The night had not yet released its hold on the world when Headmistress Seraphine paused mid-step.
The air changed.
Not violently. Not explosively.
It settled.
A pressure spread across the academy like an unseen tide—heavy, calm, absolute. The wards didn't scream. The guardians didn't rise. Even the ambient mana didn't resist.
Because this wasn't an intrusion.
It was recognition.
Seraphine slowly turned her gaze toward the distant balcony where moonlight still lingered.
"…So," she murmured, a rare smile curving her lips, "the Black Sun has finally awakened."
She folded her arms, crimson eyes gleaming with approval rather than concern.
"It seems you're ready now, Eryndor."
Far below, in the shadows cast by towers and spires, Darius felt it too.
The darkness no longer wrapped around him like a cloak.
It bowed.
A seal burned—then cooled—within his soul. His existence sharpened, elevated, anchored to something far greater than himself.
Not a god.
Not mortal.
A Quasi-Deity.
The Warden of the Black Sun.
Darius exhaled slowly, shadows rippling around his feet.
"…I see," he muttered. "So this is what it means to stand behind him."
Elsewhere, Kaelus slept on, winds whispering gently around him. Azure did not yet claim him fully.
For now—
He remained a candidate.
Dawn broke.
And with it came thunder.
Far beyond the academy's borders, clouds twisted unnaturally, spiraling inward as lightning traced veins of blue-black across the sky. The storm did not rage—it traveled.
At its center, Eryndor stood.
No mount. No gate. No teleportation circle.
The storm itself carried him.
Wind folded beneath his feet, lightning crackled without striking, and rain parted before touching his skin. Wherever he moved, the world seemed to acknowledge his passage.
The Nasarik Main Branch lay nestled between mountain ridges—ancient, fortified, steeped in bloodline authority.
And then—
The storm vanished.
As if it had never existed.
Silence returned. Birds dared to chirp again. Servants froze mid-motion, hearts pounding as instinct screamed the same truth:
He has arrived.
Before anyone could announce him—
"DADA!"
A small blur shot across the courtyard.
A child—barely two years old—ran with reckless joy, black hair bouncing wildly, eyes sharp and dark like a storm-lit night.
Then—
He stepped on air.
One step.
Two.
Three.
Wind solidified beneath his feet as naturally as breathing.
Eryndor's eyes widened just slightly before his face broke into a genuine smile.
Aren launched himself forward.
Eryndor caught him effortlessly, lifting him high as laughter escaped his chest.
"Missed me, son?"
"Mhmm!" Aren nodded fiercely, tiny hands gripping his collar. "Dada gone long!"
Eryndor chuckled. "I know. I know."
Aren tilted his head, then asked seriously, "Where mama?"
"Where do you think she is?"
Aren pointed proudly. "Mama inswide."
That did it.
Eryndor laughed openly, pressing his forehead to Aren's.
"Alright, little storm. Let's go inside."
Lyanna turned just as the door opened.
She barely had time to smile before Eryndor was there—one arm holding Aren, the other pulling her into him. He kissed her gently, grounding himself in the warmth he had missed more than he admitted.
"I'm home for the day, babe."
Lyanna rested her forehead against his chest, relief softening her expression. "You always say that like the world won't try to steal you again."
Eryndor smirked. "Let it try."
Aren squirmed between them, declaring, "Family hug!"
Lyanna laughed, wrapping her arms around both of them.
Across the hall, a familiar grunt sounded.
"Hmph."
Zephyr Nasarik sat with arms crossed, white hair wild as ever, eyes sharp enough to cut steel. Behind him stood Calen, Rhydor, and Varian—each watching Eryndor with a mixture of awe, pride, and unease.
"Only remembers how to come home now, huh?" Zephyr snorted. "Good thing I've got my great-grandson to keep me company."
Eryndor grinned. "Come on, Gramps. That's not how it is."
Zephyr's laugh boomed through the hall. "You've gotten stronger."
Then his gaze sharpened.
"Low Deity."
The words carried no doubt.
Eryndor nodded. "Yeah."
Zephyr leaned back, satisfied. "As expected of my bloodline."
Aren suddenly squirmed free, landing on the floor and toddling over to Zephyr. "Old dada!"
Zephyr's entire demeanor collapsed.
"Oh—ah—come here, you menace," he grumbled, scooping Aren up with a softness no one else had ever witnessed. "You're getting heavier."
Aren giggled, wind flickering playfully around his fingers.
Calen swallowed. "He really can use all elements…"
Rhydor shook his head. "At two."
Varian muttered, "Monster family."
Eryndor watched quietly.
Then he spoke.
"Gramps. There's something I need to tell you."
Zephyr's smile faded—not in fear, but in understanding.
"The prophecy," Eryndor continued. "Not the censored one."
Silence fell.
"The real meaning isn't about destruction," Eryndor said calmly. "It's about succession. Judgment. Balance. The Black Sun isn't meant to end everything—it's meant to decide what's allowed to continue."
Zephyr's grip tightened slightly around Aren.
"And the Upper Realms?" he asked.
"They're next," Eryndor replied. "I'll have to ascend soon. Not yet—but soon."
Zephyr studied him for a long moment.
Then he smiled.
"Tch. Figures," he said. "Just make sure you come back alive. This brat still needs his father."
Eryndor looked at Aren—laughing, glowing, impossibly full of potential.
"I will," he said softly.
Outside, far beyond the Nasarik lands, the clouds began to move again.
Not forming.
Not raging.
Watching.