The moon never opened its eyes, but it saw everything.
There were no entrances to the Imperial Observatory. It was simply there, built not with hands but with decrees whispered by unseen things during the empire's founding.
Twelve veiled figures stood in a ring, unmoving around a pool of light that never rippled. They wore robes the color of memory loss, stitched with symbols not found in any known constellation. Their masks were curved glass—mirrored from within, so each saw only themselves when looking upon another.
They were the Watchers.
A windless silence ruled the sanctum. Time didn't crawl here. It obeyed.
Then: a click. A subtle motion. A breath that didn't belong to anything human.
One Watcher twitched.
"…the child's presence continues to shift the strands," the cracked-helmed one rasped. "He is not meant for balance."
"He is not meant for anything," said another, with a voice like broken glass folding on itself. "A ripple without a tide. A shape without a prophecy."
A mirrored sphere descended from the unseen ceiling. Within: a boy—dark-haired, silent-eyed—glanced unknowingly skyward, the faintest pulse of light beneath his skin.
The Watchers stared.
They had been staring for years.
"He breathes wrong," whispered one. "Even the threads woven by the Golden Lineage bend around his heartbeat."
Another leaned forward, voice thick with ecstatic dread. "What awakens near him dies different."
Then the thirteenth seat in the room—the root-throne grown from petrified veins—gave a hum that was not a hum. A murmur not made with sound.
Upon it sat a figure no one described.
The twelve fell to their knees in a single breath, heads bowed, arms lowered.
"The Immortal One who Dreams Not," they chanted, low and hollow. "We bear veils in Your absence. We move the heavens for Your return. We tear the map to redraw the stars."
The throne said nothing. The light around it bent as though refusing to witness.
The cracked-helmed Watcher stood again.
"This boy—his presence veils the edge," he muttered. "And the chain must remain whole."
He pulled from his robes a pigeon. Its feathers shimmered like forgotten moonlight soaked in oil. Gently, he opened its beak and slid a crystal scroll into its throat—a missive woven with memory, sealed with a breath taken near the throne itself.
"To the Whisper in Hollow Flame," the Watcher murmured. "To She-Who-Was-Once-Flameborn. Let her spy, twist, and split the line from inside."
The other Watchers began to laugh. Some softly. Some with trembles. One too loud. One too long.
"I see it," one rasped between coughs of joy. "I see the Zyreon Patriarch... standing to speak with us. With us. Not because we kneel—but because he does."
"Because even tyrants know when to recognize silence made holy."
"And our work is holy."
"We are the Watchers."
The pigeon vanished into silver fog. And with it, the laughter ceased.
---
Thaleon Academy – Midnight, atop the Eyrie Library
A woman in grey stood at the highest spire, her eyes rimmed with shadows that never left her. Hair like fading ash. Gaze like judgment postponed.
Lady Ishal.
The crystal-winged pigeon landed on her outstretched arm, completely silent.
She smirked. Not out of warmth. But recognition.
"Still watching me, old ones?" she whispered. "Still remembering the broken child you picked from the fire?"
She pulled the scroll and pressed it to her forehead. It pulsed once—softly.
Below, the library roofs slept like dead gods. Students dreamed. Professors drank. Children hoped.
She watched none of them.
Her gaze was fixed toward a quiet dormitory wing.
"Poor boy," she said to no one. "They'll devour you, you know. The Academy, the Houses, the stars themselves. But not if I reach first."
She turned, the wind spiraling her coat behind her like a cape.
"Valshura spat me out. Saevareth buried me. But the Watchers… they remembered. They listened."
And then her voice lowered, a hiss edged with delight.
"Enira shines. But fires flicker. And roots rot beneath."
A smile cut her face in half.
She vanished into the shadows of the high tower, leaving the crystal message pulsing like a heartbeat—forgotten or waiting.