"The King approaches," the herald announced.
Silence fell.
Cold. Absolute.
Midarion stood still. His pulse slowed—not from relief, but from recognition. The warmth that had followed them through the streets evaporated, leaving something thinner in its place. Conditional. Like favor granted with one hand already poised to withdraw it.
The oath had not yet been spoken.
And already, the chains were visible.
The Hall of Oaths seemed to draw inward. Marble walls loomed closer, not moving, yet unmistakably attentive. Every whisper died. Every breath found its measure. The banners of the Bastions—moments ago faintly stirring—hung still, heavy with embroidered weight.
Footsteps echoed.
Measured. Unhurried.
A lone figure emerged from the passage beyond the curtains. He wore neither armor nor priestly vestments, but layered silk and structured cloth the color of deep midnight, traced with restrained silver lines that caught no light unless he moved. He carried no weapon. None was needed. Authority clung to him like a second shadow.
He stopped at the hall's center and inclined his head, just enough.
"I am Amoniel," he said, voice precise, unraised. "Counselor to the Crown."
At a subtle motion of his hand, the curtains behind him parted.
They slid back without sound, revealing the other half of the hall—
And the throne.
It was immense. Not merely in size, but in consequence. Carved from white stone veined with gold, its back rose like a cliff face etched with constellations and symbols worn thin by centuries of witness. The seat did not gleam. It absorbed light, as though brilliance had learned restraint here.
Upon it sat the King.
He neither leaned forward nor reclined. He was perfectly centered, one hand resting lightly on the armrest, the other relaxed upon his knee. His crown was simple gold, unadorned by jewels, shaped like a restrained circlet of flame. It did not elevate him.
It obeyed him.
He looked kind.
That was the first thing Midarion noticed—and the most dangerous.
His features were calm, almost gentle, framed by dark hair threaded with faint silver at the temples. His eyes, a deep and steady blue, held no visible judgment. Yet when they lifted, the hall changed. Not examined. Not threatened.
Seen.
Beside him sat the Queen.
Her beauty was quieter than legend but deeper for it. Pale-gold hair fell in soft waves, bound at the sides by delicate clasps shaped like leaves. Her gown flowed in white and dusk-blue, embroidered with star-thread so subtle it revealed itself only when she moved. She sat composed, elegant.
Her gaze missed nothing.
At their side stood three figures.
The heirs.
The eldest prince stood straight, hands clasped behind his back, eyes attentive, alert. He watched the hall as though memorizing it, already carrying the outline of rule in his posture.
The second prince slouched slightly, boredom undisguised, attention drifting from banner to banner, fingers tapping softly against his thigh as if counting heartbeats.
Between them stood the princess.
She did not move. Did not speak. Her expression resisted interpretation—not cold, not warm. Her eyes rested on the gathered Sentinels with a focus that felt unsettling, as if she were not watching an event but tracing a pattern only she could see.
The moment stretched.
Then everyone knelt.
Steel rang softly against marble. Cloth whispered over stone. Heads bowed in practiced unison.
Midarion followed a heartbeat late—not in defiance, but because the weight of the act reached him a fraction slower. When his knee touched the floor, the sensation that followed was not reverence.
It was finality.
A single hand lifted.
The King's.
"Rise," he said.
His voice was not loud.
It did not need to be.
The word traveled through the hall and settled into bone and breath alike. Everyone stood.
Only then did Amoniel speak again.
"By decree of the Crown," he announced, "I present His Majesty, King Alexander Iskandarion, First of His Name, King of all Astraelis, Guardian of the First Light, Crowned by the Will of the Stars."
The titles did not rush. Each arrived with its own gravity.
"This kingdom endures by his command. It is defended by his authority. It is judged beneath his gaze."
A pause.
"Long may he reign."
The response came—not shouted, but practiced.
"Long may he reign."
Amoniel turned slightly.
"Beside him stands Queen Seraphaine Astrion Iskandarion, Queen of Astraelis, Voice of Mercy, Shield of the Bloodline."
Again, the echo followed.
"Long may she reign."
His gaze shifted to the children.
"From among them, one will inherit this throne. The future of Astraelis stands before you."
The words did not invite hope.
They imposed it.
Amoniel folded his hands. "You stand here for the final task. To swear the Oath of Astraelis. An oath older than Bastion or Crown. Spoken since the First Light of this world."
The captains stepped forward as one.
"You kneel not merely to serve," Amoniel continued, "but to bind yourselves. To become Sentinels—guardians of this kingdom, its people, and its continuance."
He stepped aside.
The Citadel of Fire moved first.
Rozelda Tali among them.
She advanced with the same controlled dominance she had carried into the arena, crimson armor catching the hall's light without reflecting it back. The other recruits followed in disciplined formation. They knelt as one.
Kael Isander's voice cut through the hall, steady and absolute.
"Repeat after me."
The oath was not shouted. It was not adorned. It was delivered slowly, deliberately, each word settling like iron pressed into stone.
