Chapter 9: Whispers Beneath Silver Skies
There were no equals. Not in the estate. Not in the capital. Not in the world of mortals.
By the time he was eleven, Sirius Farah Von Ross had quietly surpassed the expectations of every tutor, every knight, every magician assigned to "observe" him. The finest instructors of the empire taught him with nervous hands. Some called him a once-in-a-century genius. Others, a prodigy beyond comprehension.
But none of them truly understood.
They couldn't. Because they saw only the surface—only a quiet boy with eerie red eyes and an unnatural calm.
A boy who preferred moonlight over celebration.
A boy who never smiled unless it was expected.
A boy who, no matter how much he learned, never once looked at another child as an equal.
They were wrong about him.
And they were right to be afraid.
Because when the rest of the estate slept—when laughter and lessons faded into stillness—Sirius came alive.
Every night, the terrace welcomed him.
The sky was cloudless. The moon, bright.
He sat with his back against the cold marble column, knees drawn up, eyes half-lidded as he stared upward. The moonlight brushed across his skin like a memory. Like a promise.
He didn't speak right away. He never did.
Only after the wind shifted… only after he felt her presence above… did he begin to murmur.
"They brought a new instructor today. Said he once trained a swordmaster."
"He lasted seven minutes before leaving the hall in silence."
"Another test, another name, another silence."
No pride in his voice. No arrogance.
Just a quiet recounting. Like telling an old friend how the day had passed.
He didn't need recognition. He didn't crave applause.
The moon was enough. The night itself was his confession booth—and she, the silent witness.
There were no written diaries. No books filled with dates and inked reflections.
There was only the moon.
He whispered to it. Spoke to it. Let the words drift up until they were swallowed by stars.
And when he could no longer speak, he picked up a piece of charcoal and began to draw. Always the moon—never in the same form twice.
The moon, veiled in mist.
The moon, reflected in a broken blade.
The moon, eclipsed and distant.
The moon, alone in a sky that never welcomed the sun.
When the drawing stopped, he wrote.
Lines born not of effort, but memory.
"The moon does not follow me.
It waits.
Unmoving. Watching.
While I change, while I fade,
it remembers."
"They ask what I dream of.
I do not sleep.
I remember."
Once, a servant glimpsed one of his drawings—only for a moment. A chill settled over her shoulders. She never returned to the terrace again.
Sirius hadn't said a word.
He didn't need to.
Everyone in the Grand Duke's household learned, eventually, that some places did not welcome intrusion. The terrace under the moon belonged only to the boy with silver-white hair and eyes like smoldering rubies.
His parents watched him with quiet affection. They admired his brilliance. They praised his restraint.
They believed he simply found the moon beautiful—like many in the empire. Moon worship was widespread, after all. The second strongest god among the Five Divine. The bringer of peace. Stillness. Reflection.
"Do you want to visit the Moon Church one day?" his mother had asked again , softly, a few days ago.
He had only nodded.
Not because he was curious. But because he wondered if that sacred place would feel her too.
Tonight, like every other night, he returned to the terrace without fail.
The moon hung high. Pale. Timeless.
And though he said nothing for a long time, when he finally opened his lips, the words were not poetic.
They were soft. A child's whisper. A truth too old for his age.
"Even now… I still remember how you looked at me."
He didn't explain who "you" was.
He didn't have to.
The night already knew.