Chapter : 91 "Where Kings Do Not Speak"

The chamber in Elarith Vale was quiet—eerily so.

Lit by tall windows of colored glass and cooled by stone walls draped in black silk, the air seemed to hush itself in reverence. At the far end sat a throne-like chair of silver-veined obsidian, its frame carved with a language long lost to ordinary tongues.

In it sat the master.

Elarith Vale's highest authority.

Unmoving.

Unblinking.

Wrapped in stillness.

Before him, Kellian Vesper knelt with a grace honed by both training and guilt. His cloak, silver and gold lining is shimmering with sun bathed, now it pooled around him like spilled ink.

"I failed," Kellian said quietly, head bowed low. "He fought harder than expected.

A pause.

Then—

The master's voice, low and echoing, laced with a softness more dangerous than wrath.

"It's okay, Kellian."

Kellian's eyes lifted.

The master smiled faintly, lips barely curved. "You did your best. That is all I require."

Kellian hesitated. "Should we keep an eye on them?"

The master's gaze darkened—not cruel, but precise. Measured.

"There's still time," he said, folding his hands. "No need to rush. Let them believe they are safe. Let them walk the garden path… while the roots beneath twist ever tighter."

Kellian bowed once more, then rose, the echo of his footsteps swallowed by the hush.

---

Elsewhere. In a Valemont manor bathed in sunlight and ivy...

Everin paced beside a marble column, worry gnawing at the edge of his normally bright demeanor.

The garden outside rustled gently in the breeze, but his thoughts were far from still.

He turned toward the parlor, where his mother sat embroidering roses into a pale silk handkerchief. His father read by the window, the light caught in his spectacles.

"Mother," Everin said, pausing beside her, "may I visit Blackwood Manor?"

Her hand paused mid-stitch.

"To visit your cousin?"

He nodded. "August."

She glanced at him, eyes narrowing slightly. "You haven't heard from him?"

"Nothing. And he… he was taken, wasn't he?" Everin's voice dropped lower. "I heard rumors. That he was. Rescued'

His mother exhaled, her features tightening with remembered worry. "If you go," she said at last, "take guards with you.

Two at the very least—no, four. August vanished without a whisper. I don't want the same happening to you."

"That's exactly why I want to go," Everin murmured. "What if he's been rescued,

His mother reached over, took his hand gently.

"Then go. See for yourself."

---

And farther still, in a villa crowned with twilight vines…

Lady Katherine Virelle stood at her window, one hand resting delicately on the glass. The late afternoon sun cast golden fire through her grey white hair, lighting her thoughtful eyes. Like fire"

"Not a single letter," she whispered. "Not a word from my angel."

The room behind her was warm, filled with cushions, books, and perfume. Her presence seemed to command the very air—poised, elegant, but undeniably restless.

"I should visit him again," she muttered. "Even if he doesn't like guests. Even if he hides in that old manor like a ghost."

She turned suddenly, clapping her hands once. Her voice rang out like a bell. "Call Lord Seraphin!"

Downstairs, her husband stumbled mid-step.

He'd been trying to carry a glass of wine and a book at the same time—and failed when his beloved's voice reached him like lightning from the heavens.

He recovered instantly.

"My love!" he called, scrambling up the stairs. "You rang like the gods themselves!"

He reached her side breathlessly, hair tousled, She didn't smile, but the affection in her eyes said everything.

Katherine looked at him squarely. "Can we just go? Just… visit August?"

Seraphin blinked. "You know he hates it when we arrive uninvited. Last time he just stand there at outside the manor and say nothing."

"I don't care this time." Her tone was fierce, but not harsh—only passionate. "His birthday is approaching. He never celebrates. Never wants anything. But this year, I want him here. I want this manor full of music. Cake. Gifts. Laughter. He deserves it."

Seraphin softened.

A long pause.

Then he nodded.

"Yes," he said. "Yes. That's a wonderful idea. He'll be annoyed at first... but I think he'll be happy. Deep down."

Katherine turned back to the window, the light catching the soft crease of worry in her brow.

"Let's remind him," she whispered, "what it's like to be loved."

And across the land, the wind stirred—

through court and corridor, garden and stone—

carrying plans and promises like unseen threads…

each one drawing closer,

tighter,

toward the boy who had forgotten how to smile.

And the birthday he never asked for—

but could never escape.

The chamber was dimly lit, filled with the scent of ink and old cedar. Thick velvet curtains dampened the outside world, and the only illumination came from a lone candelabra—its flames swaying like dancers in mourning.

