Soron traced his fingers across the surface of the blindfold, half-expecting it to do something—but nothing happened.
"It feels incredibly soft and smooth," he murmured, his voice low, as if he were speaking only to himself.
The blindfold was warm, as though it had been resting beside a fire for some time. The silver dragon stitched along its side shimmered in the light, catching it just right—beautiful in a way Soron couldn't explain.
"Can I ask why you got me a blindfold?" he said after a moment. "I don't want to seem ungrateful, but… I'm concerned."
His voice was quiet, careful, carrying a hint of caution.
"Sweetie, if you're worried about going blind or something happening to your eyes, don't be," his mother replied gently. "They'll never go bad. I pinky promise."
Soron frowned.
"How do you know they'll never go bad?" he asked, defiance creeping into his tone, disbelief clear in his voice. He didn't understand how anyone could know something like that—especially the future.
His mother only smiled.
It was the kind of smile that answered nothing at all.
"You don't have to wear it right now, Soron," she said. "Only when it's time."
She smiled again—this time filled with warmth and love.
Later that evening, as the sounds of the celebration began to fade, Soron stood on a balcony beside his father. Together, they gazed outward into the endless expanse of the Void.
"Soron," his father said quietly, "do you know why our clan is the only one that lives in the Void instead of the human world?"
His tone was calm, low—yet threaded with something heavy.
"Because we're the only ones capable of living here?" Soron replied. It came out more like a question than an answer.
His father chuckled softly.
"No, son," he said. "It's because the Luminaris are the only ones who are still trying to remember."