Epheotus, Muraeth Caelum, 588 years before the birth of Arthur Leywin. Three months after the Battle of Ashber Town.
Romulos Indrath
"Rommie." Mr. Denoir's voice was a low rumble. His hand settled on my shoulder, its weight both comforting and grounding. "What's wrong? You're usually so focused on our work."
He was right. Spread before us on the great obsidian table were scrolls older than the lesser civilizations, charts of aetheric convergence, and fragmented texts speaking of a theoretical entity we called the 'Legacy'—a being of absolute dominion over all forms of power, a concept so grand it bordered on myth even for us.
It was work that normally consumed me, that made the hours vanish like smoke. But today, the intricate symbols and ancient prophecies were just meaningless scratches.
My mind was a world away, trapped in a sunlit room in the human palace of Etistin City, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of a sleeping girl's chest.
Sammiram Glayder. Her name was a secret chant in my mind. For weeks now, I had been stealing moments, using my burgeoning control over spatium to create tiny, temporary windows into her recovery chamber.
I'd watch her talk with her family, practice walking on her healed leg, trace the new, pink scar on her neck with a thoughtful finger. Each visit was a risk, a thrilling, terrifying defiance. And each time, I felt the oppressive, unseen presence of Windsom, a constant reminder that my leash, though longer, was still firmly in Grandfather's grasp.
He was always lurking, a spectral jailer ready to drag me back to my isolation in Epheotus.
"Mr. Denoir…" I began, my voice softer than I intended. "Have you ever… loved?"
The question hung in the air for a heartbeat before Mr. Denoir erupted into a booming, rich laughter that seemed to shake the very dust motes dancing in the beams of aether-light. It wasn't a cruel laugh, but it was vast and deeply amused, echoing in the cavernous room.
"Ah, yes, boy. I did," he said, his laughter subsiding into a warm chuckle.
"Why the laughter?" I asked, finally turning to look at him. His face, usually a mask of severe, scholarly intensity, was crinkled with genuine mirth.
He was an enigma to me—more paternal and present than Grandfather had ever been, more fascinating than any of the stuffy, ancient Great Lords. In my eyes, his intellect was a sun that outshone all others save for Kezess himself.
"Love is a funny thing, Rommie," he said, his voice softening as he reached out to ruffle my hair with a familiar, affectionate gesture. "It is, at its core, a fundamentally useless emotion. A beautiful, agonizing complication. It makes you weak, clouds your judgment, and in the end, its only true purpose is to harm you. It's the universe's most exquisite trap."
I stayed silent, absorbing his words. They were grim, cynical, and yet they carried the weight of hard-won experience. I hadn't considered that Mr. Denoir, for all his strength and knowledge, might have a past painted in such somber colors. But then, he was the last of his Clan. That alone spoke of a history steeped in loss.
"Oh. Sorry, Rommie. Sorry," he said, his chuckle returning, though it now sounded a little forced, a little hollow. "I didn't want to make you feel bad. Who knows, maybe you are the exception to this rule. It wouldn't surprise me. After all, you are Romulos Vr-Indrath."
He said the name with a flourish, but there was a subtle, almost mocking edge to it that I was too distracted to catch.
"What happened to you?" I asked, ignoring the flattery. I needed his wisdom, his story. I needed to understand this dark undercurrent beneath his usually supportive demeanor.
"Oh, that's not a story you want to hear," he said, waving a hand dismissively. He feigned a look of sadness, but I could see the glint of performance in his wine-red eyes. He wanted to tell me.
"My wife… oh, she was a vision. But she betrayed me. Took my child away from me and left me to rot alone."
"Is that why you've been here in Muraeth as custodian?" I asked, my heart aching for him. The pieces seemed to fit together into a tragic picture.
"Of course," Mr. Denoir confirmed, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
A smile touched my lips, subconscious and warm. A sudden, profound understanding dawned on me. Maybe that's why he is so kind to me. He sees me as the child he lost!
The thought was staggering, a little blasphemous, and incredibly touching. Oh, the audacity and the tragedy of it! Only Denoir Roko would have the courage for such a thing—to essentially challenge Grandfather's authority by pouring his paternal instincts into the heir himself, all while maintaining the facade of the loyal custodian.
