The Holy Church of Jenora loomed ahead, its spires clawing at the heavens like blackened fingers turned to stone. The air grew quieter the closer they drew—too quiet, as though even the wind feared to whisper here.
Inside, the vast hall breathed with sacred stillness. Candles guttered against vaulted shadows, their flames stretching long and thin, as if reaching for something unseen.
Styx tugged at Rigas's hand, her golden eyes wide with excitement.
"I wanna check my aptitude again! I wanna check! I wanna check!"
Rigas chuckled, tousling her hair. "Easy, firecracker. Let's keep things quiet this time. No repeats of… last time."
Styx leaned in, eyes wide with an almost weaponized adorableness.
"Dad, pleaaase… aren't you the coolest?"
Xylia shot them both a flat look.
"Cool, yes—right up until you nearly destroyed half the sanctum with your fists. That was supposed to be a test."
They traded a low, guilty giggle—soft enough to sound more like nerves than joy. "from Xylia's arms, Piers watched with wide eyes, quietly curious."
At the end of the hall waited Bishop Caelus. His robes shimmered with silver-threaded sigils, his face carved with serenity, but his gaze carried centuries of weight.
"Welcome, travelers. May the Light of Jenora guide your path," he intoned, voice steady as still water.
Then his eyes found Rigas.
For the briefest moment, the Bishop froze. His expression cracked. His voice came out thin, brittle:
"…You."
Rigas smirked. "Ah. Good to see you too, Your Grace."
Something flickered between them—too quick to name. A glance. A knowing pause. Then Rigas tipped his head toward a shadowed alcove. Caelus followed without a word.
The two disappeared briefly from sight. Their voices carried low, indistinct. A laugh. A hush. When they emerged again, the Bishop's face had resumed its mask of calm.
Rigas, however, flashed a crooked thumbs-up at his family.
Xylia and Styx stared at him, suspicion etched deep into their eyes.
Caelus cleared his throat, his tone measured, his gaze darting once more—this time, to the baby.
"Follow me," he said.
But Piers only blinked, silent, as if he already knew the weight of eyes that lingered too long.
With practiced grace, he turned and led them through a carved archway, down a quiet corridor that hummed faintly with magical energy. At the end was a chamber bathed in a soft, ethereal glow—its walls inscribed with ancient runes that pulsed gently, like the breathing of the divine.
As they prepared for the ceremony, following the Bishop's instructions, Xylia stepped with quiet reverence. She guided Piers's tiny hand toward the orbuculum—a dark, glassy sphere resting atop an ornate pedestal, its surface faintly humming with latent magic.
The moment Piers's tiny fingers brushed the orb. A blinding surge of light burst forth, flooding the chamber in a brilliance that stole everyone's breath.
Instinctively, Bishop Caelus reached out, his hand brushing the orb's surface.
And then—he saw.
For the briefest instant, shadows flashed into his vision.
The Bishop staggered back, clutching his chest, his face ashen. The light faded. The visions vanished. His composure fractured. The others saw nothing.
"…What… What is this child?" His whisper trembled like brittle glass. "No child should carry such a weight."
Before anyone could respond, Rigas moved.
In a blur, he lunged, snatching the orbuculum from its pedestal. Caelus flinched, half-reaching out—but stone cracked beneath Rigas's feet as he launched upward. The vaulted ceiling split with a thunderous crash, raining debris, as he vanished into the blinding sky.
Dust rained like ash upon sacred stone.
Moments later, outside, he hurled the orb heavenward. It soared higher, higher—until it was a fading star. And then—
A silent bloom of light tore across the heavens. The sky split into ribbons of color—unnatural, shimmering hues that bled into one another like wounds of starlight. Radiance spilled across the world, both beautiful and wrong.
Inside the church, the silence was absolute. Xylia's lips parted, but no words came. Her disbelief curdled into slow, aching dread.
Styx broke it first. She clapped, eyes shining.
"Fireworks!" she squealed. "Best. Day. Ever!"
Outside the church, townsfolk halted mid-step, necks craned toward the sky. A collective gasp swept through the streets as magic painted the sky in living color.
Beyond the town walls, Astral and his companions turned mid-discussion, their expressions shifting from confusion to awe as swirling colors bathed the evening sky.
