The winters in Aetheris came late but lingered long. The marble halls that glowed so warmly in spring seemed to drink up the cold, turning each corridor into a tunnel of soft echoes and frozen breath.
It was in winter's hush that the first shadows gathered behind Seraphine's smile.
At first, none dared say it aloud. The Goddess Queen, frail? It was impossible. She was the warmth that banished frost from the orchard. Her laughter wove through the icy courtyards like a thread of gold. Servants whispered that even the snow fell gently when she looked up at the sky.
But rumors have teeth. In the palace kitchens, maids swapped stories in the warmth of the ovens: the Queen who now rose later each dawn, who sometimes slept through the noonday bell, who paused halfway up the garden steps to press a trembling hand to the iron railing.
Lumiel saw it first in the way she hugged him. A little longer. A little tighter. Her fingers sometimes lingered at the back of his neck, as if counting each strand of gold hair to anchor herself here, to this world, to this boy.
One afternoon, snow dusted the orchard in a pale sheen, and Lumiel, now ten, raced down the colonnade steps barefoot. Caelum chased him, boots slipping on frost-slick stone.
"Slow down, your Highness—!"
"Try to catch me first, stable boy!" Lumiel called back, breath clouding behind him like a comet's tail.
They tumbled under the ash tree where they'd first met. Branches above sagged with ice. Lumiel scooped a handful of snow, packed it tight, and flung it at Caelum's chest.
Caelum yelped. "I'll feed your horse rotten oats for that!"
"Try it and I'll feed you to the orchard spirits," Lumiel shot back, laughter ringing off the trees.
Nearby, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak, Seraphine watched them from a marble bench. She pressed a gloved hand to her lips, stifling a cough that left a trace of red at her fingertips.
When Lumiel turned and saw her, he ran to her side, breathless. He slid to his knees on the snowy grass, heedless of the damp soaking through his trousers.
"Mother! Did you see my throw? I hit him right in the chest!"
Seraphine's laugh was a bright chime, but softer now — as if the wind carried some of it away before it reached her lips. She cupped his chilled face, thumbs brushing warmth back into his frozen cheeks.
"You are too quick for him, my dawnstar."
He caught the red at the edge of her sleeve. His smile flickered. "Mother, you're cold — come back inside. The wind—"
"The wind cannot touch me while you stand before me." She tilted his chin up, eyes the blue of thawed rivers in early spring. "But you — you must not catch your death on my account."
He frowned, brows knotting just like Thalior's when he read war missives late at night.
"Why do you say such things? You speak like—like you'll go where I cannot follow."
Her smile faltered, just for a heartbeat. The orchard seemed to hush around them — snow drifting silent as secrets.
Caelum hovered behind, silent, clutching his coat sleeves. He met the Queen's eyes — then looked quickly away, unable to hold that calm, knowing sorrow.
At night, Lumiel lay awake, listening for the echo of his mother's steps in the corridor. He always knew her gait: a hush, a whisper, the soft rustle of silk and sandalwood perfume.
But lately, those footsteps were rarer than thunder in summer.
One night, after a long council meeting that had left the palace thick with the stale taste of iron and quill ink, Lumiel slipped from his chamber. Caelum dozed in the hallway outside, chin on his chest, one hand resting on the pommel of a wooden training sword — a gift Lumiel had once begged from the royal blacksmith for his friend's tenth nameday.
"Caelum," Lumiel whispered, shaking his shoulder.
The boy jolted awake, knuckling sleep from his eyes. "Your Highness? Another orchard raid?"
Lumiel only shook his head, pale gold hair falling over one eye. "Come with me."
Together they crept through the candlelit hallways — two boys, one born to marble and silk, the other to haylofts and horse stalls. Together they paused at the carved doors of Seraphine's chambers.
They found her at her writing desk, back to them, quill trembling over parchment. Her hair — once a waterfall of pale light — was pinned loosely now, strands falling about her neck in soft waves.
"Mother?" Lumiel called softly.
She turned, startled. For a heartbeat the lamplight showed how thin her cheeks had grown, how the glow that once seemed to pour from her skin now flickered like a candle nearing its end.
"My heart." Her voice was a hush, but her smile when she saw them — that was still the dawn he knew. "And my shadow." She reached out to Caelum too, beckoning him closer.
The two boys stepped forward. Lumiel crawled into her lap as he had when he was small enough to fit easily there — though now he was almost too big, knees knocking against the desk. She welcomed the weight, wrapping her arms around his narrow shoulders.
Caelum stood behind her, hands resting awkwardly on the back of her chair. She caught his wrist, squeezing it gently.
"Promise me," she said suddenly, voice sharp as the winter air beyond the glass. "Both of you — promise me you will always guard one another. The sun must always have its shadow. The world is greedy — it will snatch at your light if you stand alone."
Lumiel pressed his face into her neck, breathing her in — lavender, warm parchment, something faintly metallic he didn't yet understand.
"I promise," he mumbled. "But you must stay too."
Her fingers threaded through his hair — once, twice, then lingered at the crown of his head as if anointing him with a blessing only he would carry.
"If only I could, my light."
When spring came, Seraphine's strength withered like frost under a sudden sun.
The priests muttered prayers in the hall outside her chamber. Herbalists carried in baskets of pale blossoms and bitter roots that stank of old soil. Thalior stalked the marble corridors in silence, each footfall a drumbeat of helpless fury.
Lumiel sat at his mother's bedside every dusk, Caelum curled at his feet like a hound refusing to be shooed.
Some days she woke — enough to brush trembling fingers through his hair, enough to smile when he recited poems she had once read to him beneath the orchard's boughs.
"Shall I braid your hair, Mother?" Lumiel asked one dusk, voice trembling.
Her laugh was soft, caught in her throat. "Only if you wish it, my light."
With clumsy fingers, he combed through her pale locks. Each strand slipped through his fingers like snowmelt. Caelum handed him ribbon after ribbon, each one brighter than the last — silvers, pale blues, soft golds that shimmered when the lamplight caught them.
When he finished, Seraphine lifted a hand to touch the braid. "You do it better than my maids," she whispered. "You would make a fine lady's maid, little prince."
Lumiel flushed, cheeks red as rosehips. "I'd rather be your knight."
Her smile then could have made the whole orchard bloom in winter. "And so you are."
The final night came with no warning. A hush so profound it felt like the whole citadel held its breath.
Lumiel woke with a start. He didn't know why. Only that the hush pressed on his chest like an iron weight.
He stumbled from his bed, pulled on a cloak, found Caelum waiting at his door as if summoned by the same silent bell.
They ran the corridor together, feet echoing on marble. The guards at Seraphine's door stepped aside without a word.
Inside, Thalior knelt at her side, armor half-unbuckled, hands gripping her cold fingers so tightly they looked bruised. His gray eyes — eyes that stared down kings and generals without flinching — shone wet in the dim candlelight.
Seraphine's gaze drifted to her son. To the shadow at his shoulder.
"My dawnstar… my moonshadow…" Her voice was a ghost of a breeze. "Come closer."
They knelt. Lumiel pressed his forehead to her knuckles. Caelum hovered, unsure, but she caught his sleeve and tugged him down too.
"Promise me…" she breathed. "Promise me you will not let this world steal your light."
Lumiel swallowed his sob. "I promise."
Her eyes flickered to Caelum — so small beside the marble bed. "Promise me you will keep him in the sun."
Caelum's voice cracked like dry branches. "I promise, my Queen."
Her breath hitched. Once. Twice. Then stilled.
Thalior lowered his head. Not even the king could command the sun to rise again.