Elarith Vale, before the masks. Before the music. Before the trap was set.
The fortress was carved into the bones of the mountain like a confession—one no god ever heard. Wind clawed at the high windows. Firelight spilled across stone that remembered too much.
In the center of the council chamber, under banners stitched with night and betrayal, Killian Vesper stood motionless.
His cloak hung heavy with shadow, his fists wrapped in leather, trembling not with fear—but with the kind of silence that waits before a scream.
Across from him, seated on a throne not of gold but forged sorrow, was "Morvane Eldrith " the unseen hand behind the Eclipse Elite.
He swirled his wine as if stirring old sins, then looked up.
"You seem still," Morvane said softly. "But I see the storm in your shoulders."
Killian didn't answer. His jaw was clenched like a locked door.
" the masquerade," Morvane continued. "You know the names. Elias. August."
A flicker. Killian's eyes narrowed.
Morvane rose slowly, pacing the marble like a man tracing memories with his feet. His voice dropped, darker than candle smoke.
"There's something you were never told," he murmured. "Something stolen from your childhood in silence."
He turned. Met Killian's eyes like twin blades clashing mid-air.
"Your father," he said. "Sevrin Noctis."
Killian inhaled—sharp, shallow. That name hadn't been spoken in years. It was buried. It had to be.
Morvane went on, each word dragging weight like chains across stone.
"He was sent on a mission. A noble assassination. Port Royal. A perfect plan. Until he interfered."
He? Killian's heartbeat slowed, sharpened.
"Raden Everheart's," Morvane spat, as if the name itself was bitter. "The father of August. He wasn't supposed to be there. But he came. And your father... never returned."
The room shifted. It didn't tilt—but it ached.
Killian said nothing. But his silence cracked at the edges.
"He killed him," Morvane whispered. "Raden Everheart" slaughtered Sevrin like a common guard. And what did the world do? They covered it up. Called it a 'fire,' a 'rebellion,' a tragic loss. No justice. No vengeance."
Killian stepped back, just once, like the truth hit too close. Then forward again.
"I told you," Morvane said gently, "to bring me Elias. Because he is the key. The prophecy. The blade we need."
A pause.
"But if your blood demands recompense—I will not stop you from teaching August what pain means. Let his father's sins bleed down into his spine."
Silence fell. Not like snow—but like a guillotine.
Killian exhaled.
It was ragged. Uncontrolled.
His voice, when it came, was smoke crawling from a pyre.
He thought to himself "He smiled at me once… in Port Royal. That day
"Yes," Morvane said. "And he knew. He knew what his father did."
Killian's knuckles turned bone-white.
"You asked me to bring Elias," he said at last. "But I'll bring them both. Let one watch the other burn."
Morvane smiled faintly.
"Good. Let the masquerade begin with a waltz. And end in ash."
Before the blood, before the blade, before the name "Eclipse Elite" meant anything at all—
there was only the wind.
And a boy.
And a man who still smiled.
The memory came like a moth to a dying flame—flickering, trembling, aching to stay.
Killian remembered it not as a day, but as a feeling.
A moment when the world paused just long enough to hold him.
He had cried without end that night—
tears hot and endless, like summer rain pounding against the ribs of the earth.
No reason, no words—just sobs wrung from a child's heart too young to name its sorrow.
And Sevrin Noctis, clad in dark silks and dusk-dusted armor, did not scold him.
He simply lifted the boy in strong arms, pressed him gently to his chest,
and whispered nothing—because sometimes, silence is the only music a child needs.
They walked without destination, through alleys that twisted like serpents,
past broken lanterns and crooked shadows.
Until they reached a rooftop.
High. Forgotten. Quiet.
The city lay below like a sleeping dragon, its lights blinking like restless eyes,
its breath curling in soft chimneys and drifting over tiled bones.
Sevrin stepped onto the ledge with the boy in his arms.
Killian tensed—but his father held him tighter, stronger,
and when he looked down,
not at the drop,
but at the stars—
the crying stopped.
His breath steadied.
The tears dried on his cheeks like old dew.
And in that hush, so far from noise, Sevrin Noctis smiled for the first time that Killian could remember.
"Do you feel that?" he asked, nodding to the wind.
Killian, wide-eyed and small, nodded.
"That's what freedom tastes like," Sevrin said. "It's the only thing worth chasing."
"Will it stay?" Killian asked, voice fragile.
His father didn't answer right away.
Instead, he knelt, placing a hand on Killian's shoulder.
"No," he said at last. "But you will remember it. And when the world turns cruel… come find this wind again. Let it remind you that you were once held by something kinder."
Killian looked at the stars.
He didn't know their names, but he trusted their silence.
His small hand reached out—and Sevrin caught it in his own,
wrapping it in warmth too short-lived.