A thoughtful smile tugged at Astral's lips. "What a monstrosity of a family," he murmured.
Borin grunted. "Tell me about it. And speaking of monstrosities—look at this!" He held up his shield, scowling at a jagged crack. "That berserker's kick chipped my mythical artifact. Older than kingdoms, ruined in seconds!"
Milli gasped. "Wait—seriously? Why didn't you say something?! They would've paid for it!"
"Aye," Borin snorted. "And I'd earn another boot to the beard. Pass.""
Vale, meanwhile, was entirely oblivious to the conversation around her. A soft, dreamy smile lingered on her lips, her eyes glazed over in a faraway gaze.
Vale, oblivious, swayed with a dreamy smile. "He's just… so fluffy. That pout… those cheeks… like a puffball of chaos…"
"Hello? Earth to Vale?" Mili waved a hand in front of her face.
Astral, however, was already elsewhere, eyes narrowed. The energy in that child wasn't ordinary. Not even close.
"Maybe we'll cross paths again, right… little Piers?" he murmured, half in amusement, half in something deeper. A quiet curiosity burned behind his calm gaze.
The Argos family might've looked like a collection of eccentric oddballs…
But Astral had a feeling they were anything but ordinary.
After a hearty dinner in Jenora,
"Alright, everyone," Rigas straightened, voice booming with familiar confidence.
"Night's already on us, let's not dawdle."
He hoisted Styx onto his shoulders.
Xylia adjusted Piers in her arms, unsettled but steady.
"Are you sure we have everything, dear?" she asked, her eyes sweeping over their belongings — mostly Piers's books and spare clothes.
"Positive, love," Rigas replied with a reassuring grin.
With that, the Argos family began their journey home, their voices carrying softly as twilight gave way to night and jenora's streets grew still.
High above, on a spire of the Holy Church, a lone figure watched. A cloak whipped in the rising wind, his face hidden in shadow.
He watched as the family disappeared into the fading light.
His voice carried only to the night air, soft, reverent, chilling:
"At last… I've found you… Frost King."
And then—like smoke on the wind—he was gone.
.
.
.
The Argos family finally arrived back home.
Piers was fast asleep, nestled peacefully in Xylia's arms, while Styx was fighting a losing battle against a series of adorable yawns. She rubbed her eyes with tiny fists, her earlier boundless energy finally waning into sluggish blinks.
Xylia, utterly drained from the day's chaos, gently laid him in his crib.
She lingered a moment, brushing a soft strand of hair from his brow, before slipping silently from the room.
A weary groan escaped her lips as she descended the stairs. Reaching the living room, she collapsed onto the sofa, burying her face in a cushion.
"Oh, darling," she mumbled, her voice muffled by a cushion, "I am completely exhausted. Let's not set foot in another town until Piers turns five. Minimum."
Rigas leaned in the doorway, joints cracking as he stretched, but still wearing that stubborn cheer.
"Five, huh? That's a long time, love. But hey—if it means no more surprise face-kicking incidents, I might be on board."
His grin widened. "Besides, think about all the fun we had."
He moved to the table, unpacking their scattered supplies.
"Besides, this quiet life suits us, Just us and the kids… You with your herbs, me with the woodpile. Peace. Mostly."
He picked up one of Piers's tiny tunics from the table, holding it between two fingers.
"…Though I swear, this boy makes more laundry than a whole tavern. It's unnatural."
He sniffed it, winced, and muttered, "definitely Not natural."
Soft steps rose behind him. Xylia slipped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek against his back. Her voice wavered.
"If you hadn't noticed the Orbuculum…" The words faltered, too heavy to finish.
Rigas turned. His grin softened, gentled by her fear.
He lifted her chin,
thumb brushing along her cheek.
"I'm no clever man," he said quietly. "But I'll bleed, break, and burn a thousand times if that's what it takes to keep our children safe."
Xylia's lashes lowered, her exhaustion melting into something tender, glowing.
"Oh, darling," she whispered, "that's why I fell in love with you."
Their lips met in a slow, lingering kiss.
From the stairs near Piers's room, two small witnesses peeked.
Piers, solemn as a judge, reached up to cover Styx's eyes.
Styx obeyed… mostly. A sly "V" between her fingers left just enough space to spy.
"Outside, the forest wind rattled the panes."
