Six months had passed since Azerion first stepped into the gilded snare of Alisia's Visitor Palace, and the city had woven itself into his bones—the tang of its harbor air, the gleam of its obsidian towers, the ceaseless hum of its intrigues. The storm-weary exile who'd arrived with damp boots and a flickering ember of silver-blue energy had hardened into something sharper, though not yet unbreakable. Eden's forge had tempered him, its heat a relentless teacher, and in its crucible, an unexpected bond had taken root.
The merchants called Alisia "the Jewel of the Middlemist," but Azerion had learned to see past its gleaming façade. In the lower markets, where salt-stained wood gave way to stone worn smooth by centuries of foot traffic, the true pulse of Eden throbbed—exotic spices from the Lysmeran archipelago stacked in colorful pyramids, Velkhoris silk traders haggling in their lilting accents, street performers channeling minor energies to create illusions that danced like fireflies above awestruck children. It was here, among the common folk, that Azerion had begun to understand Eden's soul beyond its political machinations.
The late afternoon sun dipped low over the Middlemist Sea, casting a golden sheen across Alisia's crescent harbor. Azerion stood on a balcony overlooking the docks, the crimson-lined cloak of his initial welcome replaced by a lighter tunic of deep blue, its silver trim dulled by wear—a practical choice for the humid warmth of Eden's autumn. His dark hair, once wild as Solara's plains, was tied back neatly, though strands escaped to frame his face, now tanned from months of training beneath the sun. The scar on his temple had faded slightly, a quiet testament to his growth, and his silver-blue energy thrummed stronger within him—not a storm yet, but a steady current, honed by discipline and necessity.
"Don't cast wide," Master Lirien's voice echoed in his memory, the Tideborn instructor's weathered face stern but patient. "Energy is not brute force—it's precision. Channel it like water finding cracks in stone." Countless mornings spent in the training yards, his muscles screaming as he held the Tidal Stance, silver-blue wisps coalescing around his fingertips only to dissipate when his concentration faltered. The first time he'd successfully completed the twelve movements of the Flowing Current form, Lirien had merely nodded—high praise from the taciturn master.
Below, galleons with Eden's flame-winged seal rocked gently against the piers, their crimson sails furled, while fishermen hauled nets glinting with silver-scaled catches. The cliffs rose sharp behind the city, their tiers of stone and color softened by the haze of dusk. Azerion leaned against the balustrade, a goblet of water in hand—its Tideborn runes pulsing faintly, a habit he'd come to appreciate—and let the distant cries of gulls wash over him.
He caught sight of a familiar vessel—the Stormchaser, Captain Thorne's swift merchant ship that had carried him from Solara's shores after his brothers' coup. Its distinctive blue-striped hull stood out among Eden's crimson fleet. The sight of it stirred memories of that desperate night—rain lashing his face as he fled the palace, his mother's silver pendant heavy against his chest, the blood of royal guards sticky on his hands. His fingers instinctively rose to touch the pendant beneath his tunic, its familiar contours a reminder of what had been stolen.
"She's restocking for a northern run," a voice said behind him. "Thorne's taking fabric to Velkhoris and bringing back their winter spices. Man never stops moving."
Azerion turned to find Liana leaning against the doorframe, her slender form clad in the muted grays of palace attendants. The young woman's silver-white hair—a mark of her distant Tideborn heritage—was braided tightly against her scalp, emphasizing sharp cheekbones and keen eyes that had proven more observant than most of Eden's nobles.
"Thorne mentioned the northern route last time," Azerion replied, offering a small smile. In the months since his arrival, Liana had become more than just the Emperor's assigned aide—she was his eyes and ears in the palace's labyrinthine politics. "Though I'm surprised he's sailing so close to the equinox. The Middlemist gets temperamental."
Liana pushed off the doorframe, joining him at the balustrade. Her movements were always precise, economical—the training of someone who'd learned to exist in spaces without drawing attention. "He claims his weather-sense is better than any Tideborn seer. Though between us, I think it's just the lure of Velkhoris gold." Her gaze flicked to his goblet. "Still practicing?"
Azerion nodded, focusing briefly on the water within. The liquid trembled, rising into a small, wobbling sphere that hovered an inch above the goblet before collapsing back with a splash. "Master Lirien says I'm still too rigid. Water must flow, not be forced."
