Chapter 8 –Silent Echo and Protective Shadow
As the crystals on the ceiling of the Leaf Dome still gently vibrated with the last burst of Elara's dance, the solemnity of the ceremony gave way to the warmth of shared pride. Members of the Sylendôr Dynasty, noble mages, and grand aristocrats had now shed their formality, gathering in the dimly lit gardens of the academy. The air was filled with the freshness of new blossoms and damp earth, mingled with the lingering scent of extinguished incense.
Elara held her mother's hand tightly; she was tired, but her eyes sparkled more brightly than ever before. The attention brought by the successful ritual, though heavy for a five-year-old's shoulders, gave her strength through the happiness on the faces of her family and people. Orin held his daughter with one hand while his son, Aelion, dozed in the other arm. Seven-month-old Aelion, oblivious to the surrounding chaos, whispers, and intense mana residue, breathed peacefully on his father's shoulder.
Just then, two important figures approached them from the crowd. Luthien, representative of the Vael'tharon Dynasty, was as serene as a water nymph in her ice-blue accented robes. Beside her stood Teyran, the magnificent "Armored Mage" of the Elarion Dynasty, in his silver armor that he hadn't even removed for the ceremony. There was an expression of sincere respect.
Luthien bowed slightly before Lyra. "Princess Lyra," she said, her voice like the murmur of a spring. "Your daughter has honored the spirit of tradition. In her steps, we once again saw that first rhythm, that pure harmony our ancestors whispered to nature. As the Vael'tharon Dynasty, we are proud that you have kept this heritage so flawlessly alive."
Teyran spoke in a deeper voice, his eyes on Elara's tired but upright posture. "Such grace requires an unwavering will. To see dance transformed into art is to see art in its most aesthetic form. The best dance I have ever watched, as expected from a member of the Sylendôr house."
Lyra bowed her head in gratitude at these heartfelt words. This was not just her daughter's success but a celebration of a shared value among the entire elven race—their unbreakable bond to their roots.
As they entered the palace's emerald and silver-embellished doors, the family was met with warm embraces. Here, the elders of the Sylendôr Dynasty—Lyra's uncles, aunts, and cousins—awaited them, with the joy of reuniting with loved ones returning from a long holiday.
Elara immediately became the center of attention. Her grandmother stroked her hair, and her uncle gifted her a small horse made of mana crystal. Laughter and congratulations filled the hall. After a while, an elderly family member noticed Aelion, sleeping in Orin's arms.
"Orin, who is this silent angel?" she asked tenderly. "Even his beauty shines like mana."
Aelion was gently passed from lap to lap. He wasn't bothered by this loving attention, sometimes opening his sleepy eyes to gaze meaninglessly at the smiling faces around him before drifting back to sleep. No one found his snow-white hair or platinum eyes unusual; on the contrary, they admired his uniqueness. He was the family's newest, most innocent, and most silent member.
As the sweet fatigue of the day settled, Lyra knew only one visit remained. The pinnacle of the dynasty, their ancestor, a living legend: Emperor Caelthor Sylendôr.
The Emperor's personal garden was the calmest place in the palace. In this place where even time flowed slowly, the 9500-year-old Emperor sat in the shade of an ancient tree. His eyes were closed, but his presence filled the entire garden. He was not just a leader but a living symbol of the Sylendôr dynasty's political and spiritual order.
Lyra, Orin, and the children approached silently. Caelthor slowly opened his eyes as he sensed their arrival. His gaze first focused on Elara, who bowed respectfully to her great-grandfather. A faint smile, rarely seen in a thousand years, appeared on the Emperor's face. This was an appreciation far greater than words could express.
Then, his gaze shifted to the baby in Orin's arms.
Lyra, understanding her father's unspoken request, stepped forward and gently brought Aelion closer to the Emperor.
Emperor Caelthor did not raise his hand to touch the baby. He simply looked. With eyes as deep as the ocean, as ancient as the stars, he scrutinized that small, innocent being.
And in that moment, it happened.
Something no one else could perceive, something even the most powerful Saint couldn't discern, something only that ancient soul, one with the essence of time and mana, could feel… A completely involuntary and silent "echo" emanated from Aelion's being. This was not a power wave. This was the whisper of a vanished race, the soul of the First Saint, sealed within the river of mana thousands of years ago.
The serene expression on the Emperor's face didn't even waver for a moment. From the outside, nothing had happened. But within his inner world, a melody that had been silent for ages had come back to life. He remembered something he had forgotten.
Without taking his eyes off Aelion, he turned to Lyra. His gaze was both affectionate and filled with a meaning so profound that Lyra could not yet comprehend it.
"Take good care of your son, my daughter," he said, his voice calm and deep. "He is all of our heritage."
Behind this simple sentence lay a truth Lyra did not know, but her father now did. What they held in their arms was not just a baby, but the key to a past the world had forgotten and the greatest secret of the future. The Emperor had been the first to notice Aelion. And this knowledge, for now, would remain hidden only in his ancient heart.
