Chapter 3: The Exiled Son
The Last Heir
Sylvara's footsteps were silent against the polished marble floors as she followed the servant through the dimly lit corridors of the eastern wing. Though the architecture of House Vaelthyr remained grand in its craftsmanship, this side of the estate was a shadow of its former splendor. The corridors were quieter, the air colder, and the gilded embellishments dulled with time.
A calculated insult.
It was not exile, not in name. But it was a clear message—one that did not need to be spoken.
"You must be cautious, my lady," the servant whispered as they reached a set of carved ebony doors. The woman—Maren, one of the few still loyal to her—kept her voice low, though the weight of her warning was unmistakable. "They may have spared your life, but that does not mean they will not find ways to make you suffer."
Sylvara exhaled softly, adjusting her grip on Kitsaro. The child had fallen asleep in her arms, oblivious to the world that had already begun to turn against him.
"I am not afraid, Maren," Sylvara murmured, stepping forward as the doors creaked open. "Let them try."
Beyond the threshold was the chamber that had been prepared for her—a place meant to be her prison, her punishment.
The eastern wing—her prison.
It was still grand, still adorned with the sigils of House Vaelthyr, but it was a shadow of what she had once known. The towering windows that lined the halls bore none of the stained-glass artistry of the main estate. The walls, though gilded, lacked the same opulence. The air itself felt heavy with quiet neglect.
"This will be your residence from now on, Lady Sylvara," Maren murmured as they arrived at a set of heavy double doors. She hesitated, lowering his gaze as if ashamed. "I have done what I could to ensure it remains comfortable for you and the young master."
And yet—
It would be the place where her son would rise.
The room was spacious, lined with towering bookshelves filled with ancient tomes, their spines worn with age. A large hearth sat against the far wall, its embers still smoldering from when the servants had last tended to it. Rich, heavy drapes covered the windows, allowing only slivers of moonlight to slip through, casting elongated shadows across the room.
It was a place of quiet seclusion.
A place meant to be forgotten.
Sylvara did not hesitate. She stepped inside, letting Maren close the doors behind her. The moment the latch clicked into place, she inhaled deeply, taking in her surroundings, absorbing the silence.
This was not a defeat.
This was a beginning.
She turned her gaze toward Maren, who lingered by the doorway. The woman had served her for years, her loyalty unwavering despite the shifting tides of House Vaelthyr's politics.
"You do not have to stay," Sylvara said gently. "You have a life outside these walls. There is no need to share in my exile."
Elysia straightened, her dark eyes unwavering. "You raised me from nothing, my lady. You gave me purpose when no one else would. If this house chooses to forget you, then let them. I will not."
Sylvara's expression softened, a rare moment of warmth breaking through the storm within her.
"Then we will rebuild," she whispered, turning to gaze at Kitsaro, still sleeping soundly in her arms. "No matter how long it takes, I will carve a future for him."
Maren nodded, her resolve firm. "I will see to it that you have what you need. There are still those within the household who believe in you, my lady. They will be careful, but they will help where they can."
Sylvara met her gaze, something sharp flickering in her golden eyes. "And what of the others?"
Elysia hesitated for only a breath before answering. "They watch. They wait. Some out of fear. Some out of curiosity. Selene will not leave you be. Neither will the council. They will look for weaknesses, for signs of submission."
Sylvara scoffed. "They will find none."
Elysia hesitated. "And the Duke?"
Sylvara stilled. The mention of his name brought forth something bitter—something that should have long since burned away, yet still lingered like an ember waiting to ignite.
"He made his choice," she said quietly. "Now, I will make mine."
A tense silence followed.
Then—
A faint cry.
Kitsaro stirred in her arms, his tiny fists clenching as a soft whimper escaped him. Sylvara immediately softened, her earlier anger melting away as she shifted him closer, whispering soothing words. His small frame fit perfectly against her, his warmth grounding her in a way nothing else could.
Elysia watched quietly before stepping forward. "I will have food brought to you shortly," she said. "And I will ensure that no one comes near these chambers without your permission."
Sylvara glanced at her. "Be careful, Maren."
"Then I will be careful," Elysia interrupted, a small smirk gracing her lips. "Do not worry for me, my lady. Worry for those who think they can erase you."
Sylvara allowed a ghost of a smile to cross her lips. "Then let us remind them."
As Maren slipped out of the chamber, leaving Sylvara alone with her son, the golden-eyed woman slowly sank into the chair by the hearth, cradling Kitsaro against her chest.