"Better than last month," Liana observed, her tone matter-of-fact. "Though I'd keep that little trick hidden from Lord Valerius. He reports everything to the Emperor."
"Including my wine preferences and sleeping habits, I'm sure," Azerion said dryly. "How else would His Imperial Majesty know I prefer the southern vintages and sleep facing the door?"
Liana's lips twitched—the closest she usually came to a smile. "The Emperor values thoroughness." She straightened, her expression shifting to something more formal. "Speaking of which, Lady Mirabel was asking for you earlier. Something about trade documents you promised to review."
Azerion arched an eyebrow, recognizing the coded message. "Ah, yes. The Lysmeran proposals. I'll attend to them shortly."
Liana nodded, her eyes communicating what her words could not: Be careful. With a slight bow, she retreated into the palace, her soft footsteps fading quickly.
Footsteps approached, light and deliberate, accompanied by the rustle of silk. He didn't turn, already knowing who it was by the rhythm of her stride and the faint jasmine scent that preceded her. Lady Mirabel of House Valerion stepped onto the balcony, her emerald silks swapped for a simpler gown of muted green, its golden embroidery subtle yet striking. Her black hair hung loose today, cascading over her shoulders in waves, the golden pins absent—a rare informality that spoke of trust, or at least its semblance.
"You're brooding again," she said, her voice musical yet teasing, as she joined him at the railing. "I can tell by the way you stare at the sea—like it owes you answers."
Azerion's lips twitched, a half-smile breaking his reverie. "It might. The Middlemist Sea nearly claimed me six months ago. I'm still deciding if it's friend or foe."
She laughed, a sound that had grown familiar over their sporadic meetings—first chance encounters in the palace corridors, then deliberate invitations masked as courtly courtesy, and now something closer to companionship. "It's neither, Prince. The sea doesn't care for kings or exiles—it just is. You'd do well to remember that."
He glanced at her, meeting her kohl-rimmed eyes, which sparkled with amusement but held a depth he'd come to recognize. "Wise words. Are you sure you're not secretly a Tideborn philosopher?"
"Hardly," she replied, leaning her elbows on the balustrade, her golden energy flickering faintly—a warm contrast to his cooler silver-blue. "But I've lived by this harbor my whole life. You learn its moods—or you drown."
The first time he'd witnessed her energy—during a diplomatic reception for Velkhoris envoys—it had stolen his breath. While most of Eden's nobility channeled the typical crimson energy of their realm, Mirabel's golden power was rare, marking her as something unusual even among the elite. Later, he'd learned it was a trait unique to House Valerion, rumored to stem from an ancient marriage with Lysmeran royalty centuries ago.
They fell into an easy silence, the kind that had settled between them over months of shared moments—stolen conversations in the palace gardens, debates over Edenic politics in shadowed alcoves, even a few sparring sessions in the training yards where her golden energy met his Tidal Flow Stride in flashes of light and motion. What had begun as a dance of calculated alliance had softened into something less guarded, though neither would name it fully.
The memory of their first sparring match surfaced—Mirabel's laughter as she'd pinned him to the packed dirt of the training yard, her golden energy crackling around them like summer lightning. "Solaran combat forms are too rigid," she'd teased, offering a hand to help him up. "You fight like you're still in your royal courtyard, with rules and boundaries. Eden has neither."
The next day, he'd risen before dawn, practicing the Tidal Flow Stride until his muscles burned and sweat soaked his tunic. By their third match, he'd managed to catch her off-guard with a swift pivot—a modification of the traditional form that incorporated Eden's more fluid style. The look of surprised respect in her eyes had been worth the bruises.
Azerion sipped his water, the runes cool against his fingers. "You've been scarce this past week," he said, keeping his tone casual. "Court business, or has your uncle finally tired of my presence?"
Mirabel snorted, a sound at odds with her refined appearance. "Uncle Valerius never tires of anything he can use—and you, my friend, are far too useful to discard. No, I've been tangled in House Valerion's affairs. Trade disputes with Velkhoris over saffron prices. Tedious, but necessary."
"Sounds exhausting," he said, a flicker of sympathy in his voice. "I'd take assassins over ledgers any day."
"Don't tempt fate," she shot back, nudging his arm with her elbow—a gesture that would've been unthinkable six months ago. "You've dodged enough blades already. Gideon told me about that Silent Blade agent in the market last month—the one who nearly caught you near the docks."
