The salt-heavy air of the Stormsea usually brought a sense of liberation to those leaving the iron-clad spires of Bastion, but for Revel Song, it felt like the closing of a tomb.
She sat in the velvet-lined cabin of a private transport, her hands resting unmoving on her lap. Outside the reinforced glass, the sky was bruised purple, the kind of view that preceded a coastal gale. At twenty-one, Revel was a "Normal" — a term that carried quite a weight in a world dominated by those who had conquered Nightmares. She possessed the porcelain grace of the Song lineage, yet she lacked the burning eternal sun of Soul Essence.
Opposite her sat Aedon Valor.
He was adjusting the cuff of his charcoal tunic, his movements economical and devoid of any nervous energy. Aedon was a scion of the sword, a man whose reputation was built on the cold efficiency of his border patrols in the Dream Realm. To the public, this union was a historical bridge, a "mercy" granted by the Sovereigns to halt a decade of skirmishing over the Chained Isles. To the people in the cabin, it was a ledger entry.
"The residence in the central quadrant is prepared," Aedon said, his voice pleasant and cultured, yet carrying the hollow resonance of a man speaking to a subordinate. "My father has ensured the security is absolute."
Revel looked at him, searching for a flicker of something — resentment, perhaps, or even a shared sense of exhaustion. There was nothing. Aedon's eyes were like tempered steel; they reflected the world but let nothing in.
"My mother expects monthly correspondence," Revel replied softly. "She is particularly concerned about the coastal humidity. She believes it thins the blood."
Aedon offered a thin, practiced smile. "The Queen of Song has always been attentive to details. I shall ensure the climate control is calibrated to her specifications."
He stood up then, checking a chronometer on the wall. The transport was beginning its descent into the quiet high-end district where they would spend the rest of their lives together. It was a place of manicured gardens and silent halls, far removed from the blood-smoked ramparts of Ravenhart or the clanging forges of Bastion.
"I have duties at the local Bastion starting from dawn," Aedon noted, reaching for his cloak. "I trust you can manage the household staff. My sister Morgan expressed an interest in visiting once we are settled. She has always been fond of the idea of a quiet home."
Revel nodded, watching him. He wasn't cruel — cruelty required passion. Aedon Valor was simply indifferent. He was a man who lived for the sword, and she was the sheath he had been ordered to carry.
The first two years of marriage were defined by rhythmic, polite distance.
The estate sat on a cliffside overlooking a bay that remained stubbornly blue even in winter. It was a beautiful prison. Aedon was rarely home; when he was, he was a ghost in the hallways, a silent presence that smelled of ozone and cold metal. They shared meals where the only sound was the clink of silver against bone china and polite exchanges of logistical updates.
It was during the third year that the quiet changed for good.
The birth of their son did not happen in a grand hospital, but in the sunniest room of their estate. When the child was finally placed in Revel's arms, she didn't weep or offer prayers to the gods. She simply laughed — a tired, breathless sound — and tucked a strand of damp hair behind her ear.
He was a beautiful infant, strikingly so
even for a child of two divine lineages. But it wasn't a beauty that intimidated. He had a face that radiated a profound inner sense of peace.
Aedon stood at the foot of the doorway, his armor still dusty from a week-long excursion. He looked at the child, and for the first time in their marriage, Revel saw him hesitate. He didn't reach out to touch the boy; he just stood there, his shadow long and sharp against the nursery wall.
"He looks like you," Aedon whispered.
"He looks like himself," Revel countered, her voice warm. "And he's going to be the most pleasant neighbor this district has ever seen. Look at those cheeks, Aedon. How can you be grumpy around those?"
Aedon didn't smile. He looked out the window at the distant horizon of the Dream Realm. "My father is already asking about him. He wants to know if the boy carries the spark."
"Tell him he carries a healthy appetite and a very loud pair of lungs," Revel replied,
shifting the baby so he could see the light.
By the third month, the hollow, museum-like quality of the house had begun to fade. The silence was replaced by the soft rhythmic creak of a rocking chair and the occasional sharp cry of a hungry infant.
Aedon remained a ghost, appearing only for a few days between long stretches at the garrison, but his presence in the house had shifted. He would often stand in the doorway of the nursery, watching Revel nurse or change the boy, his expression unreadable behind the disciplined mask of a soldier.
One evening, as the boy reached a tiny, uncoordinated hand toward the flickering candlelight on the nightstand, Aedon stepped forward and gently blew it out.
"The light is too harsh for his eyes," he said. It was a simple observation, but it was the first time he had intervened in the boy's world.
"He just likes the glow," Revel said, looking up at him. "He's curious about everything, Aedon."
Aedon didn't respond, but he stayed in the room for nearly an hour, sitting in the corner shadows as Revel hummed a low tune to help the boy drift off.
Visits from the aunts became a regular part of the estate's rhythm. By the fifth month, Morgan — now six years older than her infant nephew — was a strange sight in the nursery. At nearly seven, she was already showing the lean, focused build of a girl being raised for the blade. Her boots clicked sharply on the softwood before she caught herself, trying to mimic the softer gait Revel used.
Morgan looked like a wolf cub trying to navigate a parlor. She sat on the edge of the sofa, her gaze locked on the boy as he sat propped on a pile of embroidered cushions.
"He's very small," Morgan observed, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"He's growing every day," Revel said, handing her a soft knitted rattle. "Go on, Morgan. Shake it for him. He likes the sound."
Morgan took the toy with both hands, examining the craftsmanship as if it were a tactical instrument. Her eyes widened with rare curiosity. She leaned closer, her fingers twitching until she finally reached out to poke one of the boy's soft cheeks.
"Squishy," she muttered, a tiny genuine smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
The boy responded by lazily batting at her hand, his eyes tracking the movement of her dark hair. Morgan didn't pull away. She simply sat there, watching him with quiet intensity.
Revel watched them all — the warrior, the indifferent father, the young aunt. She saw the way they looked at the boy, as if searching for signs of the spark or the sword. She ignored it, picking her son up and smoothing the hair back from his forehead.
Inside these walls, her world was the smell of salt air, the warmth of the sun on the porch, and the quiet weight of a child who was simply happy to be held.