The search for Riven had shifted into a realm that defied logic. Duke Ashbourne, Sir Eryndor, and Barron stopped looking for footprints and started hunting for old tales. Ashbourne theorized that the black mist wasn't a weather event or a simple spell, but maybe an artificial breach in the dimensional membrane. Someone had opened a door, specifically for Riven, and closed it before the air could even settle.
Sir Eryndor and Barron spent weeks in the shadows, slipping into ancient archives and hidden vaults disguised as everything from low-level clerks to stray animals. They scoured records of dark rituals and forgotten Gift-suppressors, looking for anything that matched the General's report. But the results were devastatingly uniform: nothing.
"Your Majesty, we have accessed every sealed archive on unnatural phenomena," Sir Eryndor reported, his voice heavy with the weight of failure. "There are reports of shadow magic capable of short-range extraction, but nothing—absolutely nothing—that could overcome Consort Riven's strength without leaving a trace of force. It's as if he stepped into a clean void. We are hitting walls at every turn."
The silence from the investigation only amplified Vaelorian's internal storm, a storm that was about to break in the most public way imaginable.
The grand gala was meant to be a triumph—a celebration of six years of the Crown Initiative and a display of Imperial stability. Vaelorian stood on the raised dais, a vision of blonde-haired, silver-eyed authority. Flanking him were his children: Adonis, who was so nervous he was accidentally crushing Vaelorian's hand with his Super Strength, and Aaliyah-Lavelle, who watched the crowd with an intensity that made seasoned diplomats shift in their seats.
Senator Corvus, a man who clung to the old ways like a barnacle to a sinking ship, saw an opening. He bowed stiffly, a smirk playing on his lips.
"A marvelous celebration, Your Majesty. Though I must confess, the constant rumors regarding the high number of broken decorative pieces in the Imperial Residence are concerning. Perhaps the Prince is already exhibiting too much energy for such a young age?"
It was a sharp, veiled jab at the boy's lack of control. Vaelorian felt his jaw tighten, prepared to cut the Senator down with a word, but his daughter beat him to it.
The pressure of the lights, the crowds, and the lingering echoes of her nightmares became too much. Aaliyah-Lavelle's Gift didn't just flare; it erupted. A wave of silent, mental force radiated from the six-year-old, hitting the crowd like a physical blow.
"Be quiet. Be nice to my papa. Be quiet! You big meanie!"
The command hit Corvus with the force of a tidal wave. His eyes glazed over instantly. The high-ranking Senator stood frozen for ten seconds before he suddenly performed a perfect, exaggerated theatrical curtsy, dropping his Senatorial seal onto the floor. Without a word, he turned and marched with purposeful dignity straight into the center of a massive, decorative fountain.
The ballroom plunged into a surreal silence. Guests began blinking rapidly, some looking confused, while others spontaneously burst into the national anthem—singing it entirely backwards—or dropped to their knees to begin polishing the marble floor with their silk sleeves.
Vaelorian moved before the panic could set in. He scooped up his stunned daughter, shielding her face with his cloak. He couldn't copy her chaotic power, so he scanned the crowd and instantly projected a layer of calm over the room.
"The heat in the room is overwhelming," Vaelorian announced, his voice steady as iron. "Please, everyone, compose yourselves. It seems the magnificent performance by the Imperial Orchestra was simply too moving for some of our guests."
Barron was already moving, hauling the sputtering Corvus out of the fountain and loudly blaming a "slippery floor" for the Senator's unfortunate tumble. The crisis was covered, but the secret was out in the open for Vaelorian: his daughter's power was growing faster than he could manage.
Later that night, the Imperial Residence was silent, save for the crackle of the hearth. Vaelorian held Aaliyah-Lavelle until she fell into a fitful sleep, then turned to the Team with a desperate look.
"The investigation is yielding nothing. My daughter's Gift is manifesting dangerously. I cannot do anything about it until it stabilizes, but I need access to her mind to stop the nightmares. I need a solution now."
He looked at Duke Ashbourne, his silver eyes glowing with a cold fire. "Your Grace, the black mist is not a flaw in the known world. It is an intentional, directed attack from the unknown. You cannot trace the mist's destination because Riven was not simply teleported out of Lumina—he was taken through a Dimensional Tear."
Vaelorian's voice was low, firm, and brooked no argument. "Take Eryndor with you. He is a Master of folding space. He needs to find a way to access other dimensions. He needs to follow the faint trail left by my daughter's nightmares and bring back the knowledge we need to find Riven. This is not a request, Father. This is a Command."
Duke Ashbourne bowed low, his face grim but filled with a renewed purpose. "Understood, Your Majesty. We'll find a way to make it work."