The fire crackled softly, its warmth barely pushing back the cold that seeped through the walls.
She traced a gentle finger over Kitsaro's tiny hand, watching as his small fingers instinctively curled around hers.
"They don't accept you," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "They don't accept that you share the same bloodline as mine."
"However, I will make sure to let them know just how powerful our bloodline is."
She looked toward the faint sliver of moonlight that filtered through the curtains, her golden eyes glowing like molten fire.
---
Shadows in the Dark
The night deepened.
And in the corridors beyond the eastern wing, whispers spread like embers in dry grass.
"She is dangerous," one servant murmured to another as they passed through the halls. "Did you feel it earlier? When she lost control? The entire chamber trembled."
"She is a mother protecting her child," another voice countered, though uncertainty lingered beneath the words.
"A mother, yes," the first whispered. "But something more as well. Something… ancient."
Unseen in the darkness, a figure lingered near the edge of the hallway, listening.
Selene Yuki Vaelthyr stood in the shadows, her fingers tightening around the silk of her gown, her silver eyes narrowed in thought.
She had underestimated Sylvara.
That would not happen again.
She turned sharply on her heel, disappearing down the hall.
If Zephiron refused to act—
Then she would.
And Sylvara would learn that there were consequences for defiance.
Even for a goddess.
~~~~~
Deep within the heart of the main estate, Zephiron stood before the grand obsidian table once more, surrounded by the ever-watchful eyes of the council. The air was thick with the weight of expectation, of tradition, of unspoken demands.
"A den of vultures," Zephiron thought grimly, though his expression remained unreadable.
"The matter has been handled," he announced, his voice devoid of emotion. "Sylvara and the child have been relocated."
A murmur of approval rippled through the chamber. The elders nodded, satisfied.
"The woman is troublesome," one of the senior advisors remarked. "Her outburst earlier was… concerning."
Zephiron felt his jaw tighten, though his outward composure remained unmoved.
Concerning.
That was an understatement.
For years, he had known Sylvara to be composed, a woman of quiet defiance wrapped in noble grace. She had always carried an aura of mystery, an untouchable presence that had drawn him to her in the first place.
But what he had seen today…
Her power had not simply been anger. It was an unshackling. A glimpse of something far greater than he—or anyone in this council—had ever anticipated.
And despite everything, despite his duties, despite the weight of his position, Zephiron could not shake the lingering shock.
He had never truly known his wife.
"Her outburst was unnecessary," another council member added. "But at least she knows her place now."
Zephiron's fingers twitched against the surface of the obsidian table. His place within this room, within this council, demanded agreement. To them, Sylvara was nothing more than an asset once discarded. Her only worth now was tied to the son she bore—an heir of Vaelthyr blood.
But to him…
He shut his eyes for the briefest of moments, pushing the thought aside before it could take root.
"It was handled well," he stated firmly, his voice unwavering. "There is nothing to be concerned about."
The words came easily. Too easily.
But a part of him—the part that still remembered the look in Sylvara's eyes, the raw promise of destruction in her voice—knew it was a lie.
~~~~~
A sharp knock echoed through the chamber. The rhythmic pounding against the heavy wooden doors disturbed the dim silence of Sylvara's secluded dwelling.
She did not move immediately, her sharp eyes narrowing as she cradled her child protectively against her chest. A chill crept into the air, though there was no wind. She could feel the presence beyond the door—unwelcome, intrusive.
Her loyal servant, a shadow-cloaked figure, moved swiftly to the entrance. With a careful glance toward Sylvara, they unlatched the door just enough for the figure outside to be seen. A man stood there, clad in the formal garb of House Vaelthyr's attendants. His posture was straight, but the stiffness in his limbs betrayed the discomfort he felt in being sent here.
"My lady," the attendant began, voice carefully measured. "I come bearing a message from Lord Vaelthyr."
Sylvara did not respond, merely watching, waiting.
The attendant hesitated before continuing. "The lord wishes for you to know that, despite everything, the child will still be given proper aid as part of the family." He cleared his throat as though uncomfortable. "However, it will not compare to what is given to the first and second sons."
A scoff nearly left Sylvara's lips. How generous.
The attendant shifted on his feet under the weight of her silence before pressing on. "Lord Vaelthyr has also stated that he will visit from time to time—"
"No."
The single word cut through the room like a blade.
The attendant blinked in shock. "My lady, it is the lord's order—"
Sylvara's gaze sharpened, and with a slow, deliberate motion, she raised her hand.
"Then allow me to give you mine."
