The retaliation came within three days.
Not sooner — because haste would have been disrespectful.
Not later — because delay would have been weakness.
It began as protocol.
A formal accusation was submitted to the Heavenly Concord, citing unlawful execution, abuse of authority, and destabilization of order. The seal bore the sigil of the Crimson Veylan House, an ancient lineage whose bloodline traced back to early Heavenly Kings.
Their heir was dead.
They demanded redress.
The hall chosen for arbitration was neutral ground, suspended between the higher firmaments where laws were thickest and tempers were expected to thin.
Cassian did not attend.
I remained within the Aetherion domain, standing beside Aurelia's cradle, listening as Mother spoke quietly to her. My sister slept peacefully, unaware that her existence had already altered the balance of heaven.
Father went alone.
That, by itself, unsettled the opposition.
The Crimson Veylan Patriarch arrived with presence sharpened like a blade.
He was a mid Heavenly Emperor, his cultivation blazing openly, his aura carrying the weight of centuries of conquest and dominance. Behind him stood elders and retainers, their expressions cold, restrained, furious.
"You sent only one," the patriarch said as Seraphiel Aetherion stepped into the hall.
Seraphiel inclined his head slightly.
"One is sufficient."
The words echoed longer than they should have.
The patriarch's eyes narrowed.
"My son was killed," he said. "In public. Without trial."
"He provoked an Aetherion," Seraphiel replied calmly.
A ripple passed through the observers.
"That is not justification," the patriarch snapped.
Seraphiel met his gaze.
"It is context."
The patriarch laughed, sharp and humorless.
"Your crippled son murders my heir, and you call it context?"
The temperature dropped.
Not from Seraphiel.
From the laws themselves.
Several observers stiffened as the ambient pressure shifted, subtle but undeniable.
Seraphiel's voice remained even.
"Your heir interfered with my daughter's ceremony," he said. "He challenged my son's existence. He crossed a line he was not permitted to see."
"A line defined by you?" the patriarch demanded.
"No," Seraphiel said. "By heaven."
Silence followed.
Then the patriarch raised his hand.
The air tore.
A projection unfolded — a sanctioned Heavenly Retaliation Mark, its presence sharp, legal, and lethal. It was not aimed at Seraphiel.
It was aimed at the Aetherion domain.
Gasps rippled through the hall.
"You will surrender the killer," the patriarch declared, his voice ringing with Emperor authority. "Or I will claim recompense in blood."
That was when Seraphiel moved.
He did not raise his voice.
He did not attack.
He simply stepped forward.
The retaliation mark froze.
Not resisted.
Not broken.
Denied.
The laws supporting it bent — then folded inward, unraveling like thread pulled from fabric.
The patriarch staggered back a step, eyes widening.
"That authority…" he whispered.
Seraphiel looked at him — not angrily, not coldly.
With pity.
"You misunderstand something fundamental," Seraphiel said.
"My son does not act under my authority."
The hall went still.
"He does not act under heaven's authority either."
The patriarch's expression twisted.
"Then whose?"
Seraphiel's gaze sharpened for the first time.
"His own."
The pressure deepened.
Not outward.
Downward.
The patriarch's cultivation screamed in protest as his aura was forced inward, compressed, disciplined, reduced to obedience. Elders behind him fell to one knee without realizing when it happened.
Seraphiel did not press further.
He didn't need to.
"This matter is concluded," he said. "You will withdraw your accusation. You will compensate the disruption caused to my domain. And you will never speak my son's name again."
The patriarch trembled.
He wanted to refuse.
He couldn't.
"…Agreed," he forced out.
The laws relaxed.
Breath returned.
Seraphiel turned and left.
That night, Mother stood beside me as we watched the skies above the domain settle.
"They will not stop," she said calmly.
"No," I agreed.
"They will wait," she continued. "They will justify. They will gather consensus."
I nodded.
Aurelia stirred in her sleep, her small hand closing reflexively.
I covered it gently.
"Let them," I said.
Mother looked at me then — really looked.
For the first time since my birth, there was no calculation in her eyes.
Only certainty.
"They fear you now," she said softly.
I shook my head.
"They fear what they can no longer control."
Above us, Empyreal Heaven remained vast, ordered, and confident.
It had just declared its position.
So had we.