The Grand Hall of Solaris Palace had never shone brighter.
Moonstone chandeliers glistened above, casting soft silver light onto ivory marble floors. Musicians played the harp and flute in gentle waves, their melodies weaving into the silk-draped whispers of the realm's nobility. The air itself smelled of opulence—aged wine, imported petals, and golden ambitions.
All for him.
Caelion Salvador, the Blue Paladin, stood at the center of it all.
"Commander Salvador, your return is a blessing," one noblewoman cooed, curtseying low, her voice honeyed but sharp underneath. "The gods truly favor us still."
He inclined his head—a quiet gesture of acknowledgement—but his eyes scanned the room. Polished shoes. Painted smiles. Political hunger veiled in perfume.
They all knew the truth.
The Salvador family did not marry like the rest.
Not through dowries or handfastings sealed in royal ink. Not even through alliances forged in war. Their unions were celestial-bound—chosen through divine signs, blessings from the heavens, and most sacred of all, the will of the Goddess of the Moon herself. Yet even that ancient custom didn't stop the nobles tonight.
One by one, they came.
Daughters, draped in gauze and jewels, rehearsed grace in every bow, trying to hide the desperation behind their smiles.
Sons, cloaked in diplomacy, posed offers of unity veiled in brotherhood and political stability.
"My son, Aurel, is well-versed in lunar theology," offered a plump Duke with hands too soft for a sword. "Perhaps he and your House might... converse more in private?"
Caelion's polite smile didn't flinch. "The House of Salvador converses only with the heavens."
A beat of silence.
The Duke laughed awkwardly. "Of course, of course. Just a jest."
But it wasn't. None of it was.
Even in the crowd, even behind fans and painted eyes, they all watched him. Some with admiration, others with envy, and a few with something darker. For while the Salvadors were revered, they were also feared—blessed with magic no other family possessed, tied directly to celestial law, and steeped in wealth that did not come from kingdoms, but from divine legacy.
As the crowd moved, a flicker of movement caught Caelion's eye.
Perched above, upon the second-floor balcony, veiled in shadow, stood the Empress herself—stoic, unreadable. Beside her, a hooded priestess from the Lunar Circle leaned in to whisper something.
A tingle ran down Caelion's spine.
He knew what they were watching for.
The moon had yet to name his bride.
And the nobles below? They were merely playing dice with the divine.
"Would you care for a dance, Commander?" Asked another girl—this one bold, with sea-green eyes and a sharp tongue. "They say the Goddess of the Moon values rhythm and grace. Perhaps she'd bless us mid-waltz."
He blinked slowly. "Then let the moon strike me down if I choose poorly."
She froze. The waltz died before it began.
It was a cruel thing to say, but truth was sacred in House Salvador. Especially when spoken beneath moonlight.
He excused himself, weaving through the garden doors into the fresh, cool night.
Above, the moon hung full and pale—silent.
Watching.
Caelion stood in the shadow of the towering marble columns that framed the palace garden, the laughter and music from the ballroom behind him fading into a muffled haze. His grip on the wine goblet was loose, arm draped lazily over the balustrade. Stars scattered the velvet sky like divine whispers, silent yet piercing. He had already made up his mind—one more noble lady batting her lashes and he'd vanish into the woods and ride until dawn.
He closed his eyes and tilted his head back. "No more," he muttered under his breath. "Let me go back to my order. Or the war. Or a dragon hunt. Anything but this."
But the stars stirred.
A subtle shift in the heavens, one that only a Salvador would notice. Threads of silvery light curved and looped into shapes across the night sky, forming a sigil that shimmered and pulsed—a celestial command.
Caelion didn't even bother masking the exasperated groan that escaped his lips. "Seriously?" He asked the stars, or more accurately, her.
There was no answer. Just a feeling. A weight.
Almost like a chuckle. Almost like... she was rolling her eyes at him.
"Fine," he grumbled, setting the goblet down with a soft clink. "Could've at least warned me before I planned my great escape."
He turned on his heel, long cloak catching the wind as he strode back inside the palace, blue eyes now aglow with a cold, ethereal light. The moment he passed through the grand archways, the atmosphere in the ballroom shifted. Conversations halted mid-word. Dancers froze mid-step. A few dropped their glasses.
Because everyone knew what it meant when the eyes of a Salvador shimmered with that lunar brilliance.
The Goddess of the Moon had spoken.
Not through voice, nor vision—but through command. Direct and divine.
Caelion scanned the room, the radiance in his eyes slicing through silk veils and false devotion like a blade. At the far edge of the hall, mingling innocently with the temple servants, was the group.
Clad in silver and ash-gray robes, they looked like acolytes of the sacred temples. But Caelion saw beyond the illusion. The stars had marked them. Their presence disrupted the natural threads of the room. An ancient corruption clung to their aura, like the smell of rotting incense.
A cult.
And worse—they wore the guise of the Moon's own priests.
"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered under his breath. "Here? Of all places?"
