Chapter 13: Crimson Amidst Gold
Chapter 13: Crimson Amidst Gold
The Grand Ballroom of the Imperial Palace glittered like a dream of power.
Crystal chandeliers hung like inverted constellations, refracting golden light across silk banners and polished marble. The air shimmered with the perfume of roses and nobility—every duke, duchess, and councilor clad in their finest, their smiles painted as carefully as their words.
They had come not just to celebrate, but to witness.
To see the boy.
The Tenth Pillar.
Whispers slid between wine glasses and jeweled fans.
"Twelve years old… how can it be?"
"The youngest Pillar in the history of the Empire."
"A Swordmaster and a 7th Class Magician? Impossible. That title is symbolic, right?"
But none dared to voice doubt too loudly—not when the Grand Duke himself stood near the dais, a silent guardian of truth. His towering presence needed no introduction. The sword at his back had cleaved empires in two. And now, his son stood beside him, dressed in imperial crimson trimmed with black.
Sirius.
Not a trace of nervousness in his bearing. His posture was that of a prince, forged rather than born. Yet his eyes were distant. Unreadable. They did not shine with boyish wonder or pride.
They searched the high windows instead, beyond the glass and gold—where the moon peeked faintly through drawn velvet.
The Emperor, adorned in robes of deep navy and crowned with the sigil of the sun, raised his goblet high.
"Tonight," he declared, "we do not merely honor a child. We acknowledge a truth already etched into fate."
Gasps rippled through the court.
"The Nine Pillars have long held the weight of our Empire. But today, we name a Tenth. One born of unmatched talent… and boundless potential."
He turned to Sirius. "Come forth, Sirius Farah Von Ross."
The boy moved—not hesitantly, but not eagerly either. Each step deliberate, as if the marble beneath his boots was unworthy of haste.
The Emperor placed a hand lightly on Sirius's shoulder, a ceremonial touch.
"From this moment on, you are the Tenth Pillar of the Empire."
Applause thundered.
Goblets clinked. Musicians resumed. Dancers spun across the floor. And yet Sirius stood still, unmoved in the sea of celebration.
Someone tried to approach him—a young noblewoman in lavender silk, emboldened by wine and curiosity. But she faltered before reaching him. His eyes—those cold, unwavering eyes—did not even flicker toward her.
He didn't look once.
The moment passed. She turned away, flustered.
Across the hall, his mother watched from her place among the high seats, a gentle smile on her lips. And beside her, the Grand Duke remained still, arms folded.
They were proud. And yet… neither truly understood him.
No one did.
Because as the court danced in gold and praise, Sirius's thoughts drifted to the terrace. To ink on fingers. To silent sketches. To the sky that always watched.
That night, long after the ballroom emptied and torches dimmed, he stood alone once again—this time atop the palace, his gaze locked on the full moon.
The title meant nothing.
The applause meant less.
He lifted a hand toward the moonlight.
And whispered—not like a boy, not like a hero—but like something ancient wearing a child's shape:
"They cheered for what they saw. But you… you remember what I was."
The moon, silver and eternal, remained above him.
Unchanging.
Watching.
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