The night sky bled with smoke, thick and stubborn, drowning the moon in a veil of shadow and chasing the stars into hiding. Not a single shimmer of light escaped to touch the earth. Below that smothered dome, the world seemed oblivious to the darkness above. Laughter echoed through the streets. Lanterns danced on strings of light. Music, unchained and wild, rippled through the air.
It was a festival of sound and soul. People weaved between stalls, mouths full of roasted meats and honeyed fruit. Children tugged on strings of floating balloons, squealing. Dancers spun in rhythmic ecstasy, and singers poured out their hearts, their songs threading into the night like spells of joy. It was chaos — vibrant, electric, alive.
But far above it all, removed from the pulse of the crowd, a lone boy sat on a marble balcony etched with golden vines. From this height, the world below looked like a distant dream. His white hair, tousled and windswept, caught the flicker of firelight from below, giving him the appearance of a phantom watching from the clouds. His eyes — pale, impossibly bright, like frost kissed by moonlight — shimmered as they followed the scene below.
He sighed. Quiet. Empty. Not from boredom, but from a kind of ache that had no name.
Behind him, the soft rustle of polished shoes broke the silence.
Kairos didn't bother turning. He didn't need to. The pattern of steps, the complete absence of a knock — it was unmistakable.
"Sebastian," he said, voice low and flat.
The butler, ever poised and unreadable, stepped into view like a ghost materializing from the velvet curtains. "Aren't you going to join the festival, my Lord?" he asked, his tone carefully measured, polite to the point of pain.
Kairos didn't answer right away. His gaze lingered on a group of children tossing fireworks into the sky, their faces glowing with mischief and wonder.
"Was I invited?" he asked, finally, eyes still distant.
"You are always invited, my Lord," Sebastian replied almost too quickly — too practiced — like he had rehearsed the line a thousand times in the mirror.
Kairos turned his head slowly. His eyes found Sebastian's, and for a heartbeat, the butler flinched. Not outwardly, but somewhere in the way his fingers curled tighter behind his back.
"You know," Kairos said, voice quieter now. "Today's my birthday. But he never said anything. As usual." His lips curled bitterly. "And yet he wants me to be king. I'm better off in my room."
"My—"
Sebastian began, but the boy raised a hand. A gesture as soft as a falling leaf, but final. The butler fell silent.
Kairos didn't need words. The fact that Sebastian showed up at all — that alone was enough. Enough to make his chest ache with something warm and unwanted. But then again… was it real? Or just obligation?
Who knew? Maybe that was all it ever was. It's what he was paid for, after all.
Kairos had never known warmth from his father. Not really. His siblings were anomalies like him — different from the rest of the world. And even among those few, Kairos still felt like the odd one out. The ghost in the family portrait.
In this world, everyone was born with a spark. They called it "color" — a mystical resonance that allowed them to bend the laws of reality through something called painting. That's what they told him, anyway.
But in truth? Kairos had never seen anyone actually do it. Not like him. Not like his siblings. The people around them only ever emitted faint glimmers, ghostly hues that clung to their skin like the afterglow of dying stars.
He and his siblings? They didn't even have that.
No color. No chants. Nothing.
Kairos shifted on his bed, the soft sheets rustling beneath him like whispers. Now wasn't the time to get lost in that web of thoughts. He had a big day tomorrow — one that required his mind to be sharper than ever.
His older siblings were returning from a mission. His father — the King — would no doubt call for a summit.
He hated it already. But he had no choice.
Morning arrived like a whisper, not a roar. Kairos opened his eyes to the muted light and slid on his headphones. Sleek, matte black, their design simple yet perfect. He wore them not for sound — but for silence. For control.
For comfort.
They were his talisman.
Kairos had always possessed exceptional hearing. A gift. A curse. Even with the headphones, sound still leaked in, sharp and intrusive. When he was younger, it had been worse. People smiling to his face while spewing venom behind closed doors. He heard it all. Every betrayal. Every lie.
He walked alone now, his steps light on the ivory pavement that cut through the palace garden. The sky above was breathtaking — brilliant blue marred by jagged fractures, as if something divine had tried to claw its way through the heavens. These cracks only ever appeared during the Color Festival… and disappeared just as suddenly after.
It had always unsettled him.
He arrived at the dining hall. Gold and white adorned every surface — extravagant to the point of excess. The chandeliers above dripped crystal. The chairs gleamed silver, carved with intricate runes that pulsed faintly with warmth.
At the far end of the endless table, a single plate waited for him — a throne for his appetite. The servants knew his habits well. Most of them dictated by his father, of course. Control, even over taste.
He dipped his spoon into the bowl, brought it to his lips. The warmth spread instantly, carrying the rich, comforting flavor of rice soaked in thick chicken broth. His eyes lit up, just a little.
It was his favorite. A strange choice for royalty, maybe, but it was his.
"You're eating so early. You've changed, haven't you?" a voice teased, soft and melodic.
Kairos tensed. Then exhaled.
Only one person could sneak up on him like that.
He turned, and there she was — Lysander. Radiant, as always. Her golden hair cascaded like a waterfall of sunlight, and her smile could blind the stars.
He hugged her without thinking.
"I wasn't expecting you guys till much later. Where's Illumi and Zephyrus?" he asked, holding on for a second longer than necessary.
"Resting," she replied, her voice gentle. "They took the brunt of the mission's stress. They're preparing for the summit."
"I see," Kairos murmured, finishing his meal. "What was the mission like? You guys took forever."
Lysander sat beside him. "More political than physical. The Valor Region's rebels kidnapped a princess. We couldn't just storm in — had to play it smart."
Kairos frowned. "Still don't get it."
"I'll explain later. Come on. The summit's about to start."
His feet didn't move.
"I don't know if I want to go. Yesterday was my birthday… but Father didn't even acknowledge it."
Her smile faltered. The light in her eyes dimmed, just a touch.
"Don't worry about it," she said. "You missed the last summit. You should be there for this one."
He hesitated, then nodded — barely.
As they walked toward the King's chambers, Lysander looked up at the sky, now tinged with crimson.
The cracks had grown wider.
"The tear in the sky is worsening," she thought. "It's only a matter of time before the abominations pour through. It won't hold much longer…"
She spoke aloud this time, softly. "That's probably one of the reasons for the summit."
Kairos glanced at her, narrowing his eyes. Was she… worried?
Lysander never showed worry. She hid it — buried it under layers of confidence and charm. But now, her smile didn't reach her eyes.
He was about to ask her what was wrong—
—but the sound of the opening door silenced him.
Cold air swept across his skin, and the moment they stepped inside, the world seemed to still. A suffocating presence loomed over them — not from the room, but from the man seated at its heart.
His father.
The King.
A presence that crushed. That commanded.
Kairos hated it.
The throne room was a portrait of elegance and fear — decorated walls, velvet carpets, glowing banners. Two guards flanked the throne, motionless as statues. Five unfamiliar faces stood nearby. Two figures knelt by the foot of the stairs.
Kairos joined his siblings, head bowed as protocol demanded.
"Speak to the guests," one of the guards intoned.
"You stand before the King," another added, voice booming. "And those kneeling before you… are the Four Aces of Death."
A whisper, almost imperceptible: They're just children…
Kairos heard it. Every syllable.
Of course. Just children. He had only turned ten yesterday.
Not that his father cared.
They were nothing more than instruments in his symphony. Disposable pieces in his grand design.
"Raise your heads," the King's voice echoed, cold and absolute.
"You've been summoned here today for two reasons. The Veil… and Kairos' ascent to the throne."