Chapter Six: The Night Before
The night air in the palace carried its usual weight—centuries of whispered decisions soaked into stone. Verrian walked beside Hanford, the quiet cadence of their boots echoing between towering marble pillars. Silver lanternlight spilled across the floor in thin ribbons, never quite chasing away the shadows.
"Ellan will one day surpass me in power," Hanford said, voice low but assured.
Verrian arched a brow. "What makes you say that?"
Hanford shrugged, as if explaining a hunch. "Just a feeling. Call it intuition."
"How old is he now?" Verrian asked, trying to recall from his files. "Seven?"
"Hm? No."
"Eight, then?"
"Still no," Hanford said, a faint smile curling his lips. "He's only five."
Verrian stopped in his tracks. "Five?" Disbelief colored his voice.
"A mixed-blood child," Hanford explained. "He grows at the pace of a human."
"Right," Verrian muttered, nodding slowly. "I overlooked that."
Silence stretched between them, the kind that carried old memories best left buried. But Verrian's mind returned to the rehearsal that morning—Ellan standing atop the ceremonial dais, silver light from the windows falling across his small frame. He had spoken in Varneth—the formal language of the Empire—without faltering. Grown men failed to pronounce it right.
"For a five-year-old," Verrian murmured, "how the hell is he already reading Varneth like that?"
Hanford's pride warmed his voice. "That's why I said he'll surpass me. He listens to everything. Watches everything. Absorbs it. Imagine him in twenty years."
"I can't predict something like that."
Hanford glanced sidelong at him. "Looks like I've stirred up old memories."
"You didn't stir anything," Verrian said—too sharply. "I'm here because you saved me. That day, if you hadn't—"
Footsteps interrupted, quick and sharp. A familiar, aggravating voice followed.
"Han!"
Verrian sighed.
Virelya, of course.
Black-and-red uniform, coat flaring, green-streaked hair wild as if she'd flown through a storm. "Have you seen the red-and-black-haired brat?"
"You mean Kaelen?" Hanford chuckled.
"Yeah, him."
"I haven't seen him today."
She groaned. "Coming all the way here was tiring enough. Now I have to fly around to find him?"
"I'll send someone," Hanford offered.
"Good. Tell him to come to my house. Immediately."
She spun away without waiting for a reply. As her boots clicked down the hall, a flicker of silver from the lantern caught her eyes—just for a heartbeat—before she vanished into shadow.
---
Moonlight glowed through the window, pale and silver, brushing the floor like a soft whisper. Ellyn lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Ellan was on his side, curled under the covers, but she knew he wasn't asleep.
"You look tired," she said.
No answer at first. Then, "I can't sleep."
Ellyn padded over and slid under his blanket. The sheets were warm. Her arm wrapped around his shoulders.
"Let me sing you a lullaby."
He nodded faintly.
Ellyn hummed, an old melody Mum said came from her homeland—a Moonweaver song for children born under twin moons. The tune felt like liquid silver winding through the air, calming and protective.
Ellan's breathing slowed. His small fingers twitched once, then stilled.
Tomorrow would change everything.
Her brother… he would no longer belong only to them.
=====
Midnight descended over Harwen like a velvet curtain. The palace towers dimmed, and even the stars seemed to hush.
In the twins' chamber, a figure appeared.
She stood by the window, wrapped in the silver mist of otherworldly presence. A woman by shape, but not in essence. Her garments flowed like fog over water; her hair like falling moonlight.
She was not human. Nor alive.
Her eyes, pale as frost, held centuries. She walked without sound, leaving no mark. Looking at the twins, her lips curled with quiet affection.
"So small now," she whispered. "And yet… in time…"
Raising her hand, she released a veil of silver light—gentle, protective. It settled over the room like a silent promise, but in its depths hid a faint ripple, as though the light knew it might one day be tested.
Then, she vanished.
---
Flora's Point of View
The tea was lukewarm now, but Flora didn't move to warm it. She sat on her balcony, eyes on the stars. The wind toyed with strands of her hair, glinting faintly in the silver light.
"You've taken an interest in my children," she said.
No one stood beside her.
But she felt her.
["Since before they were born."]
"You know they're not ordinary," Flora said, fingers curling around the cup.
["Would you like to know their future?"]
"No. You'd never tell me all of it."
["Guess it yourself, Faelora. You always do."]
A small smile touched Flora's lips. "So be it, Tirania."
["You speak as though you serve me."]
"I don't. But I honour you."
Silence.
["My Leona will wake soon. I must go."]
And she was gone.
Flora stayed, watching the stars. Their silver light felt sharper tonight—like they were not only watching… but judging.
---
Ellan's Point of View
I sat still as they adjusted the layers of my robe. Heavy fabric, thick with embroidery—symbols from both Mum's and Dad's families, silver threads winding between crimson and black.
"Hold still," one of the maids said.
I tried.
The mirror showed me a boy—crimson hair neat, shoulders small, jewelry glinting silver under the lanterns. He looked like me. And didn't.
They said I would be a prince today.
I remembered Ellyn's song, Mum's smile, Dad adjusting my collar. I remembered the Grand Hall during rehearsal—too big, too quiet, silver light spilling through the windows like it was measuring me.
"Is it too tight?" the maid asked.
"No," I said softly.
Yesterday, I was a child.
Today… I wasn't sure anymore.
But I'd walk forward anyway.
Because they believed in me.