Her voice took on a different cadence, smooth as silk yet carrying an undeniable weight. The air thickened, something unseen wrapping itself around the man like invisible tendrils. His eyes widened in terror as his limbs stiffened, his breathing shallow.
"You will forget this order," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, yet it resounded in his mind with crushing force. "You will tell him that he is never to step foot near us again."
A flicker of defiance sparked in his gaze, as though some part of him tried to resist, but it was useless. The moment her power settled over him, his will crumbled beneath it.
"Y—Yes, my lady," he choked out. His entire body trembled, sweat forming at his brow.
Sylvara lowered her hand, releasing him from her hold. The moment she did, the attendant stumbled back, his face pale as death. But before he could fully regain his wits, she spoke again, her voice like frost.
"If he ever comes near my son again…" Her expression remained unreadable, but there was something terrifyingly final in her next words.
"I will make him see his own blood."
The attendant swallowed thickly, then turned and fled without another word.
Sylvara let out a slow exhale, shifting her gaze to her loyal servant standing at the doorway.
"Do not let anyone near this place," she commanded.
The servant bowed their head. "As you wish, my lady."
And with that, Sylvara stepped back into the shadows, vanishing from sight as though she had never been there at all.
~~~~~
Kitsaro Azreal Vaelthyr, though only an infant, could feel the weight of what had just transpired. He did not fully understand, but his mind—sharp beyond his years—registered something profound.
His mother was powerful. Not just in presence, but in a way that transcended ordinary strength.
He stared up at her as she returned to his side, cradling him in her arms once more. She saw the confusion, the flicker of awe in his young eyes.
A pang of sorrow gripped her chest. He should not have had to witness that.
But the world would never grant them kindness.
Brushing her fingers gently over his soft hair, she pulled him close, her warmth enveloping him. "You are safe, my son," she whispered. "I will protect you. At all costs."
His tiny hand grasped onto her finger, his grip weak but determined.
A small, sad smile graced her lips. He would never have a normal childhood, would never be just another noble's son.
It was time he knew why.
"Even if you do not understand now," she murmured, rocking him gently, "there is something I must tell you, my little Kitsaro."
She closed her eyes, drawing from the depths of her memory—of the stories long buried, of the truth she had never spoken aloud.
"There is a reason I have never revealed my true nature to anyone. A reason why I have hidden you from them. You are more than just an heir to House Vaelthyr."
She took a breath, her voice taking on a weight of something far older, far greater.
"You carry the blood of Vyrath, The Ninefold Sovereign."
Even though he was just a baby, something inside Kitsaro stirred.
A whisper. A flicker of something ancient and waiting.
Sylvara continued.
"Long before the age of men, when gods and mythical creatures walked the world, Vyrath was born from the fractured soul of a dying celestial deity. This deity, once a being of pure wisdom and knowledge, was betrayed—torn apart by those who feared its power."
She ran her fingers gently over Kitsaro's forehead, as if tracing the very bloodline that ran through his veins.
"In its final moments, it did not simply perish—it shattered into nine distinct forms, each embodying an aspect of deception, control, and power. And from those fragments, Vyrath was born."
She gazed down at her son, watching as his breathing slowed, as if he were absorbing the story even in his sleep.
"Vyrath was unlike any beast or god," she continued softly. "It did not rule over the land, sea, or sky. It ruled over perception, over truth and falsehood alike. No king could stand before it without his mind unraveling. No empire remained whole under its gaze."
Her grip on him tightened.
"It is said that mortals did not pray to Vyrath. They feared it. They tried to chain it, to twist its power to their will. But Vyrath did not bow. It did not serve. It was chaos given form, a force that could not be tamed."
A shadow passed over her face.
"And it was that fear… that led to the downfall of our bloodline."
She looked away, her voice quieter now.
"They will fear you too, one day," she admitted. "Because they fear what they cannot control."
She placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.
"But I will make sure that when the time comes… you will not be controlled by them."
Her eyes, once filled with sorrow, now gleamed with determination.
"When you turn ten, your awakening will begin. That will be the moment when your powers manifest."
Kitsaro's tiny fingers twitched.
"Until then, I will teach you. I will prepare you for what is to come."
She closed her eyes, holding him close.
"You are the last of our kind, my son. And one day… the world will remember the name Kitsaro Azreal Vaelthyr."
A faint wind stirred in the room, though the windows remained shut. The candlelight flickered, casting the shadows of a nine-tailed fox against the wall.
And deep within Kitsaro's blood, something ancient stirred.