The dawn after the Ceremony of Light broke with solemn brilliance. Sunbeams pierced through the latticed windows of House Deythar, flooding the halls with molten gold. Servants hurried about their tasks, their heads bowed lower than usual. Whispers had already spread: the youngest son had emerged from the crystal with something strange, something undefined.
Unclassified.
The word carried both allure and suspicion, like a blade honed on both edges. For the siblings, it was a stain upon their pride. For the retainers, it was a puzzle wrapped in danger. For the patriarch and matriarch, it was something far more serious—an omen.
Caelum—Alaric—walked with calm steps through the marble corridors, his ceremonial robes exchanged for the plainer garb of the household's youth. Yet there was nothing plain in the way the servants avoided his gaze. A child once dismissed as forgettable now drew eyes and hushed tones with every step.
He savored it. Attention, whether flavored with awe or unease, was still power.
The bells of Solaria had long fallen silent, but the weight of their echo lingered in the marble bones of the Deythar estate. Torches burned low, their flames steady in the vast council chamber, where the family gathered in a crescent about a single figure: Caelum, youngest son of the house.
At the chamber's center, Deacon Malchior still stood, as immovable as the statue of Aurelion himself. His presence, undiminished by hours of ritual, radiated like a second sun—oppressive, yet clarifying. His robes shimmered faintly, golden thread catching the firelight.
"You all saw," Malchior's voice cut through the air, deep as a cathedral's heart. "The crystal bled shadow as well as flame. The decree revealed was not of the Light, nor of the known lineages of power. It was… something other. This cannot be ignored."
Around him, Caelum's siblings stirred. Elandor leaned forward, eyes glinting with fire that seemed more than metaphor. Lysandra's lips pressed thin, her sanctified aura burning in quiet disapproval. Even Serian, usually careless, regarded his younger brother with uncharacteristic focus.
But it was Lady Seraphine, matriarch of the house, who broke the silence. Her voice was cool, deliberate, honed by decades of wielding faith and authority in equal measure.
"You speak as though we are blind, Deacon," she said. "We too saw the crystal's reaction. Yet you call it shadow. I saw distortion—the bending of light, not its absence."
"A distortion is no less dangerous," Malchior replied, gaze flicking toward Caelum. "If his faith is impure, his decree may lead him astray. The Sun's hymn has no place for dissonance."
Patriarch Kaelen shifted, not in unease but in finality, like a mountain choosing to move. "The hymn of Aurelion is not so fragile as to falter at a child's touch. Do you doubt the strength of the Light, Malchior?"
The deacon bowed his head slightly, though his expression did not soften. "I doubt not the Light. I doubt the vessel. You know as well as I that decrees unmoored from devotion rot into heresies."
All eyes turned, inevitably, to Caelum.
The boy stood in the circle of flame, small among giants. Yet his posture held no trembling. His gaze swept across them all—his radiant siblings, the matriarch, the patriarch, the deacon himself—and what he saw filled him with grim amusement. They scrutinized him not as one of their own but as a potential fracture in the seamless brilliance of their house.
Alaric, within, almost laughed. Once, whole nations had glared at him in judgment. What was one family compared to that?
Still, he bowed his head, voice quiet, carefully measured.
"You ask where my faith lies," he said, echoing the deacon's earlier question. "It lies where it always has: in what endures. Fire burns bright, but fades. Chains bind, but rust. Even light itself casts shadows. What endures is belief. Not just mine, but that which others cannot help but give—to gods, to kings, to dreams. That is the river I will follow, whether it flows toward glory or ruin."
His words rang through the chamber, not boast but conviction.
Malchior's eyes narrowed. "You claim faith not in Aurelion, but in belief itself. That is perilously close to blasphemy."
"Or perhaps," Lady Seraphine interjected, "it is philosophy, raw and unshaped. He is but a boy. His words have yet to ripen into heresy or hymn. Must the Light condemn him so swiftly?"
Her silver gaze flicked to Caelum. "Tell me, child, do you worship the Sun?"
Alaric tilted his head, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. A lie would be transparent, too bold an evasion. He had to weave truth into disguise.
"I revere the Sun as all men do," he said, tone steady. "Not because it demands worship, but because it gives light without asking. The Sun endures. The Sun commands by existing. That is worthy of reverence."
A murmur rippled among his siblings. It was not the pure devotion they had offered, but neither was it rejection. A middle path, dangerous yet defensible.
Deacon Malchior's gaze bored into him, searching for cracks. "And should the Sun falter? Should darkness fall—would your faith waver?"
Caelum's eyes lifted, sharp and unflinching. "If the Sun falters, then faith itself becomes the fire. Men will kindle it, or I will. The world will not lack light while I breathe."
The silence that followed was heavy, profound.
Then Patriarch Kaelen spoke, his voice low but resonant. "You dance close to the line, my son. But lines are where the greatest truths are found. Aurelion's Light is unchallenged—and if your decree is truly unclassifiable, then perhaps it is meant to test not you, but us."
He turned his gaze to Malchior. "Mark him as Unclassified, as you said. But not as a threat. As a question yet unanswered."
The deacon inclined his head, though his eyes did not leave Caelum. "Very well. But questions have a way of demanding answers."
Lady Seraphine's hand rose, final, decisive. "Then let the matter rest. Caelum will begin his studies under House tutors, as is custom. His path will reveal itself in time. Until then, he is neither shadow nor flame, but potential. And potential is the one thing this House has never squandered."
The siblings exchanged glances—curiosity, rivalry, even faint disdain. But none spoke. In House Deythar, the matriarch's word was law.
The family dispersed slowly, their auras trailing brilliance like comets as they departed. Only Caelum lingered, his small figure framed by the fading light of the chamber.
As the last footsteps echoed away, Malchior paused at the threshold. He turned once more, voice low enough that only Caelum could hear.
"You speak cleverly, child. Too cleverly. I have seen kings, priests, and false prophets alike stand where you stand. All of them thought their faith was enough. All of them were wrong."
Caelum did not bow, nor did he challenge. He simply smiled, eyes glinting. "Then perhaps I will be the first exception."
The deacon's gaze lingered a moment longer, then he departed, robes whispering like flame.
When Caelum finally returned to his chambers, the night was deep and silent. Alone, he sat in the half-light, letting the weight of the day settle.
Not fear—no, never fear. But calculation.
The ceremony had given him more than a label. It had given him an audience. His siblings had seen him. The deacon had marked him. His parents had chosen to watch, not smother. All threads woven into a tapestry that would soon stretch beyond these gilded walls.
Alaric leaned back, laughter low in his chest. "Unclassified. A question yet unanswered. How fitting.
For no system, no god, no decree will contain me. I am not flame, nor purity, nor dominion. I am the will that commands all of these. The world will kneel—not because I am told it must, but because I decide it will."
He snapped his fingers, whispering softly, testing once more. The candle flame quivered. His decree was still embryonic, its true shape undefined. But belief—whether born of awe, fear, or suspicion—was already beginning to flow toward him.
And belief, in all its forms, was power.
The boy closed his eyes, his mind stretching beyond the estate, toward horizons he would one day claim.
The world did not yet know it, but a new faith was being born. Not of Aurelion. Not of gods.
Of a king.