In the hour of Gioden's inauguration the wind above Win'Tarra seemed to sharpen. The sky remained clear, cloudless. Today, Ellevath did not hide His face.
On the cliff above the Fifth Tower, in a golden-framed amphitheater, gathered the rulers of the eight Houses, their shadows resting heavy against the white stone. The half-circle rose so high the city's lower levels drowned in mist; their only company was the murmur of wind that, at this altitude, didn't hold back.
Gioden V'Asanii, robed in the ceremonial lliath of the Fifth House, unarmed, palms resting on the scroll of Oath, stood at the center. His stance remained steady but his eyes, that cut the horizon, remained restless.
They came.
At first, in silence. Shadows gliding over cliffs at perfect angles. Seven winged figures descended, but none touched the stone. They hovered, three feet above the ground, in obedience to their first, most sacred vow: never touch the earth. Archseraphs, the command pinnacle of Antarrila. They had not fought battles; only given commands. They answered only to Ellevath - and after Him, to the Heavenly Steward - the Sechvenn of the Fifth House. Their presence was quiet, but held weight that made the air tremble.
And it had trembled, though not from wind, but from the mass that had come from the sky.
Gioden lifted his gaze.
And he saw them - the endless cloud of white and black.
Twenty thousand Angels of Antarrila in black, silver, and gold light-armor, aligned in aerial grids, hovering over Win'Tarra in a mosaic of wings.
Their bearing voiced louder than any shout: order, faith, silence and death.
The amphitheater had no roof; yet the sky seemed smaller beneath them.
The eldest Archseraph, marked by a silvered edge to his breastplate, spoke:
"By the law of the divine line, by the doctrine of loyalty, by the right of the heavens - we come."
His voice was clear and quiet, yet cut the air.
"We acknowledge the Sechvenn of the Fifth House, Gioden V'Asanii, as sole earthly steward of our will. Our loyalty rests not in blood, but in oath. And an oath is never broken."
They bowed their heads. All of them.
Except Gioden.
He stood tall, eyes fixed on the Archseraph. Then he knelt - not on polished stone, but on the rock from which it had been cut. A gesture not to Antarrila, but to Ellevath: the one who commands heaven's host does so in the Higher Name.
"I accept your oath," he said, without pride, without fear.
The Archseraph raised his hand to the east. At that single sign twenty thousand turned, spiraling as one - one motion, one breath, one wing.
The onlookers held their breath; some of the lesser Sechvenn averted their eyes. The sight was unnerving: too perfect, too inhuman.
Antarrila was no army.
It was doctrine sharpened into spear.
The formation locked into the shape of a winged sword, its blade pointed at the heart of Win'Tarra.
Gioden rose.
"We begin."
No applause. No cry.
All understood: this was no celebration. This was a warning.
Gioden was now Sechvenn. And master of the sky.
All who touched the earth now knew their true height.
---
The hall behind Ellevath's High Temple was cool; the stone pure, the air scented with burnt petals and wax. Fariah sat upright, hands folded, gaze fixed on nothing.
Behind she heard Gioden's footsteps - light, certain.
"You are late," she said.
"The inauguration ended not long ago, Mother," Gioden replied, still in his ceremonial lliath, wings folded with precision.
"And it passed without Eirran."
He stopped.
"Where is he?"
"I told you, he did not feel called."
"That is not an answer."
He inhaled slowly. To speak truth? Of the child, of Ulm? One sentence and all would fall. The question was what remained.
Fariah spoke:
"In the Book of the Pure it is written: 'A son who leaves his father's body without prayer shall be as a feather in the mud. He will not fly, he will not fall - he will only rot.' Ellevath's words."
It cut through Gioden's hesitation. She could not know.
"This time, his absence was not contempt," he said calmly. "He was summoned to Astochia. Storms damaged the fleet near the Astochian bay; there are casualties. He insisted on going."
"Without protocol? Without the High Council?"
"Without pomp. The old Eirran would have waited for summons. This one acts."
She was silent a long while.
"Perhaps he lost his way when he left the Antarrila," she said at last. "Perhaps only the body returned, while his spirit lingers in the mud."
"He knows the boundaries," Gioden replied.
"I hope so." She turned her back on him. "When an Ilar forgets who he is, the world loses its shape. When blood loses its meaning, wings mean nothing."
"Father left you a letter," Gioden interrupted her before she could fall deeper into fervor.
She spun around, her gaze flickering.
He laid the scroll down. "Unsealed, unsigned. Written in the hand he used for his final commands. It is not... devout."
"You read it?"
"I did. I was there when he finished it."
"Then he judged it belonged more to you than to me."
"He judged you had already carried enough of his burden. This one... Is a farewell. To both of us."
She said nothing. She stood straight, wings unmovable as marble.
Gioden felt the weight of it: in this house, truth could no longer be spoken without the walls themselves collapsing.
The child is a thing, he thought. Not a person. Not a threat. Not an heir. A thing - precious to Eirran only because it is all that remains of his love. As long as he held to control, and Eirran to bargains, the child did not exist.
He left quietly. Fariah remained alone. Alone with Ellevath's statue, and with the feeling lodged under her skin like a thorn: that someone was lying. And that perhaps, just perhaps, something not buried with her husband still walked the world.
Outside, the sky was still clear. The doctrine was sealed. The sword had been raised - not in battle, but in vow.
Today, the Fifth House did not claim power.
It simply reminded the world who's always held it.