"You only turn four once. But when you do it right, people will talk about it forever." — Serena van der Woodsen, shortly before Caelum's birthday gala
1. Preparations: Manhattan Holds Its Breath
Caelum Virelion's fourth birthday wasn't a party; it was a re-anointing.
By age four, Caelum had already established a global profile:
Received handwritten correspondence from minor European royalty.
Featured (anonymously) in a New York Times trend piece titled "The Rise of the Under-Five Oligarchy."
Been the subject of five viral Gossip Girl posts, each one framing him as the city's enigmatic new sovereign.
The city wasn't just watching; it was waiting for the performance.
"System Alert: System Function Unlocked: Ritual Narrative Constructor." "You may now anchor mythic identity using high-impact public events. Optional: 'Birthday Coronation Framework' enabled."
Caelum sat cross-legged in his reading salon—a room curated with first-edition classics and kinetic sculptures—studying a projected mock-up of his own gala.
"Theme, Caelum?" Lyra's voice was the only sound. "A fusion of 'Post-Imperial Versailles' and 'Decadent Futurism.' Blend Rococo marble with sleek AI aesthetics. I want blinding light, moonlight, and control." "Guestlist parameters?" "No more than 300. Exclusivity is power. Prioritize legacy bloodlines, media dynasties, and elite second-gen tech heirs. Sprinkle in five scandal-prone influencers for narrative flavor." "Venue?" "The Cloisters. Convert the upper garden into a shimmering, synthetic celestial observatory."
Lyra processed it all in 1.2 seconds. "Confirmed. Target impression level: Mythic Aristocracy Reborn. Estimated public resonance: 97.4% awe, 2.6% threat perception."
"Good," Caelum said, standing and adjusting the velvet-lined collar of his miniature Dior coat. "Let them feel both."
2. Arrival: The Fall of Heaven Into Harlem
The day arrived with the gravity of a national holiday.
A convoy of black Rolls-Royces and vintage Bentleys rumbled through Upper Manhattan to The Cloisters. Helicopters hovered discreetly, their cameras capturing aerial footage edited in real-time by Lyra's dedicated subroutine.
Gossip Girl's feed exploded almost instantly:
"Upper Manhattan's been invaded by diamond-laced children, heiresses dressed like queens, and a boy with eyes like glaciers. Caelum Virelion's fourth birthday? More like a coronation. And guess what? No clowns. Only live harpists playing trap beats in black velvet tuxedos." — xoxo, Gossip Girl
3. Inside the Gala: The World Tilted
The Cloisters had been surgically transformed. The medieval indoor garden now glowed with artificial moonlight, scattered with petals infused with faint golden dust. A holographic aurora borealis flickered silently above the feast hall, simulating a private sky.
Classical string quartets played Caelum's custom medley—Vivaldi spliced with Daft Punk, Tchaikovsky overlaid with Frank Ocean.
The guests arrived in stunned, hushed silence. Even Blair Waldorf paused at the threshold, momentarily unsure whether to laugh or curtsy to the spectacle.
Serena van der Woodsen found Caelum beneath a towering, rose-draped archway. He wore a dark plum velvet suit, golden embroidery traced like intricate vines along the cuffs.
"You look like a prince," she murmured, gazing at him with open admiration.
"I look like who I need to be tonight," Caelum replied, his small hand taking hers and delivering a flawlessly executed, dry kiss to her knuckles. "But thank you."
4. The Power Play: His First Address
At precisely 7:00 PM, a hush fell over the three hundred guests. Caelum ascended a marble dais at the center of the hall, the microphone automatically lowering to his height.
"I'd like to thank you all for coming," he began, his voice clear, calm, and amplified perfectly. "I know people don't expect someone like me to speak very often. Or to matter this early."
A few nervous titters.
"But let me be clear—this city doesn't run on votes or age. It runs on narratives."
He paused, letting the silence expand, holding every gaze.
"And right now," he concluded, stepping down, "I am writing mine. You are all simply the first chapter."
Applause erupted—less from affection, more from shock and submission.
Blair Waldorf leaned to Serena, eyes wide. "He scares me."
Serena smiled, her gaze never leaving Caelum. "That's why I like him so much."
"System Notice: Public Perception Shift Achieved: You are now considered a 'Cultural Phenomenon' by 61% of elite networks." "Trait Unlocked: 'Myth-Weaver – Level 1.' Increased influence gained through ritual, symbol, and spectacle."
5. The Shadow at the Gala: Elara Vale
In the quiet recess of the gallery, Caelum noticed her instantly.
A girl—six or seven—dressed in shadow-blue silk, standing alone by a Greco-Roman sculpture. Her eyes didn't scan the room for friends or cake. They analyzed the network.
"Lyra, profile her."
"Unknown. Name: Elara Vale. No social media footprint. No digital school records. Estimated IQ: 162. Wealth source: Unknown offshore trust." "She's not here for cake," Caelum stated. "Correct. Probability she was inserted by a counter-entity: 81.2%. Potential competitor."
He approached the girl, his small hand sliding into his velvet jacket pocket.
"Enjoying the statement?" he asked.
"It's not a party," she said, sipping a clear liquid that looked suspiciously like elderflower soda in a miniature martini glass. "It's a declaration of war."
"And what declaration do you hear?"
"That the boy everyone whispers about isn't just real. He's... dangerous."
Caelum offered her a hand. "Then maybe we're alike, Elara Vale."
She didn't take it, her expression perfectly neutral. But she nodded once, a gesture of intellectual respect.
The first alliance—or rivalry—in the next phase of the social war had just begun.
6. Post-Gala: The Crown Settles
Later that night, as the last remnants of gold dust were swept away, Caelum stood alone beneath the fading holographic aurora. He watched it flicker—not quite real, but undeniably beautiful.
He whispered softly: "System. Log my first ritual."
"Name it."
"The Night I Became King."
Gossip Girl Post #6
"So, did the boy make a wish? Or did he become the wish itself? Manhattan's youngest monarch threw a gala so mesmerizing, even the stars blinked twice. And I have it on good authority—he didn't wish for toys. He wished for a throne. And maybe… just maybe… he's already sitting on it. xoxo, Gossip Girl"