Azerion grimaced, the memory still sharp—cloaked figure, void energy coiling like smoke, Gideon's sword flashing in the moonlight. "He's persistent, I'll give him that. My brothers' coin runs deep."
The market encounter had been closer than he liked to admit. The Silent Blade—one of Khavar's elite assassins, by the void energy signature—had been disguised as a spice merchant, his true nature revealed only when Azerion's silver-blue energy had accidentally brushed against his concealed void aura. Only Gideon's vigilance and a timely warning from a Tideborn oracle who'd recognized the Dark Realm's energy had saved him from a poisoned blade between the ribs.
"They're fools," she said, her tone hardening. "Darius and Cassian think they can bury you with gold and steel, but they don't see what I do." She paused, her gaze softening as it met his. "You're stronger than they know."
The compliment caught him off guard, warmth threading through his chest. He looked away, out at the sea, to hide the faint flush creeping up his neck. "I'm still a novice, Mirabel. My energy's a trickle compared to Eden's masters—or even yours."
"Strength isn't just energy," she countered, her voice firm. "It's will. And you've got that in spades. I've seen you push through exhaustion in the yards, argue trade law with merchants twice your age, even charm that sour-faced Tideborn emissary into a smile. You're no lost prince anymore."
Her words called to mind his early weeks in Eden—the whispers that followed him through corridors, the barely concealed contempt of courtiers who saw only a pathetic exile begging for scraps. Lord Valerius had been particularly cutting, dismissing him as "Solara's refuse" during a council meeting. Azerion had spent that night on this very balcony, staring at the sea, contemplating what it would mean to simply disappear—to abandon his birthright and start anew in some distant corner of the Middle Realm.
But then came dawn, and with it, resolve. He'd thrown himself into training with renewed vigor, sought out Eden's libraries to study its politics and history, even volunteered for diplomatic missions that other nobles considered beneath them. Slowly, the whispers had changed—from mockery to curiosity, from dismissal to cautious respect. When he'd negotiated favorable terms with Lysmeran traders, outdoing even Lord Valerius's expectations, Mirabel had caught his eye across the council chamber, a hint of pride in her smile.
He turned back to her, searching her face for the calculation he'd once expected from her every word. But her expression was open, earnest—rare for a Valerion, rarer still in Eden's court. "Careful," he said, his tone light but his eyes serious. "That almost sounded like faith."
"Maybe it is," she admitted, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "Or maybe I just like having someone around who doesn't grovel or scheme every second. It's... refreshing."
Azerion chuckled, the sound low and genuine. "High praise from you. I'll take it."
They lapsed into silence again, watching as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in hues of amber and violet. The air cooled, carrying the salt tang of the harbor, and the first stars began to pierce the twilight—Middle Realm constellations he'd learned to name under Eden's tutelage. The Archer's Bow gleamed bright above the western cliffs, while the Seafarer's Chain emerged more subtly in the eastern sky—different patterns than Solara's celestial tapestry, yet increasingly familiar.
The harbor began its evening transformation—lanterns flickering to life along the docks, casting golden reflections across the darkening water. Ship bells chimed the changing watch, and in the distance, the Temple of the Tides began its sunset ritual, azure energy spiraling upward in a beacon visible throughout the city. The Tideborn priests would be chanting now, their voices harmonizing with the sea's own rhythm, maintaining the centuries-old bond between Eden and the waters that sustained it.
"Do you ever miss it?" Mirabel asked suddenly, her voice softer now. "Solara, I mean. The plains, the throne, your family?"
The question pierced him, a familiar ache blooming in his chest. He set his goblet on the balustrade, his fingers lingering on the runes as he considered his answer. "Every day," he said finally. "Not the throne—not yet—but the little things. The wildflowers after rain, the royal menagerie at dawn, my mother's laughter. Exile strips you bare, but it doesn't erase home."
Memories flickered unbidden—his mother's gardens, where exotic blossoms from all five realms grew in carefully tended harmony; the great library with its ceiling painted to match Solara's constellations; the hidden passage behind his chambers where he and his brothers had once played as children, before ambition poisoned Darius's heart and fear twisted Cassian's loyalty. Before the night of broken oaths and tongue filled lies.
She nodded, her gaze distant, as if seeing her own memories reflected in his words. "I've never left Alisia—not really. Velkhoris once, as a child, but Eden's my cage and my kingdom. I wonder sometimes what it'd be like to lose it."
"You'd survive," he said, meeting her eyes. "You're too stubborn to break."
