The warmth of Yuan’s awkward kindness had barely begun to thaw the room when the heavy door creaked open.

 

Footsteps entered, measured, deliberate, each one carrying more weight than the last. They didn’t rush. They didn’t need to. Their cadence alone sent a shiver crawling up Aelira’s small spine.

 

Yuan straightened at once.

The boy who had flushed at her words moments ago was gone, replaced by a soldier: posture rigid, gaze lowered, hand ghosting near the hilt of his blade.

 

Vaelen stepped inside.

 

The air dimmed. Even the crystal lamps seemed to bow to his gravity. Cloaked in midnight robes stitched with constellations, silver hair bound tight, his figure carried the silence of inevitability. His eyes—cold, heavy as collapsed stars—swept the room before settling on her.

 

“You can go,” he said to Yuan. His voice was quiet, but it filled the chamber like iron.

 

Yuan bowed once. No words. He turned to leave, but his gaze flicked to Aelira as he passed. A flash of unreadable hesitation, perhaps—then the door closed with a muffled thud.

 

The silence left behind was crushing.

 

Aelira’s throat tightened. She clutched at the sheets. “I… I want to go home.”

 

Vaelen said nothing.

 

Tears welled in her eyes. “I want to see Mother. And Kaeyla. Please… I want to see Kaeyla.”

 

At the sound of the name, a flicker crossed his face—too brief to name. Regret, perhaps. Or a wound pressed raw.

 

But his words fell like stone. “There is no longer home for you. You’ll remain here. Until you learn to be still. Until you learn to be safe.”

 

Her lips parted. “Safe…?”

 

For the first time, he looked directly at her. His gaze didn’t soften. If anything, it pressed harder. Behind the steel of it was something deeper—not pity, but grief. Fear.

 

“Do not speak of your parents again,” he said, colder now. “You don’t yet understand the weight of what you’ve done.”

 

She flinched as if struck, though she didn’t understand the meaning. Only the shame. Only the finality.

 

He turned from her tears and gestured faintly toward the shelves that lined the walls. “These halls hold knowledge gathered across centuries—kingdoms, gods, magic. Learn it. Especially the force inside you. You feel it, don’t you? Burning under your skin.”

 

Aelira hugged her knees tighter. Her head gave the smallest nod.

 

“Yuan will instruct you,” he continued. “He is young, but he knows discipline. He’ll keep you in check.”

 

Then, his hand lifted, pointing to her chest. His voice dropped low, and the weight of prophecy clung to every word.

 

“If you don’t want to hurt Kaeyla again—learn to control that power.”

 

Her breath caught. The way he said her sister’s name—it sounded broken, like an old scar reopened.

 

Her voice cracked. “Until when? Someday… can I see Kaeyla?”

 

Silence.

 

He turned toward the door.

 

“Do not leave these quarters,” he said. His tone was even, final. “Do not speak to others. Do not tell anyone who you are. There is nowhere else for you to go.”

 

His hand rested on the frame. He paused only to add, softer—but edged like a blade:

“Be good. Or more will be lost.”

 

Then he stepped into the hall, and the door closed with a whisper.

 

Aelira sat trembling in silence.

 

The shame pressed on her chest, too heavy for a child’s ribs to hold. She buried her face in the blankets, her small body shaking with sobs she could not silence.