---
The gates of Noctis Sanctum rarely opened.
And yet, on this gray morning—under veils of mist and songless winds—they did.
Not to an army. Not to a threat.
But to a carriage of obsidian and glass, drawn by two silver-plated horses. Their eyes shimmered like starlight, and their breath hung in the air far too long, whispering in a tongue no mortal should understand.
The carriage bore no banner. Only a sigil: a circle of thorns around a black flame.
"From the Dominion of Thorns," Tollin said, watching from the tower. "That's three kingdoms in one month."
Aether nodded. "We are no longer a secret. Only a question."
---
The emissary who stepped from the carriage was young, painfully so. Barely past seventeen, yet he moved with the grace of a seasoned courtier. His robe shimmered like oil on glass. His hair was braided with threads of starlight and bone.
But it was his **smile** that made Mirelle tense.
It was a smile meant to disarm. To invite. But behind it lurked something that watched too carefully.
"Aether of Noctis Sanctum," the boy said, bowing low, "my name is Veyran. Emissary of the Thorned Crown. I bring gifts, maps… and a question."
Aether regarded him in silence for a long breath.
Then, finally: "Speak."
---
They walked the Spiral Garden—an ever-shifting maze of silver flowers and echoing footfalls. Created from the Sanctum's will, it distorted distance just enough to make truth feel uncertain.
Veyran didn't seem to notice. Or if he did, he played dumb with unsettling ease.
"You've become… quite the legend," he said, admiring a petal that shimmered with an inner storm. "Three major powers have diverted trade routes just to avoid mention of your name. A bishop in Solaire publicly condemned you. And someone tried to summon your death in the Mirror Isles."
Aether raised a brow. "And yet here you are."
Veyran smiled again.
"I serve a curious king."
---
The "gifts" were displayed later in the Sanctum's grand audience hall:
* A blade forged from void-iron, capable of silencing spells.
* A map drawn in dragon-blood ink, showing all leyline crossings east of the Pale Sea.
* A sealed letter, scented faintly of roses and rust.
Aether opened the letter first.
> *"We do not yet kneel.
> But we acknowledge the rise.
> If you are the center, let us be the spokes.
> Speak, and we shall turn with you—or away."*
It was unsigned.
But the wax bore the **sigil of the old world**—a symbol buried even deeper than kings: the Crownless Pact.
Aether's fingers curled slightly.
History… remembered him.
Even when he didn't remember it.
---
"Why send you?" Mirelle asked bluntly. "You're too young to be anything but bait."
Veyran shrugged with a practiced elegance. "Youth opens doors arrogance cannot. Besides, I'm not here to kill your master. I'm here to *understand* him."
He turned to Aether.
"And to deliver an offer."
"I don't accept thrones," Aether said.
"No. But perhaps…" Veyran's eyes gleamed. "You'd consider rewriting what a throne can *be.*"
---
Later, in private, the Sanctum stirred.
Its walls throbbed faintly with light, and the glyphs along the hall glowed blue.
"Something's wrong," Tollin said. "The void-blade's edge is too smooth. Not forged. *Grown.*"
"It's alive," the Archivist whispered. "A spy."
The blade was removed, sealed beneath twenty-nine barriers, and buried in the Depth Archive.
The map? It changed itself when unobserved.
The letter? Hidden words emerged under moonlight:
> *"We see you.
> We remember your first fall.
> This world ends when you finish your sentence."*
---
That night, Aether sat alone in the Chamber of Chains—where unformed laws slumbered, waiting for a world to catch up.
He had built Noctis Sanctum to be a place beyond nations, beyond memory. A haven of reinvention.
But now, the world didn't just react.
It *anticipated.*
They remembered his *predecessors*. His *echoes*. The fragments he had never met, but somehow shared fate with.
> "I didn't choose to be this," he said aloud.
> "But you *are* this," the Sanctum replied, its voice low, motherly. "And choice only matters after the world watches."
---
At dawn, Veyran prepared to leave.
He bowed again, shallow but graceful. "No answers, then?"
Aether handed him a sealed crystal scroll.
"Only a beginning."
As the carriage vanished into the mist, Mirelle asked, "Why let him live?"
Aether looked toward the eastern horizon.
"Because seeds planted in poisoned soil still bloom."
---
**To be countinue....