Lavinia, I thought, turning my gaze inward to my silent sister, I am sure you will love Mr. Denoir immensely when I save you. He is exactly the type of person I want by my side when I become Lord Indrath.
We will be a family. A real one. You, me, Mother, Grandfather, Grandmother, and Mr. Denoir. The image was so perfect, so achingly hopeful, that I felt a sudden, unexpected prick of tears in my eyes. And… and…
The fantasy couldn't hold. Reality, cold and sharp, intruded. There was nothing more. Just the desperate hope of a lonely boy.
"So," Mr. Denoir's voice cut through my reverie, suddenly light and teasing again. He sat down beside me on the stone bench, his large frame making the seat seem small. "Who's the lucky girl, Rommie?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. Panic, cold and immediate, seized my throat. What do I say?! I can't say she's a lesser! My mind raced, scrambling for a plausible lie.
My mouth opened and closed, producing only a strangled, "Ehm…"
"Come on, don't be shy." He nudged me with his elbow, his expression one of playful encouragement. "Another dragon, maybe? From the Inthirah Clan? A fiery phoenix of the Avignis? A clever basilisk of the Kothan? A mighty pantheon of the Thyestes?"
"I-I…" I stammered, buying time. My thoughts were a frantic whirl. What race could Sammiram pass for? She was fierce, with a fire in her spirit to match her affinity. A phoenix. Yes, a phoenix from a lesser-known clan. It was the best I could do.
Mr. Denoir smirked, nudging me again. "Well?"
"A-a phoenix!" I blurted out, the lie feeling clumsy and transparent on my tongue. "Of the Amintor Clan!" I named a minor, reclusive phoenix clan known for its warriors, hoping the obscurity would protect the deceit.
"A Clan of fierce phoenix warriors!" Mr. Denoir exclaimed, his eyes widening with theatrical surprise. But there was a glint in them, a sharp, knowing glimmer of mischief. "Is she their princess?"
My heart sank. He knew. He had to know. The mischievous glint was too sharp, too perceptive. In the months since I'd healed Sammiram, had I been so careless? Had I muttered her name in my sleep? Had he inquired subtly of Windsom? Or was he simply so insightful that he could see straight through my pathetic attempt at deception?
"You already know… right?" I asked, my voice small. I braced myself for it—the disgust, the disapproval, the cold withdrawal I had feared from everyone. This was the moment my one true friendship would shatter.
But Mr. Denoir didn't pull away. Instead, he gave me a gentle, reassuring pat on the head. The gesture was so at odds with the rejection I expected that I flinched.
"I don't judge you, Rommie," he said, his voice low and utterly serious now, all traces of teasing gone. "Like I told you, you can do whatever you want. The Indrath Clan? The Great Eight? You will rule over them all one day. It's time you started acting like it."
Lavinia… the relief was so immense it was a physical pain. A sob caught in my throat, and the tears I had held back earlier now spilled over. I cried for the loneliness, for the fear, for the weight of the secret, and for the overwhelming gratitude of being accepted, not as the Heir, but as myself, flaws and all.
Mr. Denoir didn't hesitate. He pulled me into a hug, his large frame enveloping me, his hand patting my back.
"It's all good, Rommie," he murmured, his baritone a soothing vibration against my ear. "It's all good."
For a long moment, I just let myself be held. I let the pretense and the pressure melt away in the safety of this dark, dusty library, in the arms of the only person who seemed to understand.
"But now," he said gently, releasing me and wiping a tear from my cheek with his thumb, his expression shifting back to the eager scholar. "Let's return to our Legacy research, don't you think? The answers won't find themselves."
I took a shuddering breath, the emotional storm passing as quickly as it had come. I nodded, a new, fierce determination settling in my chest.
"Yes, Mr. Denoir."
Dicathen, Etitsin Palace, 588 years before the birth of Arthur Leywin. Two months after.
The journey was a familiar, thrilling secret. In my miniature form, a small white hare with delicate, branching horns, I navigated the sprawling, sun-drenched city of Etistin.
It was a world of crude, fascinating simplicity compared to the celestial spires and aether-forged halls of Indrath Castle. The human royal palace, my destination, was a testament to their limited reach—crafted from white marble, yes, but lacking the impossible geometries and living stone of my home.
