The laughter of Shiro's sisters was still echoing faintly down the corridor when the heavy tread of boots and the murmur of servants began to stir the household.
Selene had risen reluctantly from the bedside, smoothing her hair and tugging her dress into place. Her cheeks remained faintly pink, though she held her chin high. Nobility demanded composure, but the way her fingers brushed Shiro's bandaged hand before she left his side betrayed more than words.
"Rest," she said softly, almost like a command—yet her voice trembled with warmth. "I'll be back soon. Don't go anywhere."
Shiro nodded, still embarrassed, but he caught the fleeting look in her eyes before she turned away. It was the kind of look that lingered—an unspoken promise, a tether.
Then the doors shut behind her, and Shiro was left with his sisters fussing at his blankets, the distant sound of bells tolling outside drawing his attention to the city beyond. Something was stirring.
The Archlight estate's grand courtyard was alive with tension. Nobles, retainers, knights, and curious onlookers filled the space, murmurs rippling like restless water.
At the center, on the stone dais reserved for proclamations, stood Lord Varenthal. His cloak snapped in the breeze, his eyes like flint beneath the midday sun. At his sides, his household knights stood in polished armor, grim and silent.
Selene stood just behind her father, her expression caught between pride and nerves. When her gaze strayed toward the upper balcony where Shiro had been permitted to watch from the shadows, her lips curved the smallest fraction upward.
A herald's staff struck the stone. The courtyard stilled.
Lord Varenthal's voice rang out, deep and commanding:
"Yesterday, enemies dared to assail the honor of my house and the safety of my blood." His words carried, sharp as a blade. "They sought to lay hands upon my daughter, Lady Selene. Yet they failed."
A ripple of whispers surged through the crowd.
"For it was not the strength of my knights alone that preserved her," he continued, letting the silence stretch, "but the courage of one who stood where others faltered."
The lord turned, his gaze finding Shiro in the shadows above. For the first time, he allowed the faintest hint of a smile.
"From this day forth, let it be known—Shiro, son of Raleth, stands under the protection of House Archlight. He has earned my trust, and he will be treated as one of my own. Any hand raised against him shall be considered an offense against this house itself."
Gasps echoed, quickly followed by a rising hum of speculation. The weight of those words was immense—defiance against the Temple's silent grasp, a bold move that would echo across the noble courts by morning.
Selene, unable to stop herself, glanced up toward Shiro again. This time her smile was clearer, braver, her pride in him unhidden.
Shiro's heart pounded. For once, he wasn't sure if it was from fear… or something dangerously close to hope.
The crowd's murmurs still lingered like an echo in Shiro's mind long after the proclamation ended. Guards dispersed the nobles, servants cleared the courtyard, and the estate slowly settled back into its usual rhythm.
But Shiro didn't. His chest felt heavy, his thoughts too loud. Protection of House Archlight…? The words were still foreign, almost unreal.
By the time a knight guided him into Lord Varenthal's study, Selene trailing close at his side, his pulse still hadn't steadied.
The study was a room of dark wood and weighty silence. Shelves lined with ancient tomes towered overhead, maps and sealed scrolls covering the broad oak desk. A fire burned low in the hearth, its smoke curling faintly toward the carved ceiling beams.
Lord Varenthal stood at the window, looking out toward the city. His hands rested behind his back, posture iron-straight.
"Sit," he commanded without turning.
Shiro obeyed, stiff in the high-backed chair. Selene sat beside him, close enough for her sleeve to brush his, a small but grounding reminder that he wasn't facing this alone.
At length, the lord turned. His eyes were piercing, the same eyes Selene had inherited, though hers softened where his cut.
"You saved my daughter's life," Varenthal said, voice like stone. "Such deeds do not go unrewarded in my house. Speak plainly. What is it you want?"
Shiro hesitated. His throat felt dry, his palms damp. To ask—no, to beg—for something so impossible in front of this man felt like grasping at smoke. But Selene leaned in slightly, her presence urging him forward.
"My parents," Shiro said at last. His voice cracked, but he forced it steady. "The Temple took them the day after my Awakening. They're accused of… spawning the anomaly." He swallowed hard. "Of spawning me."