———
It was midnight, and the house groaned like an old storyteller whispering secrets through the beams. Leaves outside rustled like conspirators. Everyone slept. Everyone should sleep.
Except me.
I lay in my cradle, a wide-awake dumpling with no nap in sight, staring at the ceiling where shadows auditioned for some low-budget nightmare play.
Mom and Dad weren't here. Usually, they dozed beside me—Dad snoring like a respectable bear. Tonight? Nowhere near.
Which meant they were… occupied. Best not to picture it.
I was almost gone to sleep when—
"Master."
My eyes snapped shut. Not him again.
"Master, you must listen."
I didn't have to look. He was already there—hanging in the corner like a balloon of regrets.
A wandering ghost: pale face, more glow than flesh, drifting as though tethered by unfinished business. His eyes were foggy lanterns.
"Just how much longer," he moaned, "are you planning to grace me with this...
you must... listen to me."
Grace me? Damn annoying. What are you expecting from a one-year-old? Be serious. Forget it. I'll ignore him.
"I have a proposition," Ghost said dramatically, "and I insist upon your full attention. For if you choose to disregard my words..."
He slid through the rocking chair like it was smoke, raised one skeletal finger, and pointed—at the wall.
The wall that separated me from my parents.
I shall be forced to depart… directly through this wall."
My blood iced. Not because of him. But because I knew what waited beyond that wall.
And if this ancient creeper drifted through right now—oh no. No one should see that.
Not the living,
not the dead.
He would. He would.
Cold sweat ran in tiny rivers across my carefully faked sleeping face.
I, Piers Argos—proud owner of Perfect Nap Skill™—was being blackmailed.
By a ghost.
I sat up—or as close as a baby can to "dramatically sitting up"—with righteous fury. My brow knotted. My voice, sharp and heavy, cut into his head.
"What the heck you want, you creep? Threatening my parents' privacy—have you got no shame?!
The ghost's glow dimmed but didn't waver.
"Master," he intoned, "I have a matter of great gravity. But first—I must beg forgiveness. My recent actions, specifically the regrettable infant incident, were… suboptimal. It was a moment of desperation. A lapse in judgment. You must understand—one doesn't think clearly without a decent cup of tea in, well… centur—."
I didn't dignify him with a reply. I hurled my pacifier at his glowing face.
It passed clean through, of course, but he still flinched.
"Keep it short, freak!"
The twinkle vanished from his ghost-eyes. His form darkened, and he let out a growl that sounded like a coffin lid dragged across marble.
"Master," he said again, softer now, heavy with grief.
"My daughter is suffering. For centuries, she's been trapped… bound in a vessel, surrounded by nothing but sorrow. Chained to this cursed forest. I can no longer bear to witness her unending pain—her eternal lament. You must free her from this torment. I implore you… I beg you, with what little dignity remains to a soul like mine… help me."
I blinked, tiny brow furrowing. Trapped in a body… huh.
The old ghost bowed low, grief dripping from every fold of his glow. His words echoed through the room like a curse.
And me? My mind was already ticking.
Tragic backstory. Spooky forest. Mysterious girl in distress.
My lips twitched. Something sharp slid across my face.
Mom and Dad are sleeping in the other room tonight, Which means… no one's gonna stop me.
A grin. Too sharp for a baby. Heh.
"Hey, old fart. I'll help you."
"The ghost looked up, eyes wide. For a heartbeat he seemed confused, then his misty form trembled with joy."
"But," I added, voice low and certain, "if I'm doing this… I'm doing it properly."
I wobbled across the room to the corner where Mom had stacked my new clothes.
First came a small tunic and short pants—practical, but stylish. Then the shoes. I fumbled with the laces, cursed under my breath, and left them hanging loose. My foot slipped when I stood, but the jolt only made my pulse quicken.
Finally, the pièce de résistance: my secret weapon.
My milk bottles.
Alright. Sturdy but stylish? Check.
Shoes with maximum bounce? Check.
Two bottles slotted into the makeshift belt? Triple check.
By the time I straightened, something coiled in me.
Not fear.
Something else.
"Hands on both bottles like a gunslinger. Ridiculous, sure — but it made me feel prepared enough not to die immediately.
I gave a firm nod.
"Okay. All set,"
I whispered.
And with that—
The great escape began.
* * *