The lanterns of Arisven burned like captured stars, their golden glow reflected in the polished marble floors and the dark waters of its courts. Every face Velastra passed seemed familiar and strange all at once—features unmarked by the titles or crests she relied on. Even the guards at the gate greeted her with respectful bows but no words of address. Here, names were as fleeting as a sigh.
Velastra's heart pounded. She reached out, searching for recognition in every pair of eyes. Yet each immortal she encountered was nameless—no thread of identity to grasp. Panic rose in her chest until she felt Orion's hand at her elbow.
"Do not change your robes," he whispered, voice steady in the hush of the passage.
"These garments carry the ward I sang. They tether your identity to you, even here."
Her fingers curled around the dark silk of her cloak, recalling the intricate weave of hidden runes—arcana that Orion had bound into the fabric. Without them, she would be lost in this place where *no one* bore a name.
"Arisven," Orion continued, lowering his voice further, "is the Oblivion of Names. No chanting of blood or oath will reveal who stands before you. An immortal here takes form only through *desire*. Whoever you long for most deeply will answer to the name you give them."
Velastra's pulse fluttered at his words. She understood at once: if she desired Cael above all, then *he* would emerge from the crowd when she spoke his name.
"But you cannot chant here," Orion added, eyes flicking toward the inner courtyard. "The island's wards will swallow any arcane invocation. You must call for him with your heart alone."
She drew in a trembling breath and let it out slowly. In the stillness, she heard only the soft echo of torchlight on water—and the distant murmur of music drifting from beyond the colonnade.
Velastra tightened her fingers on her cloak. No names. No titles. Only the one she sought.
She raised her head and stepped forward, letting her desire become her guide.
---
Velastra was led by her heart to the grandest palace of Arisven. The gate opened before her as an invitation. Velastra stepped into the grand palace's vast marbled hall, torchlight dancing along gilded columns entwined with night‑blooming vines. No sentinel barred her way—here, names carried no sway, and her runed cloak held her identity like a secret sigil.
She moved forward, each footfall muffled on the polished floor. Music and whispered laughter drifted from distant chambers—an undercurrent of pleasure that thrummed through the corridors and tugged at her chest.
Then she heard it—a soft, urgent laughter saying his name, that struck her heart with ice.
Her breath caught. The sound came from just ahead: a door slightly ajar, a strong scent of rose drifting through the crack. Velastra's pulse thundered in her ears as she crossed the threshold.
Inside, moonlight slanted through an open balcony, illuminating silken drapes stained deep crimson. On a low divan, Cael knelt before an immortal woman whose beauty seemed carved from dusk itself. Her hair fell like a waterfall of yellow silk; her wrists were bound by ribbons of silver. She pressed her lips to his in a kiss both tender and insistent.
Velastra froze. The world narrowed to that single, unforgiving tableau.
Every oath she had sworn, every scar she bore, burned within her. With a silent cry she unleashed her power: the air trembled, runes flared along her cloak, and an invisible force hurled the woman from Cael into the far wall.
Rose petals scattered like blood across the floor.
For a heartbeat, the woman lay still. Then Cael rose, his eyes show no awareness of who she is, his eyes blazing—not with fear, but defiance.
"Woman... stop!" he called, voice low and fierce.
She advanced, cloak swirling, fingers crackling with dark energy. Her eyes—golden and cold—fixed on the woman too stunned to move.
"How dare you?" Velastra hissed, each word laced with betrayal. "He is mine!"
The woman raised her hands, palms open, as if to plead—her silence echoing in Velastra's ears. But before Velastra could strike, Cael stepped forward, placing himself between them.
"She did nothing wrong," he said, voice unyielding. "You can wait for your turn—let her go."
Velastra's breath came in sharp pulls. Her throat constricted as anger warred with the memory of his gentle devotion. The arcane energy crackled beneath her skin, ready to rain down fury.
But Cael did not flinch. His gaze held hers—steady, unbroken.
"Woman," he continued, voice soft but firm, "why are you attacking her?"
In the hush that followed, Velastra felt the first tremor of fear. The air stilled, the runes on her cloak dimmed, and the woman at Cael's feet stirred, lifting her head with wide, fearful eyes.
Velastra's anger faltered. She saw not a rival but two souls caught between desires. The sharp edges of her power receded, leaving a hollow ache.
Slowly, she dropped her hand and stepped back.
"Go," she whispered, voice raw. "Except you."
Cael tucked the woman's hair behind her ear and helped her to her feet. Without turning, Velastra wrapped her cloak around herself and let Cael send her away—their strides measured, her heart a storm of love, jealousy, and dawning humility.
With loud voice, she said, "Cael...it's me."
Cael took a pause. His breathing heavy.
"Your highness... I know."
Then, Cael continued his steps, away from her. As they step out the door, they disappear. Leaving Velastra, staring at the empty exit.
She never took a step away. Her eyes blurry but cheeks dried. She stood there.
WAITING.