⭐ — The Awakening of Arcanis Vael Aravell
The room was still.
Curtains drifted softly in the morning breeze.
Light slid gently over the marble floor.
Distant waves murmured against the cliffs outside the palace.
A breath stirred.
A faint shift in the air.
Arcanis Vael Aravell opened his eyes.
The world seemed to pause—only for a moment, but enough to feel the difference. His gaze did not burst with light; instead, it carried a quiet majesty, a depth that did not need to be pronounced. His irises glowed with calm white radiance, threaded with a cosmic stillness, like starlight resting on a silent lake.
No confusion shadowed his face.
No thrill or fear trembled through him.
He simply breathed.
Steady. Controlled. Certain.
He pushed himself upright, movements smooth and deliberate—the practiced elegance of someone who carried himself with innate pride rather than effort. Morning light brushed over his hair, illuminating the strands of pure white that framed his face.
"So it begins," he murmured.
Not as a proclamation.
Not as a revelation.
Simply acknowledging what he already knew.
He crossed the room with quiet steps and closed the bathroom door behind him.
Warm water cascaded over him, tracing his shoulders, running down the length of his back. Steam filled the room, blurring the edges of his reflection on polished tiles.
Today is the ceremony.
His awakening.
His fingers pressed lightly to his temple as water streaked through his hair.
Whatever comes… I'll face it.
His tone—even in his thoughts—held no tremor. Only unwavering resolve.
He finished his shower and stepped out, water sliding down his skin. Wrapping a white towel around his waist, he approached the tall mirror.
The reflection that met him was disciplined, composed.
His features were clean and defined—a straight nose, sharp brows, a calm jawline. His physique was lean yet balanced, the frame of someone molded by early training, not brute muscle. Not too large. Not fragile.
Just right.
Just controlled.
His white hair, still damp, fell slightly over his forehead, casting a soft shadow over his coldly serene expression.
His gaze shifted to the small silver crest resting on his nightstand.
His mother's gift.
He lifted it gently, its sapphire gemstone catching the faintest glimmer of light. Placing it around his neck, he let the charm settle against his chest.
He rarely removed it.
Even sleep didn't break that attachment.
He dried his hair, regulated his breathing, and began to dress—layer by layer, piece by piece:
A white royal inner robe.
A frost-blue ceremonial overcoat.
A slim sash embroidered with the Vael family sigil.
Polished silver cuffs.
The crest pinned neatly above his heart.
By the time he fastened the final clasp—
He looked less like a boy preparing for a rite.
And more like someone stepping toward a throne that had already sensed his arrival.
---
⭐ — Princess Aria Causes Chaos (Again)
Elsewhere in the palace—
Chaos had arms, legs, ribbons, and a very determined expression.
Princess Aria Vael Aravell sprinted down the corridor, her curls bouncing wildly, her dress tugging awkwardly at her knees.
"Mother! Father!" she shouted as she ran.
There was no pause.
No hesitation.
No consideration for knocking.
She flung the doors open.
Inside the chamber, King Alistair and Queen Elara froze mid-motion.
He had been holding her close from behind.
She had been leaning into him, fingers entwined with his.
They separated faster than magic.
Elara flushed scarlet.
Alistair coughed hard enough that even the guards outside raised an eyebrow.
"Aria—!" Elara gasped, half-shocked, half-flustered.
"You should… knock," Alistair muttered, clearing his throat once more.
Aria blinked at them, completely unbothered.
"Why? It's just you two."
Elara covered her face.
Alistair rubbed the bridge of his nose like a man enduring divine judgment.
"We were discussing the ceremony," Elara insisted.
"While hugging?" Aria asked plainly.
"…Yes," the king admitted with all the enthusiasm of a man being cross-examined.
Aria laughed brightly, eyes glowing with amusement.
"You two are cute."
Alistair nearly stepped on his own robe.
Elara turned an even darker shade of red.
After a few helpless moments, the queen sighed and patted her daughter's head.
"You look lovely today," she said gently, fixing a ribbon that had already gone crooked.
"Mother did my hair!" Aria declared proudly.
"The maids did your hair," Elara corrected, though smiling.
Aria hugged both her parents tightly, vibrating with excitement.
"We should get going," Alistair said, finally regaining composure.
"Yes!" Aria grabbed both their hands, tugging them forward as if she were leading the royal procession.
The three of them walked out:
Princess Aria bouncing with joy.
Queen Elara glowing with warmth.
King Alistair following with a composed face masking lingering embarrassment.
A family fit for the kingdom's heart.
---
⭐ — The Prince Steps Into His Fate
A soft knock came at Arcanis's chamber door.
"Your Highness," the butler called, voice respectful. "All nobles, captains, and Church representatives have gathered in the hall. Their Majesties and Princess Aria are on their way."
"Understood," Arcanis replied.
His voice was level.
Measured.
He checked the clasp on his overcoat, adjusted the crest by half a breath, and gave his reflection one last steady glance.
Calm.
Cold.
Majestic.
Ready.
He exhaled once, just enough to settle himself.
It's time.
He opened the door.
And stepped out.