The palace was quieter in the mornings, the sun spilling gold across the marble floors, painting the tapestries in warm hues. Lioraen, the crown prince, rose before anyone else. He had learned long ago that the world moved slowly for ordinary eyes, but he could not be ordinary—not with his sister sleeping in the nursery just down the hall.
He padded silently along the corridors, careful not to wake the servants. Even at fifteen, the palace felt too large, too echoing, but today it was the only place he wanted to be. Inside the nursery, his little sister lay swaddled in white silk, her chest rising and falling in a perfect rhythm. Her tiny fingers twitched as if she was stretching, testing the world she had just entered.
"Good morning, little one," Lioraen whispered, kneeling beside the crib. "Did you sleep well?"
A faint glow, almost imperceptible, shimmered around her. The edges of the crib caught it first, a delicate ripple that made the blankets shift slightly. Lioraen's eyes widened. He leaned closer.
"Did you… do that?" he asked softly.
The glow vanished as quickly as it appeared. Her tiny hands curled around themselves, and the room fell silent, as if nothing had happened. Lioraen exhaled slowly, unsure whether he had imagined it.
But over the next few days, subtle signs continued. A wooden rattle rolled across the floor toward her, though no hand had nudged it. The tiniest of flames from the candle on the dresser danced higher and lower as if acknowledging her presence. Birds perched outside the nursery window fell silent, watching her in curious stillness. And the most astonishing moment of all came when she cried for the first time—an innocent, soft wail—but the moment Lioraen leaned over, her crying stopped. No lullaby. No touch. Only his presence.
"She… she's extraordinary," he murmured, kneeling beside her, a quiet awe in his voice.
The first few days after her birth, the court had been swept up in excitement. Courtiers whispered about her golden glow, about how she seemed to bring calm wherever she went. Servants left trays of food untouched as they watched her, bowing with almost reverent fear. Even the nurses and midwives seemed hesitant to touch her unless absolutely necessary, as if disturbing her fragile divinity could break the air around her.
Lioraen noticed it all. He noticed the way the royal counselors lingered at the nursery doorway, the nobles who whispered prayers and tossed secret smiles toward the crown princess. And he noticed what most of the palace overlooked: they no longer had much use for him.
He was the crown prince, yes. Firstborn. He had his responsibilities. But now the attention had shifted entirely to the infant. When the queen spoke, it was of the baby's needs. When the king gave orders, it was about preparations for the girl's blessing ceremony. Even the tutors, who had once scolded him for daydreaming in lessons, spent more time discussing the infant's upbringing than his.
But Lioraen did not feel jealousy. He did not frown or retreat into anger. He watched the others with quiet detachment, as if the neglect he felt was natural.
Because he understood something few others did: the child was his responsibility. And he did not need recognition to care.
Every morning, he visited the nursery, sitting silently beside her crib, speaking softly to her while no one watched. He memorized the tiny motions of her hands, the way her eyelashes fluttered against her pale skin, the faint shimmer of her mark glowing like morning dew. He learned the sounds she made—the soft coos, the tiny grunts, the small cries—and how they changed when he leaned close.
One day, he noticed a feather resting on the floor. It should have blown away with the morning breeze that seeped through the windows, yet it hovered in place, trembling slightly. His sister reached a tiny hand toward it, and the feather floated slowly into her grasp. Lioraen's breath caught.
"Did you… do that?" he asked softly. She blinked, tiny eyes opening just enough to catch his gaze. The feather settled in her hand as if it belonged there all along. Lioraen felt the stirrings of pride and awe mix with his protective instinct.
No one else saw it, of course. The palace was too loud with chatter, too distracted with preparations and ceremony. Only he noticed, only he understood. And that knowledge bound him to her tighter than any royal decree.
Weeks passed. The infant's powers manifested in small, astonishing ways. A flower placed near her crib would bloom before its time. A candle extinguished by accident would reignite as her soft cries sounded, as though her very breath was magic. Even the court animals seemed drawn to her presence, cats and dogs and birds alike gathering outside the nursery to watch, curiously still, as if they knew her significance before anyone else did.
Yet all this admiration, all this attention, never made Lioraen turn from his duty. He watched quietly as nobles bowed, as servants fussed, as the midwives whispered prayers. He did not complain. He did not demand recognition. The world could watch, and it could whisper. He would not let it distract him from the one person who mattered most.
One evening, as the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the palace halls, Lioraen lingered near the crib, his hand brushing gently against the swaddled blanket. The infant cooed softly, and a warm light shimmered along her tiny fingers. Lioraen smiled faintly, a quiet, tired smile that carried more resolve than joy.
"They may ignore me," he whispered. "They may worship you, fuss over you, and marvel at your gift. But I will never turn away. I will always be here."
A soft hush fell across the room, as if the palace itself listened. Perhaps it was the stillness of the evening, perhaps it was the faint pull of divine energy, but somewhere beyond mortal perception, threads of fate began to twist gently around them both. Lioraen did not notice, focused entirely on the tiny life before him.
He did not yet know the dangers that would come. He did not know the gods who might take interest, the demons who might observe, or the betrayals that awaited. All he knew was this: his sister had been chosen, yes, but he had chosen her in return. His duty was no longer abstract, no longer a matter of crowns and laws. It was intimate, immediate, and unbreakable.
"I may be unseen," he whispered again, "I may be overshadowed, unnoticed, ignored by all. But I will protect you. Always."
And in that quiet nursery, with soft light spilling through the tall windows and the world beyond the palace continuing its indifferent rhythm, the crown prince and his sister shared a bond older than any law, older than any divine expectation. A bond of love, trust, and a silent promise that neither neglect nor power could ever undo.
Somewhere beyond the clouds, beyond the realms of mortal sight, Aelthar, the lesser god of her apostle birth, might have watched. Somewhere unseen, the twin goddesses, Day and Night, might have observed, quiet and eternal. But in that moment, nothing else mattered except a prince kneeling beside his newborn sister, silently vowing that no matter the gods, the demons, or the world itself, he would never abandon her.