He gestured once, sharp and silent, and five of his knights moved instantly, answering the unspoken order.
"Take them," Caelion said aloud, voice echoing with unearthly command. "To the nearest Temple of the Moon. Do not spill blood under this roof."
The guests parted like waves before a storm. The supposed priests barely had time to blink before Salvador steel was at their backs, binding their hands with enchanted silver cords.
There were gasps. Some nobles whispered that it was disgraceful—arresting temple men during a royal celebration. Others, wiser or more afraid, held their tongues.
"Commander," one of the princes began, stepping forward with an uneasy smile. "Is this… really necessary?"
Caelion glanced sideways at him. "You think I glow like this for fun?"
The prince stepped back.
He followed his knights out into the night, the false priests dragged behind them. The moon hung heavy above, and for a second, Caelion felt the faintest warmth on his shoulder—like a hand.
A silent nudge from his goddess.
Still no apology.
"Thanks," he muttered sarcastically. "Next time, maybe let me finish my wine first."
But as he disappeared down the path, eyes still glowing, the crowd whispered louder than the music ever could.
From somewhere in the stars, he swore he felt her laugh.
The temple was quiet, almost too quiet.
Moonlight filtered through the vast stained glass window, casting silver hues upon the marble floor. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense, and the flickering flames of ceremonial candles painted moving shadows across the faces of the priests kneeling by the altar. It was a holy night—one meant for peace and praise.
Yet the heavy thud of armored boots shattered the sanctity.
Caelion Salvador entered with a dozen of his men trailing behind him, their faces stern, their grips tight on the robed figures they dragged in chains. The cultists—hooded and trembling—were forced to their knees before the Moon Altar, their masks torn away, revealing faces etched with madness and zealotry.
A priest, tall and draped in moon-embroidered vestments, stepped forward, dipping his head in reverence. "Commander Salvador, praise be to Her Radiance. We were informed of your arrival. Shall we prepare the rites for cleansing? The High Oracle herself is on her way—"
"No."
The word echoed like a command from the heavens.
The priest blinked, confused. "But… this is sacred procedure—"
"I'm aware," Caelion muttered, dragging a gauntlet down his face. He walked forward, each step heavy with divine weight, until he stood directly before the cultists. His shadow towered over them like the judgment of the moon itself.
"My goddess," he began with a tired sigh, lifting his eyes toward the massive moon-shaped crystal hanging from the ceiling, "is having a grand time watching me suffer."
Gasps filled the chamber. One priest nearly choked on his own breath. Another dropped the censer he was holding, the chain clanging on the floor.
"Blasphemy," whispered one. "He dares—"
"He is a Salvador," the High Keeper said from the back, her voice low, aged, but resolute. "He can dare."
Caelion didn't look away from the suspended moonlight crystal, his sapphire eyes still glimmering with divine magic. "You want me to do this myself, don't you?" Ha muttered to the heavens. "You just couldn't let me have one peaceful night, could you? Just one?"
There was no answer—no sudden breeze, no shaking ground, no voice of prophecy. But he felt it.
That feeling.
Like a goddess was rolling her eyes at him again from the sky.
He exhaled sharply. "Of course not."
The tension in the room was tangible now. The priests bowed their heads, choosing silence. This wasn't their trial to oversee. It was his.
Only a Salvador could be the vessel of such command from the divine. And tonight, the heavens had chosen judgment through his hands.
Caelion's hand moved to the hilt of his blade—not the one at his hip, but the ceremonial dagger blessed by the moon herself. It pulsed with quiet light as he unsheathed it, walking slowly toward the first of the cultists.
"Speak your lies," he commanded, voice cold and sharp. "Speak, and may the moon strike you down if they are not your truth."
The cultist spat blood onto the floor, smiling through cracked lips. "You think you serve the moon, Paladin? She abandoned you long ago."
Caelion didn't blink. "She may have. But she still listens when I ask her who needs to die."
He placed the blade at the man's neck.
The crystal above pulsed, bright and angry. The cultist screamed—his body convulsing as silvery light coiled around his limbs like burning vines. His mouth foamed. His veins glowed.
And then he fell still.
Dead.
No blood, no wound—just silence.
A divine sentence had been passed.
Caelion stepped back, unfazed, his eyes flicking to the next prisoner.
One of the younger priests trembled. "He… he's judging them one by one…"
The High Keeper nodded solemnly. "This is the price of carrying heaven's favor."
Another scream echoed. Another cultist collapsed.
And another.
The temple watched in reverent terror as Caelion Salvador became both sword and verdict. They all knew the tales. The Salvadors were born cursed for a sin their ancestor committed—a betrayal of the heavens. And so they became the reluctant hands of divine justice.
Chosen.
Feared.
Isolated.
And as Caelion stood over the last body, his face carved from stone, the moon crystal flickered once more, dimming at last.
It was done.
He looked up, jaw tight. "I hope you're satisfied," he murmured to the stars.
No answer.
Only silence and the lingering scent of judgment.