Chapter 13: The Day of the Awakening
Welcome to Society Little Fox
The halls of the estate were eerily silent, save for the soft clicking of Sylvara's heels against polished marble. The morning light filtering through the windows cast a golden hue over the opulent corridor, illuminating the mother and son in its warm embrace. Kitsaro walked beside her, his small hand resting lightly in hers.
The air was thick with anticipation. Today was the day—the awakening ceremony of the first heir of House Vaelthyr.
Yet, neither mother nor son seemed particularly eager.
Just before they reached the entrance, a knock sounded on the doors of their estate. A servant entered, dressed in the distinguished uniform of House Vaelthyr. He bowed low before addressing them.
"My lady, young master, I have come to escort you to the awakening ceremony."
Sylvara regarded the servant with cool, assessing eyes. "And how will we be entering?"
The servant hesitated briefly before replying, "The Duke has granted permission for you to enter through the main doors, but you will not be joining the main family. You are to be seated in the designated area before they arrive."
Sylvara scoffed, crossing her arms. "At least he has a conscience," she muttered.
The servant continued, his voice carefully neutral. "Additionally, the council has instructed me to deliver a message: they request that you refrain from causing any disruptions or scandals during the event."
Sylvara's expression darkened instantly.
"Is that so?" Her tone turned sharp. "Then the council had best ensure they do not try anything underhanded. Especially not against my son." Her golden eyes flashed with silent warning. "As long as they behave, I could not care less about their ridiculous event."
The servant visibly tensed under her gaze but bowed respectfully. "Understood, my lady."
Turning away from him, Sylvara strode toward Kitsaro's room, pushing the door open without hesitation.
Inside, the boy stood before an ornate mirror, adjusting the cuffs of his crisp white suit, lined with golden embroidery that traced elegant patterns across the fabric. His snow-white hair framed his delicate yet striking features, and his golden eyes gleamed with an ethereal light.
The very image of nobility.
No—something more.
The servant, who had followed behind Sylvara, could not hide his shock. Kitsaro looked like a celestial being draped in mortal finery, his beauty so unearthly it left the man momentarily breathless.
The neglected son of the Duke? How could such a child exist unnoticed?
Then again, the servant thought, glancing at Sylvara—his mother, who was herself a woman of unparalleled grace and beauty. It was only natural.
Noticing the silence, Kitsaro turned, a knowing smile gracing his lips.
"Mother, you look beautiful in that dress."
Sylvara's expression softened, a rare warmth entering her eyes. "And who do you think you inherited your looks from?" she teased, chuckling.
Kitsaro grinned in response. "You, of course."
Sylvara took a step forward, gently smoothing out his suit before nodding in approval. "Are you finished preparing?"
Kitsaro inclined his head. "I am."
With that, he reached for her hand, their fingers interlocking.
The servant, having recovered from his earlier astonishment, bowed again. "Please, follow me."
The carriage ride was silent save for the faint creaking of wheels against the cobblestone road. Kitsaro peered out the window, his sharp golden eyes taking in the sheer magnificence of the Vaelthyr estate.
The grand estate was a masterpiece of architectural prowess—an enormous fortress adorned with soaring towers, shimmering banners, and intricate carvings depicting House Vaelthyr's long and illustrious history. Each spire reached for the heavens, a silent testament to the power and prestige the family commanded. The estate walls were lined with enchanted lanterns that cast an ethereal glow, making the entire stronghold look almost otherworldly as dusk began to settle.
It was beautiful.
It was powerful.
It was also a place that had never truly welcomed him.
As they neared the grand entrance, the estate's vast courtyard came into view—filled with opulence and the unmistakable air of nobility. Countless carriages, each bearing the insignia of a prestigious house, arrived in succession. Gold-trimmed wheels gleamed beneath the torchlight, and footmen hurried to assist their lords and ladies as they stepped out in garments finer than what most commoners would earn in a lifetime.
The nobles who emerged were adorned in embroidered silks, gemstone-studded robes, and high collars that accentuated their pride. Conversations were hushed, refined, yet laced with arrogance. The air was thick with the scent of rare perfumes and the lingering magic of protective enchantments woven into their attire.
Kitsaro noticed the way their gazes shifted the moment their own carriage rolled to a stop.
Or rather—how they lingered on his mother.
Sylvara stepped out first, her gown of silk white and golden flowing like liquid moonlight around her frame. The silk shimmered under the estate's glowing lanterns, accentuating the soft curves of her figure. The fine embroidery of silver thread wove delicate patterns across the fabric, a stark contrast against her pale skin.
She moved with effortless grace, a queen without a crown, her golden eyes sharp yet unreadable. The way she held herself—composed, untouchable—demanded attention. And attention, she received.
Whispers rippled through the crowd.
"Who is she?"
"No… that can't be—"
"But she looks just like Sylvara Vaelthyr…"
Kitsaro stepped out next, and the murmurs turned into hushed gasps.
He stood beside his mother, his presence striking in a way that was impossible to ignore. He was young, yet his sharp features and piercing golden eyes bore an unsettling resemblance to a lineage many wished forgotten. The aristocrats weren't just looking at him.