Her laugh returned, brighter this time. "Flattery now? You're learning Eden's ways too well."
"Had a good teacher," he replied, grinning—a rare ease settling over him, one he hadn't felt since Solara.
A sudden clamor from the harbor below drew their attention—shouts and the clang of steel against steel. Azerion leaned forward, his hand instinctively falling to the Solaran dagger at his hip—a gift from Sir Gideon, who'd insisted he never go unarmed, even within the palace walls.
On the main pier, a circle had formed around two figures locked in combat—one in the distinctive crimson uniform of Eden's harbor guard, the other in the hooded gray robes of a Tideborn acolyte. Energy flashed between them—the guard's crimson power met by the acolyte's swirling blue, the clash sending sparks cascading into the darkening water.
"Realm's mercy," Mirabel muttered, her golden energy flaring in response to the disturbance. "That's the third conflict this week. The Tideborn are growing bolder."
Tensions between Eden's imperial authority and the Temple of the Tides had been mounting for months—whispers of Emperor Valerian's plans to tax the temple's vast holdings had ignited old resentments among the Tideborn, whose ancient claim to Eden's waters predated the empire itself. What had begun as political discourse had devolved into increasingly frequent skirmishes.
"The harbor guard provokes them," Azerion observed, watching as more uniformed figures moved to surround the combatants. "Searching their vessels, questioning their comings and goings. Your Emperor's playing a dangerous game."
Mirabel's expression tightened slightly at his criticism, her loyalty to Eden momentarily overshadowing their friendship. "The Tideborn claim immunity from imperial law while enjoying Eden's protection. They can't have it both ways."
"Can't they?" Azerion countered, gesturing toward the Temple's glowing beacon. "Without them, Eden's ships wouldn't navigate the Middlemist's tempests, your fishermen wouldn't know the safe waters, your harbors would silt up within a generation. Some powers exist outside the bounds of empire, Mirabel."
She studied him, understanding dawning in her eyes. "Like Solaran royal energy. Silver-blue, passed through bloodlines, not granted by imperial decree."
He nodded, impressed by her quick grasp of the parallel. "Exactly. My brothers may sit near Solara's throne, but they can't claim the energy that's rightfully mine. Some things can't be seized—only earned or inherited."
Below, the conflict dissolved as Temple elders arrived, their commanding presence and more potent energy quickly separating the combatants. The harbor crowd dispersed, though the undercurrent of tension remained palpable even from the balcony's height.
Their banter was interrupted by the sound of boots on stone—Sir Gideon emerging from the doorway, his silver energy a quiet hum. The knight's weathered face bore new lines since their flight from Solara, but his stance remained that of a royal guard—shoulders squared, eyes constantly scanning for threats. The sword at his hip had claimed three would-be assassins since their arrival in Eden, and the crimson sash across his chest—marking him as foreign but protected—bore a small tear from the most recent attempt.
"My lord," he said, his tone clipped but not urgent. "Liana says the Emperor's called a late council. Something about Khavar's movements. You're expected."
Azerion sighed, the weight of duty settling back onto his shoulders. "No rest for the exiled, it seems. Thank you, Gideon."
The knight inclined his head, then glanced at Mirabel. "Lady Valerion," he said, his tone neutral but his eyes wary—a reminder of his distrust, even after months of her presence. Gideon had never fully warmed to any Edenic noble, viewing them all as potential threats to his charge.
"Sir Gideon," she replied, matching his formality with a faint smirk. "Always a pleasure."
The first time Gideon had encountered Mirabel approaching Azerion in the palace gardens, the knight had nearly drawn his blade, positioning himself between them with the swiftness that had made him legendary among Solara's guard. Only Azerion's quick command had prevented bloodshed, though the tension between protector and potential ally had simmered for weeks after.
Gideon retreated, leaving them alone once more. Azerion turned to Mirabel, regret flickering in his expression. "Duty calls. I'd rather stay and argue sea philosophy with you."
"Then sneak out after," she said, her tone conspiratorial. "Meet me by the eastern gardens—there's a bench under the myrrh trees. Less prying eyes, and I've got a bottle of Lysmeran wine I've been saving. We can toast to surviving another day in this pit."
He raised an eyebrow, tempted. "You're a bad influence, Lady Mirabel."
"The best kind," she shot back, her golden energy flaring playfully. "Go play prince. I'll wait."