Its windows were open arches, devoid of glass, a concept still rare among lessers. Instead, they used thick velvet curtains in rich purples and deep blues, which they manipulated to play with the harsh sun, creating pools of comforting shade that felt strangely intimate.
Around my neck, a tiny, anvil-shaped pendant hummed with a soft, spatial energy. This was the Tempus Warp, a device of my own design, crafted with Mr. Denoir's invaluable guidance.
It was a pale, clumsy echo of the artifact Windsom used to traverse continents, but it was mine. It tethered my existence to the ley lines of Epheotus, allowing me a single, precious jump to this exact coordinates once per day. Each use was a calculated risk, a tiny theft of time from my gilded cage.
Today, as always, my small rabbit heart hammered against my ribs not from exertion, but from a potent cocktail of anticipation and fear. I landed silently on the sun-warmed stone of her windowsill, my white fur almost glowing in the afternoon light. I let out a soft, low squeak, our agreed-upon signal.
The deep purple velvet curtain was immediately drawn aside, and there she was. Sammiram. Her face, once pale with the pallor of death, was now flushed with health and a smile that seemed to outshine the sun itself.
"Rommie!" she exclaimed, her voice a melody that made the sterile grandeur of Epheotus feel like a tomb. She scooped me into the room with a gentle hand, her touch setting my every nerve alight.
She was radiant, completely recovered save for the fierce, pink scar that marred her shoulder—a permanent reminder of our first, fateful meeting. She wore a simple yet beautiful sleeveless white tunic, tied at the waist with a light blue sash that matched the brilliant sky behind her.
The moment my paws touched the woven rug of her chamber, I let the miniature form fall away. In a shimmer of condensed light, I returned to my humanoid form. I was still turning to face her fully when she moved. Her hands found my face, and she kissed me.
It was not a gentle, questioning kiss. It was confident, full of a life and passion that was utterly, breathtakingly mortal. It was a claim staked not on my title or my power, but on the part of me that existed only here, in this room, with her. The shock of it, the sheer audacious warmth of it, momentarily short-circuited the heir of Epheotus. When we parted, I could only manage a breathless, honest admission.
"I missed you." The words felt inadequate, but they were all I had.
Her smile softened, and her fingers, calloused from training but infinitely gentle, rose to caress the base of my horns. The sensation was still as electrifying as the first time.
"I did too," she said, her dark eyes holding mine.
Eager to share the world I'd built for us in my mind, I asked, "Do you want to test your magic? I made a lot of notes since last time we saw each other."
Seven agonizing days of counting hours, of pretending to focus on my duties between Muraeth Caelum and the Indrath Court, all for these stolen moments. I was determined to make each one count, to pour every bit of knowledge and care into her that I could.
"Sure!" Her excitement was infectious. "Our court magician says that if I continue like this, I will reach silver core before turning twenty-one!"
Silver core. The words should have been a cause for celebration. It was, by any lesser metric, a monumental achievement, a testament to her talent and my guidance. But a possessive, arrogant spike of irritation flared within me.
"Court magician?" I asked, my tone laced with a disdain I didn't fully mean to show. "You have me. Why do you care about the opinion of a mere lesser?"
She didn't flinch or look offended. Instead, a mischievous glint sparkled in her eyes. "I was just teasing you," she said, and then she did the most astonishing thing. She raised her hand and gently placed a finger against my lips, silencing me.
The sheer, breathtaking audacity of the act! The complete boldness! I was Romulos Indrath, grandson of Kezess Indrath, a being who commanded the fabric of reality. She was a mortal girl in a marble palace, a mayfly before a mountain.
And yet, in that gesture, there was no fear, no deference. There was only playful, intimate affection. She wasn't silencing an heir; she was quieting her Rommie. And in that simple, fearless act, she held a power over me that no Asura ever could.
The irritation vanished, burned away by a surge of emotion so powerful it stole my breath. I caught her hand, pulling it from my lips, and brought her into another kiss. This one was not born of her initiative, but of my own overwhelming need—a need to bridge the impossible divide between our worlds, if only for this fleeting, stolen moment.