
When Edward entered, she raised her gaze from a tome and, for the first time in many days, her lips curved into a faint smile.
"Good evening, Frost Monarch," she said, her voice calm, steady, and filled with a tone that saw him not as master, nor as monarch, but as an equal.
That alone spoke volumes of her true power and knowledge.
Edward inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. "Good evening."
She closed the book in her hand, the sound echoing faintly in the silence. "How may I help you, Patriarch?"
Edward's cold blue eyes darkened, his voice carrying the weight of his turmoil.
"I need to know about a triple crescent moon pattern… manifested in the eyes."
For a moment, silence consumed the library. Even the hum of wards seemed to still. The elven fairy studied him intently, the serene mask on her face wavering for the briefest heartbeat. Shock flickered in her gaze followed quickly by something else. Excitement.
And yet, when she finally spoke, her voice was firm, restrained.
"Why do you ask such a question, Frost Monarch?"
Edward hesitated. Then, with a voice that carried the heaviness of truth, he answered, "Because… my child has manifested those eyes."
This time, her expression betrayed her completely. Her lips parted slightly, eyes widening before narrowing once more. Shock, disbelief, even awe danced across her features. But then she forced it away, her voice turning into steel.
"I cannot give you that information."
Edward's tone dropped, frost creeping into his words. "And why is that?"
Her gaze did not waver. "Because you are not authorized to know. The only one permitted that knowledge is the bearer of those eyes themselves. Your son. And for now…" She paused, the faintest softness slipping into her tone before she steeled it again. "…he is not yet worthy."
For the first time in years, Edward felt the bite of frustration gnaw at him. He was the Frost Monarch, Patriarch of the Starks, master of armies and calamities and yet, here, he was powerless. The fairy could not be threatened, nor commanded.
And he knew it.
With nothing more to be said, Edward turned, the frost in his aura biting at the air, and left the library without another word. The great doors closed behind him, leaving the elven fairy alone once more.
She stood in silence, her gaze lingering on the empty doorway, the faintest whisper escaping her lips words Edward would never hear.
"So… those eyes have returned…"