Chapter 11: Bound by Blood, Divided by Fate
The Unspoken Truths
A crisp morning breeze whispered through the halls of the secluded estate, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and blooming flowers. The sun had barely risen, casting soft golden hues through the windows. Inside, Kitsaro sat at his desk, flipping through an old tome with an amused glint in his eyes. The pages were worn, their edges curled from years of handling. It wasn't a book a five-year-old should be reading, but then again, Kitsaro was far from an ordinary child.
His mind wandered back to last night—the storm of emotions, the spectacle between his mother and father, and the satisfying crack in Zephiron's carefully maintained composure. His smirk deepened as he tapped his fingers against the wooden desk. Interesting.
A sudden knock on his door pulled him from his thoughts. Before he could answer, the door creaked open, revealing Sylvara. She stepped inside with a bundle of neatly folded clothes in her hands, her silver hair cascading down her back like a river of moonlight. Her golden eyes softened slightly as she met her son's gaze.
"Kitsaro," she called, her voice gentler than usual. "Your clothes for the ceremony have arrived."
Kitsaro immediately set down his book and hopped off his chair, his expression brightening. He ran over, feigning excitement, his golden eyes gleaming with childish enthusiasm. "Really? Let me see!"
Sylvara smiled faintly at his eagerness and handed him the folded garments. Kitsaro took them carefully, tracing the fine embroidery with his fingers. The fabric was rich but not overly extravagant—Cassian had done well in creating something dignified yet not ostentatious.
"Do you like it?" she asked, watching him closely.
Kitsaro nodded quickly, clutching the clothes to his chest. "I love it, Mother! It looks amazing. I can't wait to wear it for the ceremony!" His voice carried just the right amount of youthful excitement, though deep inside, he was more interested in what the event would mean for him.
Sylvara's gaze lingered on him for a moment before she reached out, tucking a stray strand of his hair behind his ear. "That's good," she murmured, her voice quieter now. Then, after a pause, she added, "Come with me. Let's sit in the garden."
Kitsaro blinked but nodded. "Okay!"
He carefully placed the clothes back on the desk before following her out of the room.
---
The garden behind the estate was tranquil, the morning sun casting dappled patterns on the stone pathway. The scent of fresh dew and blooming roses filled the air. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves as Sylvara led Kitsaro toward a shaded stone bench beneath a flowering tree.
"Sit," she instructed, settling down herself.
Kitsaro obeyed, watching her curiously. He could tell something was on her mind.
"There are things we need to discuss before the ceremony," Sylvara began, her tone calm but firm. "Rules you must follow. Things you must not do."
Kitsaro tilted his head, pretending to be confused. "Rules?"
Sylvara turned her golden gaze on him, searching his expression as if weighing how much to say. "Kitsaro, during the ceremony, you will be surrounded by noble children. Many of them are from prominent houses, some even direct heirs. You must be cautious."
Kitsaro's eyes gleamed with curiosity. "Cautious? Why?"
Sylvara's lips pressed together before she exhaled. "Because you are different."
The way she said it sent a thrill down Kitsaro's spine.
"You will not introduce yourself as the son of Duke Zephiron Vaelthyr," she continued. "If anyone asks, you are simply the son of Sylvara Vaelthyr. Nothing more."
Kitsaro's smile barely faltered, but inwardly, he was intrigued. He already knew why, but hearing her say it aloud was satisfying.
"Why?" he asked, feigning innocence. "Isn't Father an important person? Wouldn't it be better if people knew I'm his son?"
Sylvara's fingers curled slightly on her lap. "No," she said sharply, before forcing herself to soften her voice. "Not now. Not yet."
Kitsaro's expression remained curious, but he caught the flicker of emotion in her eyes—bitterness, resentment, and something else.
"You must do as I say," Sylvara said quietly. "This is for your own good."
Kitsaro let a moment of silence stretch between them before nodding. "Alright, Mother. If you say so."
Sylvara studied him carefully, as if expecting him to argue further. When he didn't, her tense shoulders eased slightly.
"You must also be mindful of your behavior," she added. "During the awakening, there will be many eyes on you. Do not draw unnecessary attention."
Kitsaro hummed, resting his chin on his hand. "So I will just stand beside you then mother?"
Sylvara's lips twitched. "Yes and you will remain by my side the whole time."
Kitsaro nodded and chuckled. "I can't wait for the day when it will be my turn to have an awakening."
Sylvara's golden eyes darkened slightly, her gaze distant. "And one day, you will," she murmured.
Then, almost to herself, she added, "In a few more years… you will surpass them all. Even without the bloodline they cling to so desperately."
A slow, knowing smile spread across Kitsaro's lips as he caught the edge of something fierce in her voice. He didn't need to ask to know what she meant.
Power.
They would never see it coming.
Sylvara turned to face him fully, brushing a hand through his soft white hair. Her golden eyes locked onto his eyes, a silent promise burning within them.
"No matter what happens, Kitsaro," she said softly, "you are my son. And you will carve your own path."
Kitsaro gazed up at her, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Then, he leaned forward and wrapped his small arms around her.
Sylvara stilled for a moment before returning the embrace, holding him close.
In that quiet moment, beneath the soft morning light, an unspoken understanding passed between them.
They were not just mother and son.
They were kindred spirits.
And soon, the world would know.
~~~~~
The grand halls of House Vaelthyr's main estate carried an air of calculated elegance, a blend of old aristocracy and meticulously maintained power. Chandeliers cast a soft glow against polished marble floors, the golden embroidery on deep violet banners swaying slightly in the faint breeze from the high windows.
Duchess Selene Vaelthyr sat upon a velvet-upholstered chair in one of the private council chambers, poised as if carved from ice and steel. Across from her, an elder council member, Lord Varian Elvane, observed her with an expression of mild curiosity, his weathered hands folded over the ornate wooden table.