Azerion nodded, a spark of anticipation lighting his silver-blue energy as he stepped away from the balcony. "Until later, then."
She watched him go, her smile lingering as he disappeared into the palace's labyrinthine corridors. The air shifted cooler in his absence, the harbor's pulse a steady heartbeat below. Mirabel leaned back against the railing, her gaze drifting to the sea, and for a moment, her guarded mask slipped—just a flicker of something softer, something real.
The imperial council chamber gleamed in the light of a hundred floating lamps, their crimson energy suspended in intricate patterns across the domed ceiling. Twelve obsidian chairs ringed the circular table—each carved with the sigil of Eden's great houses—while the Emperor's throne dominated the northern position, its back carved into the spread wings of Eden's flame bird emblem.
Emperor himself sat unmoving, his silver-streaked black hair bound in the traditional warrior's knot, his crimson robes embroidered with golden runes of protection and power. At sixty, his face retained the sharp angles of youth, though lines of command bracketed his mouth and eyes. The imperial energy crown—invisible to common sight but radiant to those with power—hovered above his brow, its crimson light pulsing in time with Eden's mystical heartbeat.
Azerion took his assigned place—not at the table proper, but at a smaller chair against the western wall, positioned to observe but not directly participate unless called upon. His status as "honored guest" rather than true council member was a constant reminder of his tenuous position in Eden's hierarchy.
Lord Valerius occupied House Valerion's seat, his thin frame rigid with the arrogance that seemed embedded in his very bones. The sharp contrast between uncle and niece never ceased to amaze Azerion—where Mirabel possessed warmth beneath her calculated exterior, Valerius was ice to his core, his golden energy a pale, hard thing compared to her vibrant power.
"Our seers report increased void activity along the northern boundary," High Admiral Thorne was saying, her weathered hands manipulating a three-dimensional map conjured above the table. Shimmering lines of energy marked shipping routes across the Middlemist, while dark purple stains indicated void disturbances. "Three merchant vessels lost in the past month—no survivors, no wreckage. Just silence."
"Khavar grows bold," Lord Valerius observed, his thin lips barely moving. "Or desperate. The barrier between realms should prevent such... incursions."
"Should," Emperor Valerian emphasized, his deep voice resonating in the chamber's perfect acoustics. "Yet Lord Varyth's experiments continue to thin the veil. Our Tideborn allies report void contamination in the deeper currents—energy signatures inconsistent with natural phenomena."
Azerion studied the map intently, noting the pattern of incursions clustered near Solara's northern coast—his homeland now ruled by his treacherous brothers. No coincidence, he suspected. Darius had always been fascinated by forbidden knowledge, his private library rumored to contain texts on void manipulation that predated the Realm Concordat.
"And what of Solara's response?" he asked, speaking for the first time since entering the chamber. Heads turned toward him—some with interest, others with barely concealed disdain.
Emperor Valerian's gaze settled on him, measuring. "Your brother Darius claims ignorance, naturally. His emissary suggests the disturbances stem from Eden's waters—a transparent attempt to deflect responsibility."
"While his other brother, Prince Cassian, has been spotted meeting with known Khavar sympathizers in border towns," added Lady Servina, her voice laced with the characteristic rasp of one who'd survived void poisoning.
The implications settled like lead in Azerion's stomach. If Darius was indeed collaborating with Khavar—allowing void experiments on Solaran soil—the consequences could be catastrophic. The Shattered Realm's energy was fundamentally incompatible with the Middle Realm's natural balance; unchecked void power could corrupt land, water, even living beings.
"And yet we harbor the third brother," Lord Valerius remarked, his gaze sliding to Azerion with undisguised suspicion. "How convenient that these troubles escalate just as our 'guest' establishes himself in Eden."
The accusation hung in the air, poisonous in its subtlety. Azerion felt his silver-blue energy respond instinctively, coiling within him like a serpent preparing to strike. Six months ago, he might have risen to the bait, displaying the famous Solaran temper that had gotten him into trouble in his youth. But Eden had taught him patience—the value of letting enemies reveal themselves through their own words.
"Indeed convenient," he responded evenly, meeting Valerius's gaze without flinching. "Almost as if I orchestrated my own exile and the theft of my birthright as an elaborate plot to... what exactly, Lord Valerius? Bring void corruption to Eden? The realm that granted me sanctuary when my own brothers tried to have me killed?"
