The Capital knew when a Salvador entered its walls.
Not by trumpet. Not by decree. But by the silence.
The kind of hush that swept through markets and temples alike. Bakers paused mid-knead. Courtesans forgot their flirtations. Even children, gods-bless them, stopped their games and looked toward the silver gate.
Because something ancient had passed through.
Something divine.
Something wrong.
Caelion Salvador crossed the threshold of Sanctum Caelestis at dawn. No parade. No escort. Just the soft, metallic whisper of sapphire-plated boots on marble roads.
He rode alone, his midnight-blue stallion draped in Ivory Order sigils. Behind him, the sun rose like blood diluted in gold—and for a fleeting moment, the city looked like it bowed to him.
Nobles watched from balconies.
Priests offered veiled nods from temple steps.
Whores clutched charms.
And spies reported back to whatever foolish lords still dared question who truly protected the Empress.
Within the palace walls, the air changed.
The guards straightened. Pages fumbled. And the court began to buzz—not with noise, but with awareness.
The Empress' Sword has returned.
He moved through the silver halls like a storm in slow motion—armor humming with enchantment, cape trailing like spilled ink, a presence that turned every pair of eyes his way.
But Caelion did not look at them.
He never did.
He had learned, long ago, that to look was to be seen. To be seen was to be touched. And the touch of others—especially desire—was the most dangerous threat of all.
You are not meant to feel, the Goddess had told Azarios. You are not meant to want.
He entered the Audience Hall without being announced.
The Empress was already waiting, perched on her throne of shimmering light, a soft smirk on her painted lips.
Around her, ministers and noble advisors stood still—some in awe, some in envy, and a few in fear thinly disguised as fascination.
"You return early, Lord Salvador," the Empress said.
Caelion bowed, a single fluid movement that betrayed no exhaustion. No emotion. Only discipline.
"The village at Fort Elrin was lost. No corruption, but signs of a larger uprising. I came to deliver my report in person."
She tilted her head, studying him like a painter appraising her favorite blade. "And?"
"There were two survivors," Caelion replied. "A child. And a girl."
Now her smirk deepened. "A girl?"
He didn't blink.
"She saved a boy during a skirmish. She… handled herself well."
The room shifted. Just a little.
Enough for the courtiers to exchange glances. Whisper assumptions. Nobles lived for scandal, and the Blue Paladin—cold, untouched, sworn to the heavens—mentioning a girl? That was gold.
The Empress was silent for a beat longer than was comfortable.
But she knew better than to push too far.
"That's rare," she said softly. "For you to remember someone."
He bowed again. "She earned it."
And with that, Caelion turned and strode from the chamber before the court could ask questions. Before anyone could press their luck against the edge of his restraint.
By midday, the rumors were fire in the court's belly.
The Blue Paladin returned early. He saved a girl. Or she saved him? Was she divine? Cursed? Mortal? Has he found his fated one?
But in the training halls of the Ivory Order, none dared whisper such things aloud.
Caelion stood in the center of the sacred arena, stripped of armor, wearing only loose training robes soaked in sweat and moon oil. His muscles gleamed under the sacred light as he trained against five elite warriors simultaneously.
He parried. Struck. Dodged.
And never once lost control.
But he wasn't training to win.
He was burning something away.
That flicker. That warmth.
He slammed his blade into the training post hard enough to split the air with a shockwave.
The others stumbled back.
He did not.
Later, alone in the upper halls of Velanor's sanctum, Caelion removed his gloves and touched the hilt of his sword with bare fingers.
The Echo was pulsing. Hotter than usual.
She is near, it whispered.
He closed his eyes. "Silence," he commanded.
But the curse did not obey. It never did.
Instead, it gave him an image—brief and intoxicating.
A girl in the dark.
Messy hair. Wild grin. Calloused fingers pressed to a blood-slicked dagger. The kind of mortal warmth that could melt even divine steel.
Caelion's breath hitched. Then he did the unthinkable.
He imagined her touching him.
Flesh on flesh. A kiss without permission. Lips that knew nothing of the sacred, and hands that didn't ask for titles. Just skin, heat, want—
He staggered back. Chest heaving.
His sword glowed faintly blue, then dulled.
He slammed his fist against the marble wall. A crack split the surface.
The curse was growing stronger. And with it… the risk of desire.
High above, from the Moon Temple's mirrored dome, the Seeress watched him through enchanted glass.
