"Send the message of war?"
Orion's voice trembled as he repeated the words, his throat tightening with unease.
"Yes," Lady Rosen replied gently, though a flicker of solemnity danced in her eyes. "But not until you're ready. I cannot risk sending any of the Emblems. King Orion and Queen Minerva are occupied with stabilizing Arian. That leaves only you."
She sighed and leaned back into her throne of frost and silence, her presence withdrawing like the chill before snowfall.
"I won't hold you here any longer. You may return to your schedule."
Before Orion could respond, Ignarion gave a curt nod and, without ceremony, gripped Orion with his fangs—lifting him effortlessly as a rift tore open before them, its edges sparking with icy, prismatic light.
They disappeared into it.
---
Inside, the world shifted. The harshness of frost gave way to warmth and pulse—breath and birth.
Ignarion landed softly and shifted back into his human form, the transformation effortless. His skin was fair, almost ethereal, with a faint glow under the otherworldly light. Crimson hair fell past his shoulders, and his angular features bore an uncanny resemblance to Seraphyx—noble, dangerous, and quietly exhausted.
"This is… the Womb of Arian?"
Orion whispered, eyes wide—not with awe, but with the bitter sting of memories. Regret and betrayal danced behind his gaze.
"Yes," Ignarion said, sighing again as he adjusted his robes—where they came from, no one really knew. Divine closet magic, probably.
"Kaelya resides here."
Orion hesitated, furrowing his brow.
"But… we didn't bring Frieda's body—"
"It's already here." Ignarion cut him off.
"Seraphyx sent it ahead while you slept."
---
This was a place where death dared not tread.
The Womb of Arian—a sacred refuge untouched by decay. The air shimmered with ancestral life, every breath filled with the lullabies of the land itself. Waters whispered secrets older than the stars, glowing with hues of emerald, aquamarine, and something deeper—like the soul of nature exhaling peace.
And there, upon the lake's surface, floated Kaelya.
She lay half-submerged, her back cradled by the gentle water. Her long, obsidian hair fanned out around her, tangled in the silken vines and translucent petals of her living garments. It looked less like she was resting, more like she was dissolving into the world itself—slowly, dreamily, and alone.
---
Ignarion and Orion walked in silence to the edge of the lake. The stillness around them was sacred, too heavy for casual words.
But Ignarion, being Ignarion, broke the silence anyway.
"Every time I come here…" he muttered, tilting his head at her reclined figure, "you're lying on that lake like some dramatic seaweed princess. What's so special about it?"
"I don't expect you to understand it," Kaelya murmured, her voice as soft as the ripples beneath her, "but I rest on this water because it feels like... home."
She rose from the lake with quiet grace, droplets sliding down her form like falling stars. The vines of her living garment shifted with her, petals blooming gently as if the lake itself breathed her into motion.
Then, with a sly curve of her lips, she looked toward Orion.
"Oh! That's a familiar face," she teased, her tone laced with nostalgia and mischief.
Orion stiffened.
"Lady Kaelya..." he began awkwardly, the honorific sounding both too formal and not enough.
"Can you tell me why you sent me away? Why you banished me?"
His voice dropped with weight, the question landing like an anchor between them.
Kaelya blinked, the teasing slipping from her face.
"Banished?" she repeated, frowning as if tasting something bitter.
"Why would you think that? You were never banished. You could have returned anytime... as long as you proved yourself worthy of being the King this land needs."
Orion's frown deepened.
"Well, maybe you should've said that before kicking me out like a defective ornament," he muttered, the hurt behind the sarcasm bleeding through.
Before the atmosphere could curdle further, Ignarion's voice cut through the tension—sharp and cold.
"Orion, watch your tone."
His eyes narrowed, glowing faintly with a hint of violet.
"She is the one responsible for your existence, the one tending to Frieda's fate... and one of my fellow Emblems. Show some respect."
Orion bit his lip, the sting of shame creeping up his neck. He didn't speak again—but his eyes stayed locked on Kaelya's.
Kaelya stepped forward and gently touched his face with a hand that smelled faintly of wildflowers and old rain.
"Don't worry, little king," she whispered.
"If there's anything I can do to make things right, I will. It was my fault—I should've been clearer before you left. You deserved that much."
She exhaled a long, soft sigh and turned away, her gaze settling once more on the glowing water.
"Although," she added after a pause, "it's also true that your behavior back then was... insufferably immature."
She shot a glance over her shoulder, one brow arched.
"You were reckless. Irresponsible. You annoyed the roots out of me."
A beat passed.
"But that's no excuse for leaving things unsaid."
Her voice softened again, sincere beneath the sass.
---
Ignarion cleared his throat, impatience flickering across his face like a passing stormcloud.
"Kaelya, we're short on time. Let's get on with it."
Kaelya stepped forward without a word, leading them toward the lake's center. The water shimmered faintly beneath the twilight sky, disturbed only by their slow, deliberate movements.
"This lake isn't deep," Orion said as he waded in beside her. "Just four feet, at most."
His voice carried lightly, but there was a question buried beneath the words.
Kaelya reached up, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead with fingers gentle as falling snow. Her hand found his, steadying him—not by force, but by presence.
"Stand still," she said. "I'll begin with the wounds that do not bleed."
The lake responded first. A pulse of soft light stirred in the water, curling around Orion's legs like silk threads drawn by unseen hands. Warmth rose from beneath—subtle, patient—yet it twisted through him like something ancient waking inside his bones.
Behind them, Ignarion exhaled, the sound heavy with his own unease.
"Why am I standing in this water?" he asked. "What purpose does it serve me?"
Kaelya's voice didn't change. "I never asked you to step in," she said, still focused on Orion. "You chose to walk beside us."
Ignarion's jaw tensed. He turned, quiet irritation clouding his expression.
"I can't do this," he muttered. "Not like this."
He stepped back toward the edge, opening a rift with the ease of one who has left many things behind.
"They treat me like a child," he said, before disappearing into the fold of space. "It's always the same."
The water settled in his absence.
Kaelya didn't flinch. "Don't let him trouble your thoughts," she said softly. "His soul is noble. But like all things half-formed, it resists shape."
Her hands moved to Orion's neck. They didn't tremble.
"Stay still."
The warmth surged—and pain followed. Sharp, sudden, and full. Orion cried out, not in agony, but in the confusion of something being drawn from within—a thing long hidden, now revealed.
From his mouth came a stream of needle-thin threads, dark as shadow and humming with the weight of memory. They shimmered faintly in Kaelya's grip, glistening like sorrow turned physical.
Orion could barely breathe. "What… is that?"
Kaelya's eyes darkened as she looked down at what she held.
"This is the shape your guilt took," she said. "The grief you never spoke. The pain that nestled behind your heart like a second pulse."
She let the needles dissolve into the lake. The water accepted them with silence.
"Feel better?" Kaelya asked with a soft smile.