They were recognizing him.
"She looks like Sylvara. But that boy… he—"
"That can't be…"
Before the whispers could escalate into full-blown scandal, a servant quickly approached, bowing with rigid formality. "My lady, young master, this way, please." His voice was composed, but the slight tremor in his hands did not go unnoticed.
As Kitsaro and Sylvara stepped forward, the noblemen and women parted instinctively, their expressions a mixture of curiosity, disbelief, and something else—something darker.
Unease.
For the bastard son of House Vaelthyr had finally stepped into the light.
As they approached the grand doors, the servant leaned toward the attendant stationed at the entrance and whispered something. The attendant, upon hearing the names, visibly stiffened before nodding, his fingers twitching as he adjusted his posture. He turned sharply on his heel, his demeanor shifting into something more rigid, more deliberate—as if he had just been handed a fragile, dangerous secret.
Kitsaro watched the subtle change, his sharp golden eyes flickering with interest. He wasn't naïve. He understood what his presence here meant.
His mother had always told him that nobility valued control above all else. And right now, in the fleeting seconds before his name was called, that control was slipping from them.
He glanced up at his mother.
Sylvara met his gaze, her expression unreadable. But then, with the faintest tilt of her lips, she gave him a small, almost imperceptible smile.
Then, she bent slightly, lowering herself just enough to murmur in his ear.
"Remember your etiquette, my son," she said, her voice quiet yet firm. "They may not know who you are, but you are still the third son of Duke Zephiron. You are a Vaelthyr."
A pause.
"And no one—no matter how they whisper, no matter how they look at you—can take that away."
Kitsaro's small fingers clenched into fists at his sides, not in fear, but in quiet resolve. He gave her a nod.
The attendant, now composed, turned toward the gathered nobles and raised his voice.
"Announcing the arrival of Lady Sylvara of House Vaelthyr and her son, Kitsaro Azrael Vaelthyr."
As the attendant's voice rang through the grand hall, silence followed—heavy, absolute.
Then came the whispers.
Soft at first, like the rustling of silk, before swelling into a murmur that spread through the gathered nobles like wildfire.
The golden chandeliers hanging above did little to mask the tension that crackled like a struck match. Faces twisted in disbelief. Some nobles stiffened as if struck by a physical blow, while others barely concealed their expressions of disdain beneath their polished masks of indifference.
Lady Sylvara?
She's returned? After all these years?
And that boy…
Kitsaro felt their gazes settle on them—curious, awed, and utterly captivated.
Sylvara was a vision of elegance, her deep sapphire gown flowing like liquid moonlight, her golden eyes gleaming with an otherworldly sharpness. Time had done nothing to dull her beauty; if anything, it had only made her more formidable, more striking.
And beside her stood Kitsaro.
His resemblance to her was undeniable—his golden eyes, his soft white hair, the delicate yet eerily refined features that made added to his charm as a 5 year old boy. But there was something else in him, something that did not come from Sylvara alone.
Something regal.
The nobles were enthralled.
Even those who despised Sylvara could not deny the sheer presence she commanded, nor the way her son—so young, yet so composed—stood at her side like a shadow of the woman who had once bewitched their world.
"Who is the boy's father?" someone finally whispered, the question rippling through the murmuring crowd.
"Could it be…?"
"But where is he?"
"Why isn't he here?"
The question hung in the air like a blade, sharp and unspoken.
Kitsaro tilted his head slightly, catching the way their eyes darted between him and his mother, tracing every resemblance, every possibility.
Sylvara did not so much as blink.
She simply continued forward, her steps unhurried, her chin lifted—unapologetic. Unshaken.
His mere existence had been a hushed secret—a whisper never meant to be spoken aloud. And yet, here he stood, his name declared before them all.
A son of Vaelthyr.
The nobles' expressions ranged from thinly veiled contempt to wary intrigue. Some, particularly the younger ones, stared at him as if he were some fascinating enigma, a puzzle they had yet to solve. Others, the older, more seasoned aristocrats, exchanged glances—calculating, cautious, brimming with unspoken meaning.
Sylvara, unfazed by the reaction, merely strode forward with the poise of a woman who belonged—who had always belonged, despite their attempts to erase her.
And Kitsaro walked beside her, his head held high, mirroring her confidence.
~~~~~
The moment Sylvara and Kitsaro stepped deeper into the grand hall, the murmurs intensified.
Some whispered in hushed voices, eyes flickering between mother and son. Others openly gawked, their expressions a mixture of awe and confusion.
The sheer presence of the pair was enough to silence lesser nobles.
Kitsaro ignored them, just as his mother had instructed.
"They will talk," Sylvara had murmured softly before they entered. "But remember, their words do not define you. You are a Vaelthyr, the third son of Duke Zephiron. Whether they acknowledge it or not is irrelevant."
Kitsaro had merely nodded, absorbing her words like a lesson etched into his bones.
And then, breaking through the sea of whispers, a voice rang out. Smooth. Lyrical. Laced with undeniable self-importance.