"The final preparations for the ceremony are complete, Your Grace," he stated, his voice calm and measured. "The guest list has been reviewed, the security measures are in place, and all nobles of status will be in attendance."
Selene took a slow sip of her tea before setting the porcelain cup down with a soft clink. "Good." Her crimson eyes flickered with something unreadable before she leaned slightly forward. "Tell me, Elder Varian, have the public announcements for the ceremony been arranged?"
Varian nodded. "Yes, the declaration of the young lords' standings will be reaffirmed before the gathering. The Duke will officially recognize—"
"I want an amendment," Selene interjected smoothly, her voice sweet as honey yet laced with ice. "During the ceremony, the Duke shall explicitly declare that only my sons—Caelum and Adrien—are the true heirs of House Vaelthyr."
Varian blinked. Though his face remained neutral, the slight furrowing of his brow hinted at his unease. "That… would be an unorthodox move, Your Grace. While it is widely understood, it has never been publicly stated—"
"And that is precisely why it must be," Selene interrupted, her fingers trailing over the rim of her teacup. "The boy—that woman's son—lingers like an unwanted stain upon our name. Though he has no claim, his very existence casts a shadow over my children. We shall remind everyone that he is nothing. A forgotten child with no standing, no recognition."
Selene's smile did not reach her eyes. "My dear husband is bound by duty and law. He may not raise a hand against her directly, but I am still his wife—his true wife. If I cannot crush that woman with power, I will ruin her with humiliation."
There was a quiet venom in her words, a bitterness woven with cold precision. For years, Sylvara had been a thorn in her side, a ghost haunting the halls of their legacy. Selene would not allow the whispers of scandal to follow her children, nor would she let that wretched woman's son go unpunished for existing.
A flicker of amusement crossed her features as she envisioned the scene—the way Sylvara's composed expression would crack, the hushed murmurs of the noble families as they witnessed her humiliation. Let her stand there and smile through it. Let her child realize his place beneath my feet.
Seated at the head, Duchess Selene Vaelthyr exuded a regal calm, her eyes surveying the room with quiet satisfaction. The discussion had gone exactly as she had intended.
"It has been left unspoken for too long," Elder Varian Vaelthyr, the eldest among them, finally said. His aged yet sharp gaze met Selene's as he leaned forward. "Rumors of the third son have lingered, stirring unnecessary whispers among the nobility. If we do not take control of the narrative, the uncertainty will fester."
"Precisely," Selene murmured, her lips curving faintly. "We cannot allow ambiguity to stain House Vaelthyr's legacy. The Duke's lineage must remain clear and unquestionable."
Several members exchanged knowing glances before nodding in agreement.
"Then it shall be done," Elder Cedric Vaelthyr, another senior member, declared. "The announcement during the ceremony will reaffirm that the only heirs to House Vaelthyr are Zion Lyka Vaelthyr, the firstborn and rightful successor, and Zachary Lios Vaelthyr, the second heir."
A murmur of approval echoed through the room. The decision was final. The council had spoken.
Selene hid her satisfaction well, merely inclining her head as if she had not been the one to orchestrate it all. Sylvara, your son's existence has been a stain upon this house for too long. Let this serve as your reminder—you and your bastard have no place here.
However, just as the conversation was settling, the doors to the chamber creaked open.
A pair of steady, unhurried footsteps echoed through the room.
Zion Lyka Vaelthyr entered.
His silver hair, gleaming under the light, framed a face that bore the strong features of his father—sharp, defined, and carrying an air of effortless authority. His violet eyes, a rare inheritance of their bloodline, held an unreadable darkness as they flicked across the room.
He had been listening.
The council members stiffened at his presence, some exchanging wary glances.
Selene, however, remained composed, though the faintest trace of unease flickered in her gaze.
Zion's steps were measured as he came to stand at the head of the table, directly across from his mother. His gaze, though calm, held a weight that made even the seasoned council members hesitate.
Finally, he spoke, his voice smooth yet carrying an edge beneath it.
"Why?"
The single word cut through the air like a blade.
Selene's crimson eyes met his, and for a moment, neither spoke. Then, with a practiced grace, she leaned back in her chair. "Because it is necessary."
Zion's gaze remained unreadable. "And who permitted them to attend my awakening ceremony?"
There was no need to clarify who they were. Everyone in the room understood.
Selene's fingers curled slightly against the armrest of her chair. Her bitterness was carefully concealed, but it was there—in the way her lips pressed together for the briefest moment before she spoke.
"Your father."
A pause.
Zion's expression did not shift, but something in his eyes darkened.
His father. The same man who had refused to act for years, allowing whispers and unspoken tensions to fester. The same man who, despite everything, had allowed the woman and her child to set foot within their domain on this significant day.
Selene's voice, when she spoke again, was cool but laced with something restrained.
"If it were up to me, they would not be here."
Zion studied his mother for a long moment before shifting his gaze to the council members. "And all of you are in agreement?"
Lord Varian exhaled. "The matter has been discussed at length, my lord. This announcement will put an end to unnecessary speculation. It is for the good of the house."
Silence hung between them.
Zion let his gaze sweep over each council member, noting their expressions. Some bore silent approval, others carefully guarded neutrality.
Then, with slow precision, he exhaled through his nose and turned away.
"This changes nothing for me," he murmured, voice almost too quiet to be heard.
Selene frowned slightly. "Zion—"
But he was already walking away, his thoughts concealed beneath an impenetrable mask.
This was not the first time his mother had moved to cut them down. Nor would it be the last.
But he would see for himself.
See whether that boy—the so-called unwanted third son—was worth all this effort to erase.