Caldris Rheyne stood with his back to the light, one hand pressed against a high windowpane, as though trying to reach through glass into a future he could no longer predict.

He was not alone.

Across from him stood a man taller than most, wrapped in a cloak of midnight blue, the folds falling clean to his boots. Now he is wearing a "different one mask" His face was hidden entirely behind a silver half-mask carved like a god's forgotten frown. Beneath the mask, only his mouth moved—calm, clipped, unreadable.

"How is Elias?" Caldris asked, his voice low but steady.

The masked man didn't hesitate. "He is awake."

Caldris turned slightly, breath catching faintly in his throat.

"How long was he out?"

"Nearly three days," the masked figure replied. "during his journey Through elarith vale after they fought kellian vesper stabbed Elias from behind and due to severed injuries he lost his memory."

Caldris's jaw tightened. "And his memories?"

A pause.

The masked man inclined his head. "Gone. At least for now."

The world seemed to slow. The flickering light behind Caldris blurred at the edges.

"What do you mean—gone?"

"He remembers nothing of Blackwood Manor. Nor of August. Nor of the events before the masquerade." A beat passed. "Not even who he is."

Caldris didn't speak.

For a long moment, he merely stood there—one hand on the sill, eyes fixed on something far beyond the glass.

Then he exhaled.

Not sharply.

Not dramatically.

But quietly.

With the weight of disappointment that had forgotten how to scream.

"The only key I had," he murmured, "and now it's locked inside its own chest."

He stepped away from the window, the candlelight skimming across his face not too young, but prematurely lined with the worry of men thrice in his age.

"I wish," he said softly, "that his memories come back to him soon. He deserves that peace."

He moved to the desk—cluttered with maps, wax seals, and folded letters never sent.

He selected a clean sheet of parchment, dipped his quill, and began to write.

His handwriting was fast, but elegant. Each stroke precise, the ink drying into lines that felt like truths held too long in the dark.

To August Everheart's D'rosaye

I am glad you are finally safe and sound.

Please, take care of Elias. He may not remember much, but he is precious to more than you know.

Because of my foolishness—my cursed masquerade—this happened. I only wanted to uncover truths buried beneath silk and masks. I never imagined the Eclipse Elite would twist the game into something lethal.

Watch the shadows. They move even when the sun stands still.

—C.R.

Then he handed it to the masked man.

"Deliver this," he said. "And… if you see August again…"

He hesitated.

"Tell him I'm sorry."

The masked man nodded, turned on silent heels, and vanished into the folds of shadow.

Caldris Rheyne remained behind.

Alone.

Staring at the mask he hadn't worn since that night.

And wondering how many more masks would fall before the truth revealed its face.

Far from manor walls and whispered names, beyond the reach of gentle meadows and quiet sorrow, there rose a kingdom carved in shadow and steel.

The throne room of Althérian Dominion stretched wide and high, framed by blackened marble columns and banners dyed deep in crimson and coal. Torchlight flickered across cold stone, casting shifting patterns that danced like devils across the floor. The scent of iron and incense lingered in the air, heavy with age, history, and ambition.

At the room's heart stood a throne—tall, spiked, forged from the wreckage of wars long forgotten. And seated upon it, with one arm draped languidly across the armrest and a grin that did not belong to mercy, was King Morvane eldrith.

He looked no older than thirty-five, but there was something in his stillness that belonged to older centuries—like marble that had learned to bleed.

His hair, long and the color of smoldering embers, fell in soft waves past his shoulders. Beneath heavy brows, his eyes gleamed an unnatural frost-blue—eyes that saw too much and forgave too little.

He said nothing.

Only watched.

Below him, a row of servants knelt—bowed so low their foreheads brushed the cold floor, unmoving, as though fearing their very breath might offend him.

And yet Morvane smiled.

Not warmly.

Not cruelly.

Simply… knowingly.

As if the world itself had played into his hands without realizing it.

He sat there like a storm just before it breaks, regal and terrible, his fingers tapping slowly against the arm of the throne in a rhythm only he understood.

No command was given.

No decree was spoken.

And still, not a soul dared rise.

Even the air felt stilled beneath his gaze.

A courtier trembled faintly.

A servant's knees shifted on the stone.

But the king did not blink.

He was watching.

Waiting.

Calculating.

For Morvane eldrith was not a man to waste words when silence could suffocate more effectively.

And though the chamber was vast—its ceilings vaulted and echoing with the memory of ancient kings—it was the quiet that ruled here.

The quiet…

and the king who smiled within it.