Several council members shifted uncomfortably, while Admiral Thorne made a sound suspiciously like a suppressed chuckle. Even Emperor Cassius' stern mouth twitched slightly.
"Your loyalty remains to be proven," Valerius pressed, undeterred. "Blood ties are not so easily severed. Perhaps you maintain communication with your brothers—perhaps this exile is merely a ruse to—"
"Enough," the Emperor cut in, his crimson energy flaring momentarily. "Prince Azerion's presence in Eden was my decision, Lord Valerius. Question it further, and you question imperial judgment."
Valerius stiffened, then inclined his head in reluctant deference. "As always, I serve the empire's interests, Your Majesty."
The Emperor's attention returned to the map, where the void stains seemed to pulse with malevolent purpose. "We must increase patrols along the northern route and strengthen the Tideborn wardstones at key junctures. Admiral, you'll coordinate with the Temple elders—whatever their recent disagreements with the crown, this threat concerns us all."
"And what of Solara?" asked Lady Servina, her scarred fingers tracing the border between realms. "If they truly court Khavar's power..."
The Emperor's gaze settled on Azerion, calculating. "Perhaps it's time our guest proves his value beyond our shores. Prince Azerion, you still have supporters in Solara, do you not? Those who might provide information on your brothers' activities?"
Azerion straightened, surprise and wariness battling within him. This was the first time the Emperor had suggested using his Solaran connections—a significant shift from the carefully controlled isolation of his first months. "Some remain loyal, Your Majesty, though they must be cautious. Darius's purges have been... thorough."
"Yet information flows, even through blood-soaked channels," the Emperor noted. "I would have you write to certain parties—under my seal, but with your voice. We need eyes within Solara's court, confirmation of Khavar's influence."
The request was reasonable, even expected, yet Azerion sensed deeper currents beneath it—the beginning of a more active role in Eden's politics, but also increased risk. Contact with Solara would draw attention, perhaps hasten his brothers' efforts to eliminate him permanently. Yet refusing would reinforce Valerius's insinuations of divided loyalty.
"I serve at Your Majesty's pleasure," he replied formally, inclining his head. "Though I would request that Sir Gideon oversee the messenger selection. We've had... unfortunate experiences with compromised couriers."
"Granted," the Emperor said, satisfied. "Work with Liana on the particulars. I want letters dispatched within three days."
The council continued for another hour, discussing defensive measures, supply chain adjustments, and diplomatic approaches to neutral territories that might be affected by increased void activity. Throughout, Azerion felt Lord Valerius's gaze returning to him—calculating, suspicious, measuring. The man was a viper, coiled and patient, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
As the session concluded, council members rose and bowed to the Emperor before filing out in order of precedence. Azerion waited until the chamber had nearly emptied before making his own exit, mind already racing with the implications of his new assignment—the risks and opportunities it presented.
He was so absorbed in thought that he nearly collided with a figure lurking in the shadowed alcove outside the council doors—a tall man in the simple gray robes of a palace scholar, his face partially concealed by a hood. Only quick reflexes saved Azerion from the embarrassment of the collision, his Tidal Flow Stride allowing him to pivot smoothly aside at the last moment.
"Your pardon," he began, then stopped as recognition dawned. "Master Kethris? I didn't expect to find you haunting council doors like a specter."
The Tideborn scholar pushed his hood back, revealing features that blended typical Eden coloring with the distinctive blue-tinted eyes of deep Tideborn heritage. His silver-streaked beard was precisely trimmed, and the faint blue energy that perpetually surrounded him—a mark of his connection to Eden's waters—pulsed slightly with acknowledgment.
"When one seeks information, Prince Azerion, one must occasionally haunt uncomfortable places," Kethris replied, his voice carrying the rhythmic cadence common to all Tideborn speech. "I trust the council's deliberations were... enlightening?"
Azerion glanced around, confirming they were momentarily alone in the corridor. "You speak dangerously, Master. The Emperor might not appreciate his library keeper eavesdropping on state matters."
"The Emperor knows full well that knowledge flows like water—impossible to contain completely," Kethris responded with a small smile. "Besides, the Temple's concerns are Eden's concerns, particularly when void corruption threatens our waters."
Their relationship had begun in Eden's Grand Library, where Azerion had sought texts on Edenic history and politics. Kethris, initially reserved, had warmed to the exiled prince upon discovering his genuine intellectual curiosity. Over months, the scholarly Tideborn had become a valuable source of context for Eden's complex social hierarchies—information not found in official histories.
