Chapter 12: The Tenth Pillar
Chapter 12: The Tenth Pillar
The capital city stirred with quiet anticipation.
It wasn't war or calamity that brought such tension, but something far rarer—recognition. Not for a noble family or famed general, but for a single boy. A child who, at just twelve years of age, had shaken the very foundations of the empire's understanding of power.
Sirius Farah Von Ross.
The only son of the Grand Duke and Grand Duchess.
The boy the empire would soon name its Tenth Pillar.
The title was not handed out lightly. It hadn't been used in over three decades. For as long as the empire had stood, the might of its ruling order had been represented by the Nine Pillars—individuals whose strength defied the natural limitations of humanity.
Of the Nine, one stood above all: the Grand Duke, Sirius's father. The world's sole Grand Swordmaster and the strongest human alive.
Four Swordmasters—three from within the empire, one wandering beyond its borders—followed in his wake, their blades legends in their own right.
Four 8th Class Magicians, beings whose control over magic surpassed armies, completed the Nine.
These names were whispered with reverence and fear.
Until now.
Until a twelve-year-old boy cleaved through what the world believed impossible.
"He's only a child."
"He's already a Swordmaster?"
"A Seventh-Class Magician, too?"
The capital had drowned in rumors for months. But it was the emperor himself who cut through the whispers with a decree that stunned even the nobility:
"Let it be known. On the night of the Winter Solstice, the empire shall welcome its Tenth Pillar."
The nobility prepared for a grand ball, but among the estate's moonlit gardens, Sirius remained unchanged.
He stood alone beneath a tree, pale moonlight brushing over his silver hair. The whispers didn't reach him. They never had.
He had passed every test the Empire could devise.
Besting seasoned knights in mock duels. Silencing veteran mages in arcane displays. Scholars couldn't explain his mastery. Generals had no strategies to offer. What could be said of a child who bent the definitions of genius without effort?
Even so, his eyes remained distant.
Even as his name echoed in the corridors of power, Sirius stood apart. There was no thrill. No pride.
Only the quiet breeze. Only the moonlight.
His mother approached with a gentle smile, watching him draw beneath the stars. Another sketch of the moon, caught between branches, etched in silence.
"Tomorrow will be a day of honor," she said softly. "The world will finally acknowledge what we already know."
He didn't look up. "The world sees what it wants to see."
"And what do you see, Sirius?"
"…A sky that's always watching."
She didn't press further. She never did.
Later that night, in his usual spot on the terrace, Sirius lifted his eyes to the moon again.
The empire could raise banners, call him a prodigy, a genius, a legend.
It didn't matter.
Only the moon mattered.
"Ten Pillars now," he whispered. "But you were always the only one I needed to hold me up."
His voice faded into the wind, soft and unassuming.
And the moon, high above, said nothing.
But it listened.
Always.