Nebula was shocked, her mind stopped working, frozen in place as though the world itself had turned to stone around her. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, she wondered if she had heard wrong. But no — the weight in the air told her it was real. Her father's words lingered like heavy chains shackled around her chest.
She blinked — once, twice — though she had no need to, as if forcing her vision to reset would somehow erase the scene before her. But nothing changed. The grand hall remained filled with her kneeling family and nobles, the only ones standing being herself and Celestial.
Her thoughts spun wildly, racing faster than she could hold onto them. She wanted to understand, to grasp the truth, but it slipped through her fingers like sand. Desperation pushed her mind into overdrive, creating scenarios, imagining possibilities, trying to paint pictures of why.
Yet through every frantic thought, only one constant remained.
He saved me… and now he guides me.
Her eyes fixed on Celestial, searching for an answer he did not yet give. Her gaze was like a silent plea, filled with questions she dared not speak aloud. She wanted confirmation. She wanted denial. She wanted anything but this silence.
"Please stand and enjoy, I only done my duty and still it is my responsibility," Celestial said softly, his voice calm and filled with a gentle weight. But his request met only silence. No one rose. Not a single person dared to disobey the reverence that filled the hall.
Nebula felt the tension clawing at her skin, the stillness pressing down like a suffocating fog.
Celestial's expression hardened. His voice deepened, resonating with a quiet authority that demanded obedience. "Please stand up."
The command rolled through the air like a force of nature. Those who had been kneeling obeyed without hesitation, rising to their feet as though compelled by an invisible hand.
Nebula's focus did not waver from him. Her eyes, wide and unblinking, demanded an explanation. Her heart beat so fast it hurt, but she could not stop herself. She needed to know.
Celestial finally looked directly at her. His voice was steady, but layered with ancient weight. "Well, I am a Guardian, and I once saved your life, a little while ago, before disappearing from this world."
The words struck her like thunder.
Nebula's lips parted, her voice trembling as though each word cost her strength. "Is this… the reason I am weak? Because I was unable to live on my own? Because I was too weak to survive?"
Her voice broke, echoing through the hall, releasing the fragile storm within her heart. She could not stop the trembling of her hands, the quiver in her throat. "So… was I not supposed to survive?"
Her words fell into silence.
No one dared to answer. The weight of her question hung in the air like a blade, suspended, cutting everyone who heard it but never falling. Faces turned away, eyes cast down, lips pressed shut. Even her mother, whose embrace moments ago had been suffocating with love, remained silent, sorrow carved into her flawless features.
Nebula's chest ached with each passing second of silence. Their hesitation was louder than any words could be.
At last, her father — Lord Valtherion Ignisar Dark Flame — spoke. His voice was deep, grave, filled with an honesty so raw it made her blood run cold.
"Yes."
The single word shattered her world.
His burning eyes locked onto hers, not with anger, but with a heavy truth he could no longer withhold. His voice, when he continued, was firm but laced with sorrow.
"When you were born, your life was nothing but a fading spark. You had no strength of your own. Even the fire of our bloodline rejected you. You would not have lived to see the dawn."
The hall fell into a suffocating silence once more, but to Nebula, everything was deafening. Her heart pounded, her ears rang, her body trembled. The truth shook the foundations of her very being, unraveling everything she thought she knew about herself.
Her world was no longer stable.
It was as though her father's words had stolen the ground from beneath her feet, leaving her to freefall into an abyss with no end.
"You were not weak," Lord Valtherion began, his voice steady yet heavy with memories that weighed upon every word. "Instead, you were born with an immense amount of power — so much that even your mother could not hold you within her, and your body itself could not withstand it. From the very beginning, your own strength was tearing you apart."
His burning eyes, like crimson flames glowing in the shadows, softened as they rested on his daughter. "We were all shocked. Your powers were killing you. The force within you was so great that even I — with all my mastery — could not protect you."
He drew in a slow breath, and the hall grew so silent that even the faintest shift of fabric could be heard. "Using everything we had, we created a barrier. A shield to keep your power concealed, unnoticed by others. But even then… the pressure of your energy was overwhelming. Many around you struggled to breathe in your presence. You were like a True Dragon — born with a vast, destructive power contained within a fragile mortal body. We were helpless… yet we could not bear to lose you."
As he spoke, his gaze turned toward Lady Eloria, his voice softening as though the memories burned more deeply when shared. "Your mother and I both sacrificed a part of our own power. The price was permanent damage — a wound that could never truly be undone. Even though we have since regained our strength, the sacrifice itself cannot be erased."
The great lord's voice trembled for the first time, not with weakness but with the weight of truth long carried in silence. His eyes lingered on his wife, and in that moment both husband and wife seemed lost in the past. Pain flickered in their expressions — not regret, but sorrow at the cost they had willingly borne.
At last, Valtherion continued, his voice firm, unwavering, filled with the pride of a father. "But we do not regret anything. We did what had to be done — and we are glad we did."
Beside him, Lady Eloria stepped forward, her deep blue eyes shimmering with both strength and tenderness. "You are our child," she said, her voice like a soft hymn wrapped in unshakable conviction. "And we did what we should have."
The hall fell utterly still, the weight of her parents' words pressing down on Nebula like both a chain that bound her and a shield that guarded her.
Nebula stood in silence, her mind reeling, unable to form words. Shock coursed through her, leaving her lips parted but voiceless. She turned her gaze slowly toward the others, searching for some anchor, some explanation beyond what had just been revealed.
Her eyes fell first upon her brothers. Each of them nodded faintly, their faces solemn, carrying no surprise. They had known. When her gaze met theirs directly, they quickly averted their eyes — not out of guilt, but out of an unspoken refusal to answer, as though the truth was a burden too heavy to speak aloud.
Her uncle, Brandson, stood apart. His face was unreadable, carefully blank, every muscle controlled to reveal nothing. It was a mask carved from stone, betraying neither thought nor feeling, though his silence screamed of things he would not say.
The elders, meanwhile, seemed to fold back into themselves. They offered her no words, no comfort — only the quiet acknowledgment of those who had long accepted what she had only just learned. With measured steps, they withdrew slightly, drifting into their own solemn atmosphere, as though the revelation had reopened no wounds for them, only memories long buried.
And there stood Nebula, caught in the center, the truth wrapping around her like a storm she could neither fight nor escape.
Nebula's thoughts churned in chaos, a storm that would not calm. So… I was born strong? Then why am I always weak? Why has no one told me before? Is this Celestial's doing? What has he done? Questions pressed into her mind one after another, sharp and unrelenting, each demanding an answer she did not yet have.
Her gaze shifted, fixing upon Celestial. The noise of the hall, the silence of her family, the weight of revelation—all of it dimmed in her perception. Now, there was only him. Every fiber of her being sharpened, drawn into absolute focus.
Her lips parted, and the words slipped forth, steady, stripped of warmth or anger. They carried no tremor, no hesitation—only a chilling authority that made even the air in the hall seem to still.
"I want answers."
It was not a plea, nor a demand. It was a decree.