"The council fears Khavar's influence grows in Solara," Azerion said quietly, falling into step beside the scholar as they moved down the corridor. "My brothers may be tampering with forces beyond their comprehension."
Kethris's expression darkened. "Few comprehend the void truly. Its nature is antithetical to our realm's energy—it doesn't merely oppose but consumes, corrupts, transforms. The ancient texts speak of the Shattered Realm's hunger—a conscious malevolence that seeks completion through absorption of other realms."
"Yet my brother Darius always dismissed such texts as superstitious nonsense," Azerion recalled, troubled. "He sees power as neutral—a tool to be wielded by those with sufficient will and intelligence."
"A dangerously common misconception," Kethris sighed. "The Tideborn have recorded void corruption patterns for centuries. There is nothing neutral about its progression—it follows intention, yes, but always exceeds it, twisting purpose to its own ends. If Darius truly courts such power..."
The warning hung between them, unfinished but clear. Azerion felt a chill that had nothing to do with the palace's evening air. "I've been tasked with contacting loyalists in Solara—seeking confirmation of Khavar's involvement."
Kethris stopped, turning to face him fully, his blue-tinged eyes searching. "Then you walk a narrowing path, Prince of Solara. Be wary—not all in Eden wish your mission success. Some would prefer a compromised Solara as justification for more... direct intervention."
The implication was clear—certain factions within Eden's council might welcome an excuse for military action against his homeland. The thought of Eden's armies marching across Solara's plains, ostensibly to "liberate" it from Khavar's influence but actually extending imperial control, was chilling.
"I'll tread carefully," Azerion promised. "Though navigating between realms grows more treacherous by the day."
"Indeed." Kethris reached into his robes, withdrawing a small object wrapped in blue silk. "Which is why I thought this might serve you well."
Unwrapping the silk revealed a compass unlike any Azerion had seen—its housing crafted of polished whalebone, its face not marked with directional points but with five distinct symbols: a flame for Eden, a wheat sheaf for Solara, a mountain for Velkhoris, a spiral for Lysmera, and a shattered circle for Khavar. The needle itself appeared to be crystal, containing swirling blue energy.
"A Realm Compass," Azerion breathed, recognizing the rare artifact from ancient texts. "I thought these were restricted to high-ranking Tideborn navigators."
"They are," Kethris confirmed with a small smile. "Consider it on loan from concerned parties who believe balance between realms serves all. It will not only show direction but warn of void disturbances—the crystal darkens proportional to contamination strength. In waters where void has taken hold, it may prove the difference between safe passage and... consumption."
Azerion accepted the compass reverently, feeling the subtle pulse of Tideborn energy within it. Such artifacts weren't created but grown through decades of careful energy channeling—the crystalline needle cultivated from water saturated with pure realm energy, the whalebone housing from creatures that navigated realms by instinct.
"The Temple elders wouldn't approve of this reaching foreign hands," he noted, carefully rewrapping it in the silk.
"The Temple elders recognize coming storms require unexpected alliances," Kethris replied cryptically. "Besides, your energy signature carries traces of Tideborn influence—did you know? Rare in Solaran bloodlines, but present in yours. Perhaps why you've adapted so quickly to our training methods."
This was news to Azerion, though it might explain his natural affinity for water-based energy forms. His mother had never spoken of Tideborn ancestry, but the royal bloodlines of all realms contained ancient minglings that official histories rarely acknowledged.
"I'm grateful," Azerion said, tucking the compass securely into an inner pocket. "Though I suspect gratitude alone won't repay such a gift."
Kethris's eyes crinkled. "Knowledge shared is the only currency the Tideborn truly value, Prince Azerion. When you learn what darkness stirs in Solara, remember that Eden's waters carry whispers to willing ears."
With a slight bow, the scholar continued down the corridor, his gray robes melding with the shadows as he rounded a corner. Azerion stood motionless for a moment, the weight of the compass a reminder of unseen connections and unexpected allies. The game was growing more complex by the day—Eden's internal politics, Solara's corruption, Khavar's encroachment, and now the Tideborn's independent interest.
He touched the silver pendant beneath his tunic—his mother's final gift before his exile—and felt renewed purpose. Whatever shadows gathered, whatever machinations unfolded, he would navigate them. For Solara. For himself. For the promise of return.