She turned to her silent acolytes and whispered, "The Paladin is trembling. The storm has begun. And the heart he never knew he had… is waking."
| ☾ |
The eastern gates of the capital opened like the maw of a slumbering beast. Beyond the tiled roofs and gilded temples of Seraphelle, the tallest banners fluttered proudly—deep sapphire and silver, stitched with the insignia of the Salvador line: a silver crescent cradling a sapphire flame, encircled by thirteen stars on a midnight-blue shield—symbolizing their celestial oath, eternal vigilance, and the cursed legacy bound to the heavens.
"Open the main arch," one guard whispered to another. "The Blue Paladin returns."
Caelion didn't need escorting. The city knew his stride too well.
His horse, Azmeir, knew the way through the cobbled avenues, passing gasping merchants and bowing nobility. Children ducked from balconies only to chase after him with paper swords in hand.
"He's so serious-looking!"
"That's Commander Caelion!"
"Mama says he doesn't smile 'cause he talks to angels!"
He didn't pause—though a faint twitch lifted the corner of his lips. Just slightly.
And then the manor crested into view.
The House of Salvador.
It was more than a home. It was a kingdom within a kingdom, a self-sufficient estate sprawled over lush hills just beyond the inner palace ring. The walls were built from shimmering moonstone, enchanted to repel both arrows and curses. Every archway bloomed with climbing ivy. Gold-veined fountains bubbled beside carved statues of Salvador ancestors—men and women who'd served the Empire since its founding.
Servants flooded the marbled front steps like birds at dawn.
"Prepare the inner hall!"
"Light the incense!"
"Sir Caelion's armor needs unfastening, you fools—don't crowd him like he's a festival dragon!"
"Let them," came a voice—warm, amused.
From the grand staircase descended a woman wrapped in soft white silks and silver jewelry that jingled like laughter. Her hair was swept up into a braided crown, and her smile was the kind only a mother could wear.
"Mother," Caelion greeted, dismounting.
Lady Seraphine Salvador opened her arms. "You return with two blades and no broken bones. That must mean it was a boring mission."
He allowed himself to be pulled into her embrace.
"I missed you, my blue-eyed storm," she murmured into his chest. "Even if you never write."
Behind her, more footsteps. Two boys—twins, younger by almost a decade—rushed down the stairs.
"Big brother!"
"Caelion!"
"Davi. Lucan." He crouched slightly just in time for both to crash into him with full force, clinging to his armored arms like burrs.
"You smell like blood and horse," Lucan wrinkled his nose.
"I am blood and horse," Caelion said dryly. "Now let me breathe."
From the side, the estate steward cleared his throat.
"Welcome home, my lord," said the elderly man with a deep bow. "Your chambers have been aired. The library has acquired those ancient scrolls you requested from the southern coast, and the bath is being drawn with juniper and charcoal as you prefer."
"...You remembered the oil ratio?"
"Two drops cedar, one drop lavender. Exactly as instructed."
"Good." Caelion finally unfastened the last strap of his shoulder plate. "It's not a proper homecoming if I smell like the battlefield."
A chorus of laughter followed him as he entered the grand atrium.
The inside of the Salvador Manor was a living museum: a hundred-foot chandelier with starstone crystals hanging from the ceiling, tapestries woven by skymaidens, and walls displaying relics from every war the family had ever fought. But despite the grandeur, the air buzzed with warmth. Servants spoke to the family by name. The cooks shouted through the halls like relatives. Even the guards played cards with the younger twins at night.
Caelion passed the library, peeking in just long enough to see his father's old saber still resting above the fireplace.
It struck him.
He'd missed this. The scent of roasted almonds from the kitchen. The dull thudding of practice swords in the back courtyard. The quiet humming of Nanny Berra, who still cleaned the same vase every morning like clockwork.
He stepped out onto the balcony of the western wing.
From here, the land stretched endlessly—golden vineyards, dense forests, rolling lavender fields. The Salvador lands were vast, fertile, blessed by the Empress herself. Ten generations of Salvadors had turned their service to the Empire into legacy and wealth—but never arrogance.
That was the rule of the family: Serve first. Rule second. Love third, if there's anything left.
He ran a gloved hand along the railing.
And paused.
A pulse.
Barely there—like a breeze on the nape of his neck.
A presence.
He turned his head slightly toward the horizon, where the capital wall met the slums and the ruined districts beyond.
Someone was there.
He felt it.
A flicker of something not quite divine, but not ordinary either. It wasn't power. Not exactly.
It was a pull. A hum. A string tightening in his chest for no reason at all.
"…Strange," he muttered.
"Did you say something, my lord?" Asked one of the maids passing behind him.
Caelion shook his head.
"No. Just thinking."
But he would not forget it. That sensation.
Something—or someone—had stepped into his path.
And though he didn't know her name… She already felt like a turning point.