For a fleeting second, time stood still.
Just a man, a boy, and the roof of the world.
But memories are greedy things.
They keep glowing, even as the people inside them are buried.
The stars faded into the horizon,
like candlelight whispered out by dawn's breath.
Sevrin carried Killian down from the rooftop—
arms strong, steps silent,
as though he feared waking more than the boy sleeping in his arms.
They passed alleys that twisted like forgotten veins,
stones worn by ghosts of better times.
There were no guards. No iron gates.
Just peeling walls, weary bricks,
and doors that creaked like old lullabies when opened.
Their home stood nestled at the end of a narrow street—
a crooked place with mismatched windows, ivy curling up one side
like green fingers trying to hold it still in the wind.
It wasn't luxurious.
There were no marbled floors,
no chandeliers dripping gold.
But it breathed warmth.
It had survived storms.
And within it—memories clung like dust in the morning light.
Sevrin nudged the door open with his foot.
The wood groaned softly,
as if it too remembered who had once crossed its threshold.
Inside:
a fire flickered low in the hearth,
casting amber shadows that danced like ghosts across the cracked walls.
One table.
Two chairs.
A faded rug where Killian used to play with wooden swords—
now lying slightly askew,
as if abandoned mid-duel.
The kitchen was quiet.
The scent of dried thyme and old tobacco lingered faintly in the air.
An old coat hung on a hook.
A cracked teacup rested on the counter,
still holding the memory of a half-sipped drink.
Sevrin lowered Killian onto the cot in the corner—
the boy's limbs curling instinctively,
breathing soft and slow.
For a moment, the father simply looked at him.
And the world held its breath.
He brushed the boy's hair from his eyes,
fingers rough with war,
but gentled now by something sacred.
"You'll be more than me," he murmured.
"More than this world allows."
A log in the hearth popped.
Sparks spiraled upward like stardust.
Sevrin stood, watching the fire dance—
the flames reflecting in eyes that had once burned for vengeance
but now flickered with something quieter.
He took a seat at the edge of the cot,
his back aching,
his heart heavier than iron.
Outside, the city whispered secrets only the sleepless could hear.
Inside, the past leaned against the walls, waiting for time to finish what it started.
And somewhere, far away,
the first ripple of fate stirred beneath the surface.
But for now—just now—
the boy slept.
And the man who had done unspeakable things,
who had carved his name into blood and silence,
watched over him like a forgotten god guarding the last altar of his soul.
" Sevrin noctis "A Father's Last Confession
The fire had dwindled to a slow, pulsing glow
as if it, too, was listening.
Sevrin sat in the quiet hush of the room,
the shadows long,
the silence deep.
Killian slept with his fists curled near his chest,
lips slightly parted,
cheeks still damp from the rooftop wind.
A lullaby of breath,
fragile and unknowing.
Sevrin leaned forward, elbows on knees,
and stared at the flames as though they could swallow time.
His voice, when it came, was a breath inside a wound.
"In your life… don't be like me, my child."
The words were not meant to be heard
not truly.
They were seeds buried in the dark,
meant to bloom when the world turned cruel.
"Don't walk through life with blood in your teeth
just to prove you're strong.
Don't let silence become your home."
The fire cracked once. A soft ember drifted upward.
Sevrin looked down at his son so small,
so unaware of the weight history had hung on his back.
"If anything happens… when I'm not here,"
he paused his jaw tightened
"do not be like your mother."
The words scraped out of him like broken glass.
Not hatred.
No. It was something older.
A betrayal that never stopped echoing.
"She used to love me. Or so I believed.
But love that lies is a kind of poison, Killian."
He swallowed,
and his voice dropped into grief.
"She smiled with her lips but kissed someone else's name.
And when I found out… I lost what little light I had."
His hand reached forward,
gently touching a lock of Killian's midnight hair.
"You… you are the only thing I have ever done right.
You are the core of my love.
You and…"
His voice faltered.
Then steadied.
"You and him the who once pulled me from the edge.
A silence followed,
as if even the fire bowed its head.
"Don't make others suffer, my boy.
Don't wear your scars like weapons.
Don't become the storm your mother made me."
He leaned closer, pressing his lips to Killian's forehead.
It was not a kiss of farewell.
It was a seal. A vow.
"If I'm gone… let that be where it ends.
Do not follow my path.
Do not bleed as I bled."
Killian stirred, a flicker behind closed eyes.
But he did not wake.
Not yet.
Sevrin leaned back slowly,
his face shadowed.
The fire sighed.
And in that moment,
a father's soul hung heavy in the room
neither damned nor forgiven,
just real.
A man made of ashes and remorse
holding onto the one thing still untouched by his ruin.
His son.