Chapter 3: Shadows at Solvaris
The moon rose late.
By the time its pale light reached the groves of Lumivara, the palace had already descended into quiet disorder. What had begun as a night of unity ended in whispers behind silken curtains and glances exchanged over half-finished plates. The Empress was missing.
Emperor Edmund Vesperion Aetheris stood at the center of the grand pavilion, unmoving. His face was blank, but his eyes had turned sharp, as if trying to see through the silence itself.
"They didn't see her leave," Sir Kairon said, his voice low but firm. He stood at the Emperor's side, his hand resting near the hilt of his sword. "Not a soul noticed her slip away."
"Or they were told not to see," Edmund replied.
The imperial guards had failed. The priestesses, attendants, even the nursemaid—none had any answer that made sense. Elira and the child were simply gone.
Sir Kairon's brow furrowed. "You believe this was planned?"
Edmund didn't answer. Instead, he walked toward the cradle that had been brought back to the pavilion. Empty now, its silks slightly wrinkled, the scent of jasmine and something older still clinging to the fabric.
"It began with a whisper," the Emperor said. "Then silence. And now this."
He turned to Kairon.
"Summon the Umbra Veil."
Kairon stiffened. "Are you certain? That order hasn't been used in—"
"I know," Edmund cut in. "Do it."
When Kairon bowed and left, Edmund sat alone in the pavilion's private chamber. The flame of a single candle trembled in the stillness. He stared at it for a long time, unmoving.
It wasn't just his wife that was gone. It was the part of him that remembered how to breathe.
He had ruled through war. Through famine. Through drought and betrayal. But never through absence. Never through this.
What kind of father lets his child vanish?
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands. He remembered Elira's last smile, tired but warm, as she handed him their daughter only days ago. He remembered the quiet joy in her eyes when Eclissa reached for his finger.
He had loved them. Not for duty, but simply because they were his.
Now, grief curled inside him like a living thing, gnawing at his ribs.
"I will find you," he whispered. "No matter the cost."
That night, throughout Lumivara, the rumors began.
Some claimed the Empress had fled. Others believed she had been taken by enemies of the crown. A few whispered of prophecy—of a child born under shadow, marked by starlight.
But the Emperor did not wait for truth to surface.
Before dawn, he called for the gathering of the Quinta Concordia—the Council of the Five Divine Thrones.
For the first time in a generation, the leaders of Luceria, Aetheris, Pyrrha, Indoria, and Zephyra would stand together.
Because this was no longer a festival.
This was the beginning of a reckoning.
The Umbra Veil moved before the sun returned.
They wore no crests, no colors, no sigils. Only cloaks woven in void-thread—dyed in hues of night and shadow. They entered Lumivara without announcement, slipping through hidden gates and forgotten paths. Not even the royal guards noticed them arrive.
One knelt beneath the great bell tower and examined the earth where the Empress had last been seen. Another climbed the rooftops of the Aetherian pavilion, scanning the grounds with eyes trained to see beyond illusions. A third, silent and hooded, moved through the banquet hall like a shadow in a dream—collecting whispered conversations, stolen glances, discarded wine cups.
They left no footprints. They spoke no names.
Each member of the Umbra Veil served one master: the Emperor alone. Their leader, known only as the Numa, reported through a mirror of obsidian glass, her face hidden by a veil of ink and flame.
"We have begun," she said. Her voice did not echo, yet Kairon heard it in the chamber's stillness.
"We will find her."
The Quinta Concordia convened in the Hall of Sylvariel.
Built in a grove where the five goddesses were once said to have walked, the Hall was circular—its stone walls inlaid with ancient runes, each throne carved from materials sacred to their lineage. Light poured through an open dome, dappling the floor with shifting patterns of sun and shadow.
But today, the hall felt colder.
Tension pulsed beneath the surface of ceremonial calm. No musicians played. No courtiers lingered. Only the rulers and their most trusted companions had been permitted to enter.
Emperor Edmund sat at the throne of Aetheris, his expression carved from silence. To his right sat Emperor Eryx Lucerion, dignified and observant. Across from them, King Cassel Zephyrion leaned slightly forward, eyes narrowed with curiosity rather than concern. Duke Alric Pyrian remained still as stone, while Duke Caelan Indoria rested one hand thoughtfully on his chin.
Sir Kairon stood a few steps behind his Emperor, hand still near his sword.
"I called you here not as monarchs," Edmund began, his voice measured, "but as the descendants of the divine. A child and an Empress have vanished. We must stand together—not as rivals, but as guardians of Luneth."
No one responded immediately.
Then King Cassel spoke, his voice like wind brushing across water. "And what if this is not an attack... but a sign?"
The silence that followed was heavier than any accusation.
Eryx Lucerion folded his hands in his lap. "Signs do not leave empty cradles and missing queens."
Alric Pyrian's brow furrowed. "Or perhaps, signs can be forged." He turned his gaze pointedly toward Edmund. "And what reason would the Emperor of Aetheris have to fabricate such a disappearance?"
Kairon tensed, but Edmund did not rise to the insult. His voice remained steady.
"I would not invent the loss of my wife."
Duke Caelan Indoria, still pensive, spoke next. "There is unrest in the outer isles. Pirates funded by merchant factions, cult activity in the western marshes... Perhaps this disappearance is not divine. Perhaps it is political."
Cassel tilted his head slightly. "Or personal."
Across the chamber, subtle looks were exchanged. Old grudges flickered in the silence.
Not all had come to unite.
Some had come to listen. Others, to judge. And perhaps one or two... to prepare.
Edmund looked around the circle and saw not allies, but reminders.
Of what he had to lose.
And what he would risk—if only to see her again.
Later, when the meeting had ended and the torches outside the hall flickered low, Edmund returned alone to the Aetherian pavilion.
The canopy above the estate shimmered with dew, and the guards stood stiller than statues. Inside, the cradle remained untouched, as if waiting for the sound of a soft cry that would not come.
Edmund stood before it, fingers brushing the edge.
"I am still here," he whispered into the silence, not expecting an answer.
But somewhere deep in the forest, a nightbird stirred.
And far beneath Lumivara, something ancient opened its eyes.
[To be continued...]