In the deepest hours of the night, as the Emerald Palace fell asleep, Emperor Caelthor Sylendôr was awake. In his personal observatory at the highest tower of the palace, the magical sky covering the ceiling reflected Velmora's true star map. The 9500-year-old Emperor was not watching the stars or the sleeping city below. His eyes were closed, his mind swimming in an ocean deeper than time itself.
In his mind, the moment he looked at his grandson Aelion replayed again and again. What he felt then was neither power nor an aura. It was an echo. A whisper older than the chaotic eras when the wars of the Saints shattered continents, even older than thousands of years ago when the world was young and fragile. His mind went beyond the dusty memories of the "7000-Year Endless War" to the tragedy of a race whose very names had faded into legends: the Aion. Those ancient beings born from mana, but wiped out by the combined races due to their small numbers. And their First Saint… that last hope who sealed his own core into the river of time.
The Emperor now knew the owner of that echo, that whisper. The innocent baby in his arms was not just his daughter Lyra's adopted child but the last heritage of a race, the reborn form of one of history's most powerful beings. This knowledge was a power that could move a mountain. In the wrong hands, it was a spark that could ignite the seven kingdoms anew.
Caelthor, a silent and strategic figure, did not panic. His mind worked with a foresight that viewed centuries like a chessboard. This secret, for now, had to belong only to him. Aelion's existence was both a fragile sapling to be protected and a potential volcano to be kept under control. His plan began to form in his mind. A three-stage, silent, and deeply working strategy. First stage: Protection and Concealment. Second stage: Observation. Third and most difficult: Understanding and Guidance. Tonight, he would take the first step of the first stage.
Later that same night, in one of the rooms on the other side of the palace, Lyra, too, could not sleep. While her daughter Elara slept soundly from the day's exhaustion, Lyra watched Aelion, breathing peacefully in his crib, unaware of anything. Her father's last glance and words were etched into her mind like a seal: "He is all of our heritage."
Lyra knew her father. A 9500-year-old being did not waste words. Every emphasis, every silence carried layers of meaning. In those words, there was much more than a grandfather's love for his grandchild. There was a weight, a responsibility, and a deep mana that Lyra could not yet name.
As a Saint, her instincts were extraordinarily keen. She thought about the inexplicable mana intensity she felt the day they first found Aelion, the shock she experienced when he channeled mana at six months old, and the dangerous texts she read in the library about "High Early Resonance." At the time, she had been terrified by the risk of her son experiencing a mana burst and losing his life, but relieved that as a Saint, she could guide him.
But her father's gaze whispered that this situation was far beyond a simple "early resonance." What had her father seen? What had he noticed that even her Saintly intuition could not perceive? These questions were turning her protective instincts as a mother into an almost painful anxiety. There was a huge shadow around her son that she could not yet see, and how could she fight if she didn't know what that shadow was?
The next morning, Lyra's anxieties took a tangible form. When her door was gently knocked, standing before her was Empress Ilysera herself. The 8500-year-old Empress, with her cheerful and diplomatic smile, glided in. This elegant woman, the true ruler of power, as always, did not show her emotions.
"Dear Lyra," she said warmly. "Your father has been thinking about little Aelion since last night. He wanted to send him a small grandfather's gift."
The servant behind the Empress presented a small object resting on a velvet cushion. It was a small, smooth obsidian stone, glowing like the darkness of the night, small enough to fit in the palm of a hand. It had no embellishments, just pure, deep darkness. It was attached to a silver chain to be hung over the crib.
"How thoughtful," Lyra said, trying to hide her surprise. From the outside, it looked like an ordinary but elegant protective charm.
As she reached out to take the stone, her fingertips paused just before touching the obsidian. Her Saintly senses rang like an alarm bell deep within her soul. It was invisible to the eye, inaudible to the ear, but she could feel it. Inside this small, innocent-looking stone, there was an incredibly intense, compressed power, capable of moving a mountain, of bending time. This was not a gift. This was a seal. A shield. A cage.
She understood the stone's purpose in that moment. This was a priceless artifact designed to absorb any mana waves that might involuntarily emanate from Aelion, to hide his true mana signature even from the most powerful seers, and to protect him from the dangers of his own power.
Lyra took the stone from the cushion. Its weight was not physical, but spiritual. She thanked the Empress, a grateful smile on her face, but a storm raged within her.
After the Empress left, Lyra looked at the stone in her hand, then at her son, who was sleeping innocently in his crib, unaware of anything. Her father had made his move. This gift was as much a declaration of control as it was a show of affection. From that moment on, her son was under the Emperor's silent and all-seeing protection. She was no longer the only one bearing the burden of this secret; she knew her father knew it too.
She understood that this innocent baby in her arms was at the center of a game far grander than she had ever imagined. And no one yet knew the rules of this game. With the awe and dread this realization brought, she stroked her son's snow-white hair. Their journey had truly begun.