Chapter 28: The Rift Beneath the Silver Gaze
Chapter 28: The Rift Beneath the Silver Gaze
The palace was dressed in splendor.
Silken banners of obsidian and silver fluttered in the evening breeze, and crystalline lanterns bathed the Grand Duke's estate in ethereal light. This was no ordinary celebration—it was the sixteenth birthday of Sirius Farah Von Ross, the Tenth Pillar of the Empire.
Every noble house that mattered had sent envoys. The entire western wing of the Grand Estate had been converted into a ballroom shimmering with light and elegance, each detail meticulously arranged to reflect the glory of the Von Ross lineage. Music floated like mist over the marble floors, and lords and ladies alike strained to catch a glimpse of the boy who had become a legend before adulthood.
Sixteenth. And already a Grand Swordmaster. Already a 9th Class Magician.
The Empire had never seen such terrifying potential compressed into a form so young. He moved like dusk made flesh—tall, refined, with a presence that silenced conversation. His black attire glimmered faintly under the chandeliers, but it was his crimson eyes that left people breathless. They did not shimmer with arrogance or passion—only cold distance.
He was silent most of the evening. He accepted bows with the smallest tilt of his head, acknowledged the Emperor's personal letter of congratulations with a glance, and did not offer a word more than was required.
His power was whispered about in corners where the nobility huddled.
"He reached 9th Class before the Crown Prince did…"
"The Duke's boy… no, not a boy anymore."
"He didn't even use a sword against the northern rebels. Just a flick of his fingers, and the ground froze."
But none dared approach him casually. It was said that he hadn't spoken to a woman in years. It was said—quietly, never too loudly—that he seemed to look only at the night sky.
The ballroom's mood shifted when the Duchess raised her crystal glass. Her expression was radiant, but those closest to the family noticed something uneasy in her eyes.
"My son," she said, her voice clear, and for a moment, all sound died. "You've grown into someone beyond even what I dreamed. But greatness… is meant to be shared."
Sirius remained by the arched window, one gloved hand loosely holding his untouched wine. His gaze didn't shift from the moon above the rose gardens.
She smiled, trying again. "There's someone who would walk beside you. Someone we trust. Someone who loves you. You know who I speak of."
He didn't blink.
"She's intelligent, kind, and would never stand in your way. She understands your silence. She's admired your strength since childhood."
Then, he turned.
His face betrayed no emotion, but his voice sliced through the air like a blade laced with frost.
"My way?" He repeated with a quiet scoff. "She is already standing in my way. Trying to get close to me. Trying to be my wife."
Gasps erupted across the room, scattered like broken glass.
Still, Sirius did not raise his voice. He never needed to. Silence answered for him.
The Duchess took a step forward, visibly straining to remain composed.
"She loves you, Sirius. You've known her since childhood, and you need a wife who can give you an heir—"
He smiled then. Cold. Dangerous.
"You and Father know many people since childhood. Did you marry all of them? Have children with all of them too?"
The Duchess paled.
"She's done nothing to deserve this cruelty," she whispered. "She only ever wanted to—"
Sirius shifted, his eyes darkening.
"Then she should stop trying to deserve something I never offered."
At that moment, the girl herself—eager and foolish—tried to draw near, her dress glittering like starlight.
Sirius raised his glass to his lips. Paused. Then, without changing expression, he tilted the contents forward.
The wine splashed across her face and bodice, dark crimson soaking her silks in stunned silence.
He didn't spare her a glance. Instead, he handed the empty glass to a passing servant and walked past them all—through the stunned nobles, through the frozen tension, past his speechless mother—his figure straight, expression untouched by remorse.
He paused only once, beneath the marble archway at the edge of the ballroom. A shaft of moonlight caught the edge of his jaw, and he looked upward, toward the night.
There was no rage in him. No bitterness.
Only disgust that such rumors had taken root at all.
Because while he cared nothing for women, he cared deeply for one truth:
The Moon watched everything.
And even the smallest falsehood, the lightest rumor—he would destroy it all, if there was the slightest chance it would ever be misunderstood by Her gaze.
He did not care for the girl. But he cared for the eyes above that had never left him.
And those eyes, he would never betray.