CHAPTER 53: THE WARNING AND THE WISH

[Temple of Aetherion—The High Sanctum, Noon Shadows]

The Temple of Aetherion was silent.

Too silent.

The kind of silence that didn’t happen naturally.It was curated. Curated like fine wine—Filtered through reverence. Bottled with fear.Like someone had swept even the echoes under the marble floor and whispered, "Don’t make a sound unless you bleed divinity."

But Silas Rynthall was not divine.

He was worse.

He sat alone at the end of the sacred hall—legs crossed, robe pristine and sharp as a scythe’s edge, body coiled with the stillness of a predator who had already hunted, killed, and come back for seconds.

He didn’t fidget. He didn’t pace. He simply stared.

Like the kind of man who could burn your temple to the ground and make you say thank you for the warmth.

Across from him, wrapped in a thousand layers of ceremonial white and smug serenity, sat High Priest Caldris. He was robed like humility incarnate, but his smile had the oily sheen of rot beneath gold leaf.

"Seems like something has offended you, my lord," Caldris said, folding his hands in prayer-form so performative it deserved a standing ovation. "You look... perturbed."

Silas tilted his head slightly—just enough to say, Oh, you poor idiot.

He didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He smirked. Low. Controlled. Icy.

"I wasn’t aware the High Priest of Aetherion moonlighted as a court jester," Silas said, his voice as smooth as falling ash. "Tell me, Caldris—how long have you been pretending innocence?"

The priest raised a single, arched brow. "Do I pretend?"

Silas leaned forward.

Just enough.

Not threateningly.

No—worse.

Intimately.

The way a wolf lowers its head before it sinks its teeth into your throat.

"You sent a letter to my estate. Addressed my child. And claimed that my heir is a gift from the gods—to you."

Caldris blinked. Then smiled again. "I said no such thing. I only wrote that the divine energies surrounding your union are... unique. A blessing. Perhaps even prophetic."

Silas’s eyes darkened.

"You wrote," he said, his voice like crushed glass under silk, "’The child growing within the baron Lucien—also known as the duchess of Rynthall—is the fulfillment of the holy vision. A child not born, but bestowed. A soul chosen for divine purpose and, thus, temple-bound.’"

He leaned back. Folded his hands again. Let the words hang in the air like gallows waiting to be filled.

"Would you like me to repeat the last part?" he asked softly. "Or shall I let the echo carve it into your bones?"

The High Priest’s smile finally wavered.

Only slightly.

But enough.

Silas’s gaze drifted—lazily—to the towering altar behind Caldris. The crystal relics. The golden scriptures. The holy lies.

Then back to the priest.

"The last time your temple declared a child temple-bound," Silas murmured, his voice soft as the start of a war, "the parents disappeared. And the child...?" He tilted his head. "Never seen again. No tomb. No trace. Not even a goddamn candle burned in their name."

Caldris didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Because Silas’s voice was already dropping.

Lower.

Darker.

More dangerous than any weapon the temple had ever blessed.

"I am not here to negotiate," he said quietly. "I am not here to ask. I am here to warn you, Caldris."

He stood. Slowly. No rush. The air thickened as if the sanctum itself could feel the divine line being crossed.

"If I ever—ever—see a single holy rat draped in white silk anywhere near my estate... If I see a single sandal within a thousand inches of Lucien... If I so much as smell incense on the wind within a breath of my child—"

He smiled.

It was not kind.

It was the kind of smile that happened right before kingdoms were erased from maps.

"—I will sever that holy man’s head from his neck. Drop it here, at your sanctified feet. And watch the blood spray across this sanctified marble like a goddamn blessing."

The temple shook. Or maybe it was just Caldris’s heartbeat.

"The child—"

"Is mine." Silas’s voice roared now. "Mine to protect. Mine to raise. Mine to love. You speak of destiny like it’s something I can’t crush beneath my heel. Let me make this painfully clear, High Priest: Lucien is not your vessel. My child is not your symbol. You want a miracle? Look elsewhere. You want to press your holy games on my family?"

His hand flexed slightly—dangerously.

"Then I will burn this temple so thoroughly, the gods will look away in shame before your ashes even cool."

Silence.

Cold.

Complete.

Only the sound of the high priest’s own breath, sharp and suddenly too loud, remained between them.

Silas took one step forward.

Deliberate.

Final.

His voice dropped—not loud, not strained, but colder than iron pulled from a grave.

"This is not a game, High Priest. I came here to warn you—because the next time I return..."

He paused, tilting his head just slightly—like a man choosing between mercy and massacre.

"...I won’t be here to talk."

The silence fell again—dense and cracking at the edges—broken only by the heavy click of his boots as he walked away, each step landing like the drumbeat of an oncoming war.

But just as he reached the threshold, a voice rang out behind him.

Thin. Brittle. Sharp.

"You can’t shield the world from what it’s owed, Silas," Caldris called. "That child carries more than your blood. You cannot keep prophecy locked in a cradle."

Silas stopped.

Just one pace from the light.

And turned—only enough for his face to be half-cast in gold, half in shadow. A silhouette drawn in divine wrath and fatherly fury.

"My child," he said softly, "has only one fate: to be safe. To be free."

His gaze burned.

"His fate is to be loved by someone who would burn your scriptures, raze your altars, and slaughter gods with his bare hands before letting fate touch a single hair on their head."

And then he walked out.

