Chapter 24: Beneath the Surface
The capital was restless.
From the outer markets to the marble halls of the palace, one name echoed louder than any title, decree, or prophecy:
Sirius Farah Von Ross.
At thirteen, he was already being called the youngest prodigy in recorded history. Military tacticians discussed him like a natural disaster—beautiful, unstoppable, and unpredictable. The Empire's mage circles had tried to invite him to countless lectures and examinations.
All were declined.
He didn't need validation.
He didn't need people.
And most importantly, he didn't need to waste time on things that weren't her.
His presence at imperial councils was no longer symbolic—it was decisive.
When war maps were drawn, Sirius pointed out flaws.
When envoys from distant nations proposed alliances, Sirius's cold evaluations determined their worth.
Once, a prince from a distant desert kingdom offered his sister's hand in marriage along with rare magical relics in exchange for alliance.
Sirius's response had been quiet, polite—and ice cold:
"Keep your trinkets. And your sister."
It caused a diplomatic scandal.
The Emperor himself laughed privately at the boy's blunt rejection, even as advisors scrambled to smooth over the fallout.
Sirius didn't care.
He wasn't there to play their games. He wasn't human in the way they wanted him to be.
At home, his father observed in silence.
The Grand Duke had always been a man of war, revered across continents. But even he was beginning to realize something:
His son's strength was terrifying.
Not just because of the speed of his growth—but the distance it created.
Sirius no longer sparred with knights. They couldn't keep up.
He trained alone, under the moonlight, slicing through illusions of his own creation—phantoms made from magic and memory. In each strike, he chased something more than power.
He chased remembrance.
And reconnection.
One night, the Duchess entered his garden after weeks of being gently refused entry.
She found her son standing barefoot in the moonlit grass, sword in hand, eyes closed.
"Sirius," she said softly.
He didn't move.
"I know you're growing, and that you're not the same little boy I held in my arms. But… I hope you're not walking too far away from us."
His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper.
"I am not walking away."
"Then what are you doing?"
He opened his eyes.
"Looking toward something else."
The Duchess felt her heart tighten. She didn't ask what. She knew she wouldn't understand.
She only nodded.
And Sirius, once more, returned to silence.
That week, he was named First Commander of the Moonlight Battalion—an elite force of mages and knights formed under the Empire's direct order.
It had never happened before.
A boy of thirteen leading a unit of veterans and war-hardened elites.
But none questioned it. Because none could defeat him.
His room, as always, remained sealed.
No one was allowed in. Not servants. Not knights. Not tutors.
Only his parents knew the truth:
Behind that sealed door was a world drenched in silver and white.
Thousands of moonlit paintings.
Endless handwritten poems.
Pages filled with a single name.
Abylay.
Not a goddess he prayed to—
But the one he belonged to.