The palace had never felt so alive. Its stone walls, polished floors, and towering spires seemed to hum with expectation, as if the very air had been charged with magic. Fifteen-year-old Lioraen, the crown prince, stood in the main balcony of the eastern tower, eyes tracing the swaying banners of the royal crest. Normally, he would have ignored the pomp and ceremony, accustomed as he was to the endless lessons, the courtly audiences, the whispers of nobles about alliances and heirs.
But today was different.
His mother, the queen, was about to give birth. Not just to any child, but to a child the royal astrologers had whispered about in hushed tones—one who might bear the divine mark of an apostle. The palace servants scurried like ants through the marble halls, carrying trays of warm water, silks, and rare oils. Courtiers dressed in brilliant gowns and tunics clustered near the great hall, their voices a mixture of excitement and reverence. The royal heralds readied themselves for announcements.
And yet, despite the commotion, Lioraen remained calm. He leaned against the stone railing, chin resting lightly on his folded arms. Fifteen years had taught him patience. Fifteen years had taught him to watch, to listen, to understand the weight of responsibility. He was the firstborn, the crown prince, the heir to the throne. Every expectation of the kingdom rested upon him. And yet, in all his years, he had never felt ready for the things the gods demanded.
A cheer rose from the lower courtyard. Lioraen turned, instinctively sensing that the moment had arrived. From the main doors of the great hall emerged the midwives, their movements precise, careful, as they carried a small bundle swaddled in white. Even from the balcony, he could see the faint shimmer around the infant—a light subtle but unmistakable, like a candle glowing against the dark.The child was blessed by a lesser god called Aelthar who evokes light, guidance, and subtle divine power.
The crowd in the hall gasped, voices mixing in awe and excitement. "She's… blessed!" but Aelthar someone whispered. "An apostle child!" Others murmured prayers, their voices trembling.
Lioraen's eyes, however, were fixed not on the crowd, not on the whispers, but on the tiny figure cradled in the queen's arms. His chest tightened as a strange warmth spread through him. This was his sister. His responsibility. His family. And somehow, even before she fully opened her eyes, he felt a connection deeper than any bond he had known.
"She's… beautiful," he murmured, almost forgetting that others surrounded him. No one heard him. No one would. And yet the words felt vital, like a promise he was already making.
The midwives placed the child in the queen's arms with a gentleness that spoke of reverence. The room fell into a hushed silence, save for the newborn's soft cries. Lioraen descended the tower steps slowly, moving with quiet determination. He did not push through the crowd. He did not shout or demand attention. He simply walked, his hands brushing the marble banisters, until he reached the edge of the chamber where his mother held the infant.
For a moment, no one moved. Even the courtiers paused, sensing something unspoken in the prince's demeanor. Lioraen knelt beside his mother, careful not to disturb her or the child, and let his eyes rest on his sister.
The infant's eyes opened. Not fully, just enough to hint at awareness, and Lioraen felt the pull again. Something acient and subtle seemed to reach toward him. A whisper that carried no sound, only meaning: She is yours. You will protect each other.
A quiet vow formed on his lips, a promise whispered to the newborn alone. "I will protect you," he said, voice steady and unshakable. "No one else will. Not the gods. Not demons. Not even time itself."
The queen smiled faintly, exhausted but radiant. "She is blessed," she said softly. "The gods themselves watch over her."
Lioraen's gaze remained fixed on the tiny, swaddled figure. He had been the firstborn, the crown prince, the heir to a kingdom, yet he had never felt a responsibility so immediate, so personal. All the lessons of diplomacy, swordplay, and strategy were trivial compared to this: the quiet, fragile life of the sister who now depended on him entirely.
Around him, the palace erupted in celebration. Courtiers bowed, servants whispered prayers, heralds prepared announcements of the child's birth. Lioraen ignored them all. He did not cheer. He did not bow. He only remained kneeling, watching, guarding.
A soft breeze drifted through the open windows, carrying a faint shimmer that seemed almost unreal. Perhaps it was a stray blessing. Perhaps it was nothing. But Lioraen felt it pressing against the edges of perception, a gentle pull that whispered of things unseen and powers yet to awaken. Somewhere in the heavens, beyond mortal sight, the twin goddesses—Day and Night—might have been watching, silent and eternal, their presence felt but unseen.
Time passed in slow, measured moments. Lioraen remained kneeling beside his mother, observing the child. The sounds of celebration, the applause, and the prayers of the courtiers all became background noise. His mind focused on one thing: the life before him, fragile and new, yet shimmering with potential.
He did not yet know the wars that would touch this child. He did not yet know the trials the gods would send, the demons that would threaten, or the betrayal and loss that would come. All he knew was that he had a role, immediate and urgent, that no other could fulfill. He would be her protector.
As the sun climbed higher, casting golden light across the palace, the newborn stirred, tiny fingers curling around her own. Lioraen reached out, hesitating for only a moment, before letting his hand hover near hers. Not to touch. Not to claim. Just to be present. The connection, delicate and powerful, was enough.
"I may be untested," he whispered, "but I will not fail you. I will not leave you. I will be here, always."
Somewhere in the palace shadows, servants paused to look at the kneeling prince, sensing the weight of his promise. It was not the pride of a crown or the thrill of recognition that held him there. It was something deeper, older, stronger than the need for approval: love. The quiet, fierce, unshakable love of an older brother who would guard his sister with every breath he had.
Even when the crowd finally dispersed, when the courtiers retired to the dining halls and the midwives returned to their duties, Lioraen stayed. He knelt for a long while, unmoving, as if rooting himself into the palace itself. He felt the palace breathe, the sunlight shift, the air settle. And somewhere beyond mortal perception, threads of fate began to twist and tighten around him and the newborn, marking the beginning of a story neither the gods nor mortals could yet fully understand.
And as night fell, casting silver light across the marble floors, Lioraen made a vow he would carry silently through the years to come:
"I will protect you. No one else will.
The infant slept on, unaware of the promise, unaware of the dangers to come. But Lioraen watched, kneeling beside her, a prince who carried the weight of a crown and the unshakable heart of a brother. And in that quiet moment, the palace, the kingdom, and perhaps even the distant, unseen goddesses held their breath, waiting for what would come next.