The devastation that descended upon Emperor Vaelorian in the birthing suite was absolute. He stared at the comms unit, the General's frantic, desperate voice fading into a hollow echo that seemed to bounce off the cold stone of the Wall of Unity. Gone. Whisked away by a black mist. It sounded like a dark fairy tale meant to explain away a warrior's end, but Vaelorian knew it was a lie—a magical deception engineered by someone who understood the precise geometry of their lives.
He stood frozen, clutching his newborn son, Adonis Elric Vaelorian Darius Valemere. The tiny prince's hands, surprisingly strong even then, fisted the expensive silk of Vaelorian's shirt as if anchoring himself to the world.
"Anya, secure the lab. Contain the General's report. No one must know about this. Eryndor. Find Riven. Now!" Vaelorian gave his orders with a cold, scary tone that left no room for hesitation. Anya moved with desperate speed, her medical training kicking into overdrive as she administered care to a collapsing Willow, while Sir Eryndor scrambled to manage the flow of information before the palace walls could start whispering.
Vaelorian eventually handed his son to the waiting Empress, his movements mechanical and stiff. He stumbled toward the high window, pressing his forehead against the glass and staring out into the suffocating dark where Riven had promised to return.
Vaelorian's voice was rough and broken as he spoke to the empty room. "He's not dead. He wouldn't leave us. That mist... whatever it was, someone took him. Someone knew the timing, the moment of our greatest vulnerability."
For the next twenty-four hours, Vaelorian was a man divided between two worlds: a father of twins and a predator on the hunt. He raged, searched, and wept in the secret corners of his residence. He searched the minds of the few soldiers who had witnessed the event, diving into their subconscious until his own head throbbed, finding only the terrifying, inexplicable vision of that black mist swallowing his heart whole.
He tried to replicate the mist's energy signature, searching for even a microscopic trace of Riven's powerful residue, but there was only silence. He cried until his voice was raw, holding his daughter, Aaliyah-Lavelle Raven Darius Valemere, then his son, walking the perimeter of the magnificent, empty Imperial Residence. He was an Emperor in a palace, but he was utterly alone without his husband.
The next afternoon, Duke Ashbourne arrived, having journeyed back from a long business trip the moment the confusing reports reached him. He entered the palace expecting to meet his grandchildren and embrace his triumphant son. Instead, he was met by a silence so heavy it felt like physical weight. Ashbourne, usually the master of political poise, took the news with a stark, cold shock. He collapsed to the ground, his face pale and his composure cracking like old parchment.
"A mist? A black mist? Your Majesty, you must not say that publicly," the Duke whispered, his voice trembling. "My son is alive and well. We mustn't let anyone hear this or the stability..."
"I don't care about stability!" Vaelorian roared, the sound tearing from his throat. "I want my husband back! He promised me, Father, he promised he would be back!" Vaelorian's voice broke entirely, rasping with a grief that no crown could heal. "He told the twins to wait for him! He wouldn't break a promise to his children!"
Duke Ashbourne pulled Vaelorian into a bone-crushing hug, the two men clinging to each other in the wreckage of their hope. "I know, my son. But we cannot let them see the truth. You need to be strong for the kids. I will join the search for Riven. But you, Your Majesty, you must be the Emperor the Empire needs."
The search went on for weeks, stretching into months of agony. Eventually, the news leaked, and the Empire was told a palatable lie. The official statement was released: Consort Riven, hero of Lumina and architect of the Crown Initiative, had died at the battlefront securing the Northern border, succumbing to wounds sustained in the heat of battle. A funeral was held—a massive, symbolic pyre for a body that wasn't there. Vaelorian stood before the nation, regal and tragically alone, his eyes dry because every tear had already been shed in the dark.
Five years passed in a blur of relentless governance and silent, aching grief. The Crown Prince, Adonis Elric, and the Princess, Aaliyah-Lavelle, were growing into magnificent, if challenging, children—the undeniable proof of Riven's DNA. They had been listening since the womb; Willow often remarked that the twins had heard every telepathic chatter and hushed promise their fathers had shared. They're growing up knowing a piece of themselves is missing.
"Father, why is our other Papa only in portraits?" Adonis asked one evening. His voice was surprisingly deep for a five-year-old, his silver eyes—so like Vaelorian's—fixed on the massive oil painting in the hall.
Aaliyah-Lavelle, looking at Vaelorian with Riven's identical piercing gaze, added her own quiet weight to the question.
"Father, the old nanny said our other Papa is dead. But you and Auntie Willow said he is a hero who went on a long mission. When will the mission be over? I miss him."
Vaelorian's heart ached every time he looked at them. Adonis had Vaelorian's blonde hair and quiet focus, but he possessed an inexplicable Super Strength that resulted in a graveyard of broken toys and accidentally bent silverware. Aaliyah-Lavelle had Riven's dark, shiny hair and challenging gaze, exhibiting an unnerving precociousness. Occasionally, she would accidentally project an intense mental strength that made servants fetch her toys without her ever saying a word.
His friends remained his bedrock. Willow led the Crown Initiative with a ruthless efficiency, raising her own daughter alongside the twins. Anya remained the Imperial Physician and the children's chief guardian, while Barron served as the Commander of the Imperial Guard, though his toughest job was keeping the super-powered toddlers from accidentally bringing down a wing of the palace.
But the most desperate work continued in the shadows. Every year, Duke Ashbourne and Willow launched covert investigations, tracing every whisper of a black mist or anti-Gift tech. They always came up empty. One night, after tucking the children in, Vaelorian slumped into a chair near the Duke, the mask finally slipping.
"We have searched the known world, Father. There is nothing. Are we searching for a ghost? I cannot do this anymore," Vaelorian vented, his voice thin with exhaustion. "I cannot raise our children without him. They're growing up so fast. They know something is wrong. They're asking about him every day."
"You are doing a great job, Vaelorian," Duke Ashbourne consoled him, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. "You are their rock. And until we have a body, we have hope. Riven is strong and stubborn. If anyone can survive a black mist, it's him."
Vaelorian looked at the two sleeping children—the image of their missing father etched into the very curve of their brows. He ran a weary hand over his face. He was the Emperor, the strong ruler, the loving father. But underneath the heavy imperial robes, he was still just a broken man, waiting by a window for a promise to be kept.