Time passed in the Monarch Palace the way it always did— slowly, deliberately, as if even seconds needed permission to move forward.
The blue marble halls remained unchanged, reflecting soft light that never came from a sun, yet felt warmer than any daylight below. Ministers came and went. Reports were filed. Decisions were made that would quietly shape continents.
And yet, beneath it all, the palace waited.
Even the palace itself seemed to know.
---
It happened without thunder.
Without alarms.
Without the grand, dramatic tremor most people expected when something important crossed the laws of the world.
A single envelope appeared in midair.
It didn't tear space. It didn't summon light. It simply existed, hovering gently above the central receiving altar—a platform reserved only for messages that ignored distance, dimension, and common sense.
The envelope was old-fashioned. Cream-colored. Slightly worn at the edges, as if it had traveled far—not physically, but conceptually.
The wax seal bore no name.
It didn't need one.
The runes carved into the altar flared blue.
Then gold.
Then—quietly—bowed.
Minister Roy was already there, staring at the letter as if it might suddenly bite him.
"…It arrived," he whispered.
Ark Sama entered moments later, hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable.
"So," he said softly. "He finally wrote."
Roy swallowed. "Yes, Esteemed Monarch."
Ark Sama approached the altar, every step echoing faintly in the vast chamber. The closer he got, the heavier the air became—not oppressive, but aware.
He reached out.
The moment his fingers touched the envelope, the palace reacted.
Not defensively.
Respectfully.
The letter opened on its own.
No explosion of light followed. No divine projection. Just words—simple, restrained, and unmistakably familiar.
Ark Sama read silently.
Once.
Twice.
Then he chuckled.
"…Still terrible at formalities," he murmured.
Roy dared to peek. "Esteemed Monarch… does the letter confirm—"
"He's coming back."
Those four words rippled through the chamber like a stone dropped into still water.
Roy exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"…After fourteen years," he said quietly.
Ark Sama nodded. "After fourteen years."
He folded the letter and slipped it into his robe.
"He didn't specify a time," Roy added carefully.
Ark Sama smiled. "He never does."
---
News traveled fast in the palace.
Not through announcements or bells, but through whispers—carried by footsteps, exchanged between glances, passed along trays of tea and folded linens.
In one of the side corridors, two maids paused beside a tall window that overlooked the sky.
Or rather, the absence of sky.
"…Did you hear?" one whispered, eyes shining.
"The letter?" the other replied, barely containing her excitement.
"Yes! They say it came directly through the Observer's routes!"
"After all this time…" the second maid clasped her hands together. "Fourteen years! I was barely assigned to the inner palace back then."
The first maid giggled softly. "I was still in training! I remember everyone panicking because half the servants didn't know how to act."
"Well, how could they?" the second said. "He disappeared so suddenly. Exile or not, it felt like the palace lost its gravity."
They both glanced instinctively toward the highest spire.
"…Do you think he's changed?" the first maid asked.
The second maid smiled gently. "I think… he's the kind who changes the world instead."
They returned to work, whispers trailing behind them like stardust.
---
Ark Sama did not delay.
That evening, he summoned his family.
Not formally.
Not as Monarch.
But as someone waiting.
They gathered in a private hall—smaller than the throne chamber, warmer, filled with soft light and familiar scents. No guards stood at the doors. No ministers lingered.
Only family.
Arc Sama sat first.
Despite sharing the same name, the difference between father and son was unmistakable. Arc Sama's presence was heavier, older—not overwhelming, but grounded, like the bedrock beneath a mountain. His hair had long since turned silver, yet his eyes were sharp, watching, calculating.
Beside him sat Akira Sama.
She smiled the moment Ark Sama entered.
"Judging by your expression," she said lightly, "it's finally time."
Ark Sama nodded. "He sent a letter."
Arc Sama's fingers tightened slightly around the armrest.
"…So," he said. "He survived."
Akira shot him a look. "Of course he survived."
Arc Sama snorted. "Exile beyond observation routes, fragmented laws, no protection—"
"And stubbornness inherited from both sides," Akira cut in sweetly. "Don't forget that."
Ark Sama laughed quietly.
Then there was a soft thump.
A chair scraped back.
"Really?"
A young girl leaned forward eagerly, her silver-white hair tied neatly, eyes sparkling with barely contained energy.
"Is he really coming back?" Yukimin Sama asked.
At fifteen, she was at that awkward age where authority and innocence collided. Officially, she carried a noble title. Unofficially, she was still the youngest in the room—and she knew it.
"Yes," Ark Sama said, smiling at her. "He's coming back."
Yukimin's smile faltered for just a second.
"…It's been a long time," she said quietly.
Three years.
Only three years younger.
Yet the absence had stretched much longer than that.
"I barely remember what he looks like," she admitted. "Just… fragments."
Akira reached out and placed a hand on her daughter's head.
"You'll recognize him," she said gently. "Family always does."
Arc Sama leaned back.
"…Will he come here first?" he asked.
Ark Sama shook his head. "Knowing him? No."
Akira sighed. "Of course not."
"He'll observe," Ark Sama continued. "Walk through the city. Look at what changed. What didn't."
"And judge us," Arc Sama added.
Ark Sama smiled faintly. "Probably."
Yukimin tilted her head. "Is that bad?"
"No," Ark Sama replied. "It's necessary."
---
Outside the palace, the city drifted.
A vast metropolis suspended in the sky, its foundations anchored not to clouds, but to rules.
The city did not float.
It existed above.
Invisible to all unauthorized eyes, shielded by layered domains that rewrote reality's permissions. Attacks passed through it as if through mist. Spells unraveled before reaching its borders. Even gods, uninvited, found their powers politely ignored.
This city followed its own laws.
Its own domain.
And now, those laws trembled— not in fear, but anticipation.
Somewhere far beyond visible space, a presence approached— not rushing, not hiding.
Just… returning.
And as the sky-city continued its silent flight, the Monarch Palace glowed just a little brighter.
Waiting.