"Well, well. It seems the stars themselves have arranged a reunion in my honor."
The crowd instinctively parted as a man stepped forward, his mere presence commanding attention.
Cassian Aurevellis.
The Atelier heir, the most sought-after tailor in the kingdom, and—if you asked him—one of the most important figures in high society.
With an elegant flick of his wrist, Cassian smoothed the cuffs of his embroidered robe, ensuring the opulent gold stitching caught the light just so. He exuded the effortless confidence of a man who knew exactly how much he was admired.
But it was not just his fashion sense that drew attention—it was the way he carried himself, as if the world itself was a stage, and he was the main attraction.
Several noblewomen subtly inched closer, eager to witness what the famed Cassian had to say.
With a graceful tilt of his head, he turned to Sylvara, his lips curling into a knowing smile.
"My, Lady Sylvara," he drawled, voice rich with amusement. "I must say, time has done little to dull your radiance. If anything, you've grown even more stunning. Truly, an injustice to the rest of us."
A ripple of curiosity spread through the onlookers.
Cassian Aurevellis was known for his discerning taste. He did not offer such words lightly.
Sylvara, however, remained as composed as ever. She merely arched a delicate brow.
"Still as dramatic as always, Cassian?" she mused, taking a slow sip from her glass. "I see time has done little to humble you either."
Cassian let out a mock sigh, placing a hand over his heart.
"Humble? My dear, that word has never suited me," he said, shaking his head in faux disappointment. "Why should one dim their light when they were clearly meant to shine?"
The surrounding noblewomen giggled, some blushing at his effortless charm.
Cassian then turned his gaze downward, his golden eyes locking onto Kitsaro.
The boy met his stare without flinching.
"A sharp presence, indeed," Cassian murmured, tilting his head as if evaluating a fine piece of art. "Tell me, young master, do you like your attire? I personally selected the fabric, after all. A work of art, if I do say so myself."
A collective gasp spread through the noble ladies.
Cassian Aurevellis, the master of high fashion, had personally crafted the fabric for this child's suit? And now, he sought the child's approval?
Kitsaro, recognizing the weight of the moment, deliberately let the silence stretch before responding.
"Yes, I really liked my clothes, Uncle Cass," he said, enunciating the words with innocent precision.
Another silence fell.
Then—
Cassian laughed. A rich, velvety sound that filled the hall, as if the very notion of Kitsaro's words had utterly delighted him.
"Uncle Cass! Now that's a name I could get used to," Cassian mused, tousling Kitsaro's hair. "A clever boy, indeed. You have excellent taste, young master."
He straightened and placed a hand on his hip, dramatically surveying the room as if making an important declaration.
"For such exquisite taste, I shall bestow upon you a rare privilege," Cassian continued, raising a single, well-manicured finger. "Whatever you wish for me to weave, simply say the word, and I shall create it for you. Free of charge."
The entire hall shifted.
A cascade of stunned gasps rippled through the noblewomen.
Several ladies clutched their pearls. Others subtly fanned themselves, as if the sheer generosity of Cassian was enough to overwhelm them.
Cassian Aurevellis did not offer anything for free.
His name alone turned fabrics into priceless treasures. His commissions were reserved for royalty, and even then, at an extravagant price.
And yet, here he was—offering his craftsmanship freely to this child?
It was unthinkable.
Immediately, the atmosphere in the room transformed.
The noblewomen, who had previously been observing Sylvara from a distance, now regarded her with newfound interest—no, urgency.
If Cassian Aurevellis considered her a dear friend, then she was no ordinary woman.
One noblewoman, adorned in dazzling emeralds, approached with a radiant smile. "Lady Sylvara, what an absolute pleasure it is to finally make your acquaintance," she purred. "Might I ask—how do you and Master Cassian know each other?"
Others quickly followed, their voices overlapping in eager attempts to establish a connection.
"Oh, Lady Sylvara, your son is simply adorable! How old is he?"
"What an exquisite gown, my lady! Who designed it?"
"Master Cassian, you must tell us more! Who is this stunning lady?"
Cassian, ever the showman, placed a hand on his chin as if deep in thought. Then, with deliberate flourish, he gestured toward Sylvara.
"My dear ladies, you wound me with such questions," he said dramatically. "Do you not know? Lady Sylvara is one of the few people in this kingdom whom I consider a dear friend."
Another wave of gasps.
That was it.
That was all they needed to hear.
To be a dear friend of Cassian Aurevellis meant one was not just important—but invaluable.
Within moments, noblewomen were practically swarming Sylvara, each trying to get closer, to converse, to be noticed.
Sylvara, for her part, remained effortlessly poised. She merely sipped her wine, allowing the pieces to fall into place exactly as they should.
Kitsaro, standing at her side, watched with quiet amusement.
He had seen it before.
How influence could shift with a single moment.
'Was this planned?' Kitsaro asked himself as he looked at his mother casually associating with the noble ladies. He then looked back at Cassian with a smile on his face. A wink was what greeted him as cassian walked towards him.