Without hesitation. Without fear.

Only the echo of his footsteps remained, trailing behind him like a blade unsheathed.

And in the heart of the temple, beneath a hundred sacred relics and a thousand brittle truths, High Priest Caldris sat frozen—smiling no longer.

***

[Rynthall Estate—Moonlit Garden, Later That Night]

The moon had risen.

High and golden. A glowing coin tossed carelessly across a bed of stars.

Silas stepped down from the carriage, leading to the back gardens, only to halt at the sight before him.

Chaos. Domestic chaos.

Every single maid seemed to be out on the lawn—some wrapped in shawls, others frantically waving blankets like battle flags. One was aggressively trying to light a campfire with two rocks. Another was whispering prayers to the night sky. There was even a footman holding an entire tray of steaming tea like it was a holy offering.

Silas blinked.

"...Did we get invaded?" he asked flatly.

No one answered. Because all of them were clustered around one glowing figure in the middle of the garden.

Lucien.

He stood barefoot in the grass, draped in a ridiculously fluffy robe, head tilted back as he stared up at the night sky like a child seeing magic for the first time.

His lips parted slightly, his eyes wide and gleaming with starlight.

"...Woah," he whispered, breath fogging faintly in the cool air.

Silas exhaled slowly—something warm and helpless blooming in his chest. He stepped down toward the crowd, gently plucked a thick wool blanket from the arms of a startled maid, and crossed the garden in measured strides.

Without a word, he wrapped it gently around Lucien’s shoulders—and then pulled him close, arms circling from behind to rest protectively over Lucien’s gently swelling belly.

Lucien blinked. Then he leaned back against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Silas smiled. "Are you having fun out here, stargazer?"

Lucien tilted his head slightly, eyes still on the sky. "Where’d you go?"

"Just..." Silas hesitated. "Some useless work."

Lucien narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "You didn’t go to pick a fight, did you?"

Silas coughed. "Define ’fight.’"

Lucien squinted harder and then huffed. "Well, I hope you brought something back. Chocolate? Star-shaped cookies? A crown jewel from a rival jewelry shop?"

Silas looked mildly panicked. "I... forgot?"

Lucien gave him the most wounded look imaginable and turned back to the sky with a dramatic sigh. "Ugh. Fine. I forgive you. But only because the stars are very distracting."

Silas chuckled under his breath and kissed the side of his head. "You always liked watching them?"

Lucien’s gaze softened. "Yeah. Always. I used to sneak out and lie on rooftops to watch them when I couldn’t sleep. They make everything feel smaller. Easier. Like my problems aren’t so big."

Then—

"OH! OH—OH GODS—LOOK!" Lucien suddenly pointed skyward with a gasp. "It’s a shooting star!"

Maids gasped.

The gardener gasped.

Even the tea tray guy gasped.

Lucien clapped his hands together. "Everyone! Make a wish! Fast! Close your eyes and wish, or it doesn’t count!"

Silas raised an eyebrow. "...Do you really think a dying star exploding thousands of light-years away grants wishes—?"

"DO NOT SPOIL THE MOMENT." Lucien snapped, eyes still shut in wish-mode.

Then, softer—almost like a prayer to the stars themselves—he murmured, "Nobody really knows who grants wishes Silas. Maybe it’s not even about that. But sometimes... just sometimes... a voice from the heart reaches the one who listens."

Silas turned his head slightly. "You mean... God?"

Lucien opened his eyes, not to look at the sky—but at Silas. And for a heartbeat, something ancient flickered in his expression. Something soft. Something almost too sincere for this world.

"No one’s ever seen God. Not truly. But we name the one who watches over us—God. Because we need someone to believe in. And... that god only listens to one kind of voice."

Silas watched him—quiet now, completely still.

Lucien touched his chest lightly, over his heart.

"A voice that comes from here. A real one. Not from fear. Not from duty. Not from desperation. But the kind that asks from love. That kind of voice," he whispered, eyes shining, "can belong to anyone. A child. A man. A deer in the woods. A bird. Even a unicorn."

Around them, the garden was silent.

The stars were still. Even the fire had stopped crackling. And for the briefest moment, time itself felt like it held its breath.

Lucien turned his eyes skyward again—wide, unblinking, full of innocent awe.

Then he closed them.

And made his wish.

Silas watched him for a moment longer.

Then, slowly, he shut his eyes too.

Behind them, the maids and footmen looked at each other—quietly moved, cheeks flushed with warmth they couldn’t name. Even the knights, standing on the outskirts of the garden like statues, bowed their heads slightly—just for a second.

And in that second...A hundred silent prayers bloomed.

A hundred hearts reached up toward the heavens with the same gentle cry:

Please... keep the child safe.

The footman whispered under his breath, "Please... protect the little one."

The head maid clutched her scarf to her chest. "Please keep our Lord Lucien and his child safe... please..."

One knight closed his eyes and muttered, "Keep the light in our house. Guard them both."

And in the stillness that followed, beneath the endless stars and the hush of falling moonlight—something ancient stirred.

No voice answered.

No wind whispered.

But every heart in the garden felt it.

A warmth. A hush. A knowing.

As if the stars themselves had nodded.

As if the heavens had listened.

And far, far above... one single star shimmered just a little brighter—before slipping quietly behind a wisp of cloud, like it was keeping a secret.

And the wishes hung in the air like invisible lanterns.