Consort Riven moved with the terrifying, accelerated precision of a man who had a deadline far more critical than any military objective: the birth of his children. He led a small, elite Imperial strike force to the Northern Holds, reaching the battlefield in a fraction of the time any strategist had predicted. He didn't just arrive; he descended on the enemies.
The Western Reavers, however, were more formidable than the initial reports suggested. Their new Gift-suppression technology was wreaking havoc, emitting a high-frequency hum that felt like shards of glass in the minds of the Gifted soldiers. But Riven was prepared. While others faltered, his Super Strength—rooted in raw, physical superiority rather than purely elemental energy—proved remarkably resilient.
He activated his Mind Control not to enslave the enemy, but to locate their command structure amidst the smoke. He was a whirlwind of controlled chaos, shattering the enemy's defensive positions and ripping apart the anti-Gift devices with his bare hands as if they were made of scrap tin.
"Break the center! Focus fire on those suppression devices!" Riven roared over the din of clashing steel, his voice cutting through the localized frequencies. "Don't let them stabilize! We finish this today!" He fought like a man possessed, fueled by the memory of Vaelorian's face and the silent promise he'd made to Willow. The battle, however, was a grueling, three-day nightmare of attrition that pushed even his limits.
Back at the Imperial Residence, the world had shrunk to the size of a single, sterile medical suite. Willow's labor had begun violently, barely twelve hours after Riven's departure. Anya, the Empress, and a pale, frantic Vaelorian were the only ones allowed behind the Wall of Unity. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the hum of Willow's involuntary speed bursts.
"Willow, breathe with me," Anya pleaded, her hands glowing with a soft, stabilizing light. "The twins are feeding off your energy. You have to regulate your heart rate or your metabolism will burn itself out."
Willow clutched the Empress's hand so hard the older woman's knuckles turned white. Her body was vibrating, a blur of motion even while lying still. "I'm trying," she gasped, her face slick with sweat. "But they're fighting me. They... they don't want to come out yet!"
It was an eerie, biological standoff. The twins seemed to be resisting the natural process. The contractions would reach a terrifying peak, and then the babies would somehow pause the labor, their unique gifts already manifesting as a stubborn refusal to move forward.
"They know he's not here," Vaelorian whispered, his boots clicking rhythmically against the floor as he paced. "They're waiting for him. But she can't hold them off forever. Anya, do something!"
For two agonizing days, the labor stalled and restarted in a grueling cycle. Willow was a fortress of strained resilience, her speed-gifted heart hammering a million miles an hour. She was holding on for the man who had promised to be there. Finally, late on the third day, something inside the room shifted. A fresh wave of energy flooded the suite, and the resistance finally broke. With a final, agonizing surge of strength from Willow, the silence of the room was shattered by a furious, high-pitched cry.
First came the boy, healthy and strong, with a grip that already suggested his father's strength. An hour later, the girl arrived, smaller but immediately alert, her eyes searching the room with an unnerving intelligence.
"Your Majesty, they are here," Anya said, her voice cracking with exhaustion as she cleaned the infants. "A prince and a princess."
Vaelorian rushed to Willow's side, his eyes wet with tears of relief. He took her hand, his voice a broken whisper. "You've done it, Willow. You've done something extraordinary."
Willow, cradling the small girl, managed a weak, triumphant smile. "Told you... they were... fast."
Vaelorian held his son, feeling the warmth of the small body against his chest. For a fleeting moment, the world was perfect. The Empire was safe, the heirs were born, and the throne was secure. But then, the secure comms unit on the wall flared—a violent, frantic red that cut through the joy like a knife.
The Imperial General's voice, raw with disbelief, filled the room. "Your Majesty... the battle is won. The Reavers are routed... but we have terrible news regarding Consort Riven."
The color drained from Vaelorian's face. He clutched his son tighter. "Is he injured? Speak, General!"
"No, Your Majesty... he isn't injured. He's... gone. He vanished."
Vaelorian swayed on his feet. "Explain yourself! Do not give me riddles!"
"I was right behind him, Your Majesty," the General stammered, his voice shaking. "Victory was absolute. Riven was standing over the last of their defenses, laughing. And then... a thick, black mist rose from the ground. It encircled him like a shroud. It didn't touch anyone else. Not a single soul. The next moment, the mist dissolved into nothing, and the Consort was gone. Not a trace, not a drop of blood. Just... empty air."
Vaelorian looked down at the two beautiful, helpless infants in his arms and Willow's. The "Wall of Unity" stood tall around them, but the man it was built for was nowhere to be found. He had won the Empire, he had gotten his children, but the one person who made it worth having had been snatched away by a shadow.
"Gone?" Vaelorian whispered to the silent room, the word hollow and cold. "He can't just be...gone. How's that even possible?"
The Empire was safe, but his heart, and his future, had just been ripped away.