"I swear by flame unquenched and star unbroken,
To stand against shadow and ruin.
To guard Astraelis in silence or storm.
To obey the Crown, the Imperion, and the Law beyond fear or favor.
I am the fire that does not flee.
I am the wall that does not fall."
As the final words were spoken, the hall responded.
Sigils beneath the Fire recruits glowed faintly, warmth spreading like embers disturbed from sleep.
Then—something else.
For a fraction of a breath, the light faltered.
Not extinguished. Interrupted.
A thin, sharp chill cut through the warmth, gone almost before it could be named. No one spoke. No one moved. Kael Isander's eyes narrowed by the smallest margin before the glow stabilized again.
The King inclined his head once.
The citadel's recruits rose.
The Tower of the Sky followed, their voices precise, restrained. The air around them sharpened, as if order itself had straightened its spine.
Then Gaia.
The Fortress knelt like mountains conceding the act of bowing. Their oath resonated deep, the floor answering with a muted thrumming acknowledgment.
Finally—
The Sanctuary of the Tides.
Midarion stepped forward with Reikika and Lior beside him.
The distance felt longer than it should have. Each step echoed too clearly.
They knelt.
Midarion lowered his head, eyes on the marble beneath his hands. The throne's presence pressed down—not crushing, but immense. Like standing at the edge of a depth that did not need to move to remind you it could take everything.
Captain Aelyss stepped forward.
Her voice was calm.
Unyielding.
"Repeat."
The oath flowed differently. Less rigid. No less binding.
"I swear by tide returning and abyss unseen,
To stand against corruption and drowning dark.
To guard Astraelis in patience or fury.
To obey the Crown, the Imperion, and the Law beyond fear or favor.
I am the current that cannot be turned.
I am the depth that cannot be emptied."
As the last words left their lips, a cool resonance spread across the floor.
And then—
Midarion felt it.
Not around him.
Within.
A brief, hollow sensation, as if something had been measured and found… lacking. Not pain. Not fear. A quiet subtraction. He clenched his fingers against the marble without knowing why, a flicker of resentment rising and sinking just as fast.
The stars etched into the Tides' armor shimmered once.
Then stilled.
King Alexander rose.
The hall answered instantly.
"By word sworn and bond accepted," he said, "you are now Sentinels of Astraelis."
A collective breath escaped.
"You will be tested. You will be called. You will be broken and reforged." His gaze moved—not broadly, but with intent. "This kingdom endures because some are willing to be shaped by it."
He paused.
"You are no longer merely yourselves."
The words settled like verdict.
"You are Astraelis."
The acclaim that followed was unified, restrained. Approval, not celebration.
Amoniel stepped forward once more. "Ordinarily," he said, smoothly, "the Imperion would stand beside the Crown for this oath."
The word fell differently.
Sharper.
Several captains stiffened.
"Circumstances of great importance," the counselor continued, "require his absence."
Midarion frowned before he could stop himself.
He turned his head just enough toward Amoniel. "What's an Imperion?"
The effect was immediate.
Not shock alone—alarm.
A sharp intake of breath. Stillness snapping tight. Reikika stared at him, eyes wide, not in disbelief but warning.
Before anyone could speak, the King lifted a hand.
"Counselor," King Alexander said quietly. "Who is this recruit?"
Amoniel inclined his head. "Midarion Ashborn. Origin: Arechi. Entry by recommendation."
"By whom?" the King asked.
A pause—fractional, but real.
"The letter bore no name," Amoniel said. "Only an eight-pointed star: the octagram."
Silence thickened.
The King's gaze sharpened—not cruel, not kind. Focused.
"Interesting," he murmured. "That mark has been absent from such matters for a long time."
He looked back to Midarion.
"You have asked a dangerous question," the King said. "But since it has been asked publicly, it will be answered publicly."
Amoniel shifted. "Your Majesty—"
"No," the King said softly. "This one should understand what he has invoked."
The hall felt smaller.
"The Imperion," King Alexander said, "is an authority beyond the Bastions. Above captains. Above command. Second only to the Crown."
A pause.
"It is not a title one seeks. It is a force that claims."
Midarion nodded once. "I want to be an Imperion."
The laughter that followed was brief—and uneasy.
The Queen spoke then, her voice cool. "Impossible."
Not mockery. Boundary.
"The Imperion is chosen," she continued, "by a will older than this throne. It does not share space. To carry it, one must be… empty."
Midarion's expression dimmed.
Something closed behind his eyes.
"Oh," he said.
The King studied him longer than before. When he spoke again, his voice carried weight.
"Why would you wish for such a thing?"
Midarion lifted his gaze. "So no one gets forgotten."
The hall did not breathe.
"You have been noticed," the King said at last.
Not reassurance.
Classification.
Moments later, they were dismissed.
The Bastions turned, marching toward their regions.
As the Ashborns stepped forward together, Midarion felt it again—
Not pride.
Not fear.
A sense of being recorded.
Filed.
And somewhere beyond the palace walls, something ancient had adjusted its attention.