Varenthal's brow furrowed. The words hung thick between them.
"I don't know what they've done with them," Shiro continued, his fists tight in his lap. "If there's anything you can do—if you can help me get them back—then that's all I want."
Silence stretched. The crackle of the hearth was the only sound.
Lord Varenthal studied him, his expression unreadable. Finally, he exhaled slowly, folding his arms.
"You ask much," he said. "The Temple does not part with prisoners. Their hold is iron, their reach long. Even I must measure each step carefully." His gaze sharpened. "But you are no longer a nameless farmer's son. You are under my protection now. If the Temple would spite me by keeping your kin…"
He let the implication hang, heavy with promise and threat alike.
Selene leaned forward suddenly, unable to hold back. "Father, he deserves to know the truth. If there's a chance—any chance—don't we owe it to him to try?"
Varenthal's gaze flicked to his daughter. For the first time, a crack of something softer showed in his stern expression. "Your compassion will one day be both your strength and your peril," he said.
Then he turned back to Shiro, and his voice hardened again.
"Very well. I will see what strings may be pulled. But understand—this is no simple matter. The Temple will not yield lightly, and in seeking your parents' freedom, you may draw their eyes sharper upon you."
Shiro nodded, heart pounding, torn between gratitude and dread.
"I'll accept that," he said quietly. "I can't leave them behind."
Selene placed her hand gently over his, bold even under her father's watchful eyes. "Then you won't have to."
For a moment, Varenthal studied the sight—his daughter's hand over the hand of a boy the Temple itself had branded anomaly. Then, without comment, he returned to his desk, as if already weighing strategies in the silence.
And Shiro knew, deep down, that the true storm was only beginning.
The fire cracked again, breaking the silence that had stretched too far.
Lord Varenthal lowered himself into the heavy chair behind his desk, already reaching for parchment. His dismissal was not unkind, but absolute—the matter, for now, was closed.
Shiro sat frozen. His pulse still drummed in his ears, though his body felt oddly light, as if the floor beneath him might give way. For so long he had carried the quiet, crushing weight of his parents' absence alone, with no one willing—or able—to do anything about it. Now, for the first time, there was hope. Fragile, dangerous hope, balanced on the word of a man as immovable as a mountain.
A hand squeezed his.
He turned. Selene hadn't let go. Her eyes shone with both relief and defiance, as though daring her father to rescind his promise. But when she looked at Shiro, that fire softened, replaced by something else—something far more personal.
"You did well," she whispered, low enough that only he could hear.
Shiro's throat tightened. He wanted to tell her that he didn't feel strong, that he was terrified of what the Temple might do if they discovered how much he wanted his parents back. He wanted to tell her that even with Lord Varenthal's support, he felt like a child playing at wars far greater than himself.
But when he looked at her—at her unwavering grip, at the fierce steadiness in her gaze—he found he couldn't speak any of it.
Instead, he nodded. Just once. Enough for her to understand.
Lord Varenthal's quill scratched across parchment. "Go. Rest. What comes next will be decided soon."
Selene rose first, pulling Shiro gently to his feet. As they left the study together, her hand never once slipped from his.
And though Shiro knew the storm clouds were gathering, for that one fragile moment, walking beside her down the quiet hall, he allowed himself the dangerous luxury of believing he wasn't facing it alone.
The Archlight estate's candlelit warmth seemed a world away. Here, stone walls rose like the ribs of a dead god, blackened with centuries of incense and shadow. The Temple chamber reeked of authority—of polished marble, smoldering braziers, and silence heavy enough to suffocate.
The chamber thickened with the murmur of old men and their sharpened tongues.
"Varenthal spits in our faces, yet the houses murmur about his daughter's beauty, her supposed courage. Already, whispers spread of the boy who defended her."
"A peasant child in noble halls," another scoffed. "A dangerous story. People love their fairy tales."
"Then let's remind them who writes the ending," hissed a robed priestess with jeweled fingers. "Cut the thread of his bloodline here. End his parents, and the Archlight house will shelter nothing but scandal."