The Aetherion ancestral domain had not hosted a celebration in centuries.
When the invitations were issued, they were few, precise, and impossible to refuse.
Golden platforms unfolded above the Ninth Firmament, forming a grand hall of light and quiet majesty. There was no excess ornamentation—no need for it. The space itself carried weight, and the laws of Empyreal Heaven aligned instinctively around the gathering.
Guests arrived one by one.
They did not announce themselves loudly. They did not boast. Those invited were beings for whom arrival itself was acknowledgment enough.
At the heart of the hall, upon a raised dais formed from condensed law, Seraphiel Aetherion stood beside Elara. Between them rested a cradle of pale light, simple in design, unadorned.
The child slept.
Cassian Aetherion did not cry, did not stir, did not demand attention.
Attention came to him regardless.
Conversations softened as guests drew nearer. Movements slowed. Even the ambient pressure of Empyreal Heaven seemed to dip slightly, as though unwilling to press too close.
"It has been a long time," a voice said calmly.
A tall figure clad in robes of radiant gold approached, his presence unmistakably refined. His gaze lingered on the cradle for a fraction of a second longer than etiquette required before returning to Seraphiel.
"Lord Solari," Seraphiel replied with a slight nod. "You honor our house."
The Solari representative smiled—warm, practiced, perfect.
"The birth of an Aetherion is not a matter one ignores."
He did not ask about the child's condition.
No one did.
Across the hall, another guest observed in silence. Cloaked in muted hues that resisted direct focus, the Noctyrr envoy did not approach the dais. Their attention never left the infant, yet no shadow dared touch the light surrounding the cradle.
"Interesting," the envoy murmured softly, to no one in particular.
Further back, members of lesser but still formidable lineages exchanged measured glances. Some admiration lingered in their expressions. Others masked calculation behind polite composure.
Wine was poured. Toasts were raised.
"To the continuation of Empyreal Heaven," one voice proclaimed.
"To balance," said another.
"To the Aetherion bloodline," a third added, after a brief hesitation.
Each declaration was met with nods and faint smiles. The words were correct. The tones were respectful. The ritual unfolded exactly as it was meant to.
And yet—
No one moved too close to the cradle.
Elara noticed. Of course she did.
Her hand rested lightly at Cassian's side, her posture composed, her expression serene. To any observer, she was the image of an Aetherion matriarch—unshaken, dignified, untouchable.
Only Seraphiel felt the subtle tightening of her fingers.
"Heaven is watching," Elara said quietly.
Seraphiel's gaze swept the hall, taking in the guests, the smiles, the careful distance.
"It always has," he replied.
Above the banquet hall, beyond the layered skies and obedient stars, the laws of Empyreal Heaven flowed smoothly once more.
The celebration continued without incident.
Laughter echoed softly. Polite conversation resumed. Gifts were presented—artifacts, blessings, symbolic gestures of goodwill.
But beneath the warmth and authority of the gathering, a silent consensus formed.
The child had been acknowledged.
And acknowledgement, in Empyreal Heaven, was never without consequence.