After Daverion left, the restaurant sank into a dense, almost tangible silence. It was not an uncomfortable silence, but a heavy one, as if the air itself still retained the trace of his presence. For several moments, no one moved.
Theron was the first to break the stillness. He took the jar of wine Mael had brought with him, calmly poured it into his cup, and took a long drink, letting the liquid slide slowly down his throat. Mael followed shortly after, sitting across from him and pouring himself a glass without a word. The two of them remained there, motionless, each absorbed in his own thoughts.
Lyra sat beside them, focused on her plate. She ate her meat calmly, as if nothing extraordinary had happened. From time to time, however, she lifted her gaze toward the entrance to the third floor. She took a sip of her juice and, almost without realizing it, her thoughts returned to Daverion: the way he had risen from his seat, his serene stride as he walked toward them, the manner in which—without doing anything remarkable—he had become the absolute center of attention.
That was what had impressed her the most.
There had been nothing striking about him.
No obvious pressure.
No overwhelming energy.
And yet… everyone had looked at him.
Lyra broke the silence in a soft voice.
"Big brother said he would think about it."
She paused briefly, as if arranging her thoughts.
"That means he might come back, right?"
The silence that followed was even deeper.
Mael and Theron, who were just about to take another sip of wine, stopped at the same time. Their hands froze in midair. Their breathing grew heavier, more deliberate.
Almost instinctively, both turned their eyes toward the entrance of the third floor, unsettled by the girl's innocent statement.
Lyra spoke again, completely naturally.
"I'll save him a piece of meat, just in case he comes back."
There was no calculation in her expression. Only clear, transparent innocence.
Each of Lyra's words caused new lines to form on the foreheads of the two men—not because of what she said, but because of the possibility that saying it aloud might make it real.
Time passed.
Daverion did not return.
When they finally accepted that he was not coming back, Theron and Mael released a breath they hadn't realized they were holding.
"Lyra, don't worry," Theron said calmly. "He'll probably attend the event."
He said it more to reassure himself than his granddaughter.
As his fingers traced the rim of his cup, his thoughts began to move.
Everything went more or less as I planned,
he thought.
From the day he arrived in the dynasty to the moment he entered the restaurant… I observed everything from the palace, through the surveillance matrix.
With a natural motion, he stroked Lyra's head and continued thinking.
I grew worried when he reached the restaurant and lifted his gaze toward the sky.
I thought he had discovered me.
But it seems he was looking at something else.
A brief chuckle escaped his lips.
Although, now that I think about it…
I believe he always knew he was being watched.
Theron fell silent and looked at his granddaughter.
So it worked…
And yet, I failed.
From the very beginning, his plan had been clear.
Daverion was not a being one could approach with power, protocols, or hierarchy. Everything Theron had learned throughout his life—negotiations, alliances, subtle threats—was meaningless before existences that walked beyond common scales.
That was why he had chosen the restaurant.
A place without thrones.
Without guards.
Without symbols.
And that was why he had brought Lyra.
Not as a shield.
Not as a sacrifice.
But as truth.
Lyra did not know how to pretend. She did not fear what she did not understand. Her curiosity was pure, direct, impossible to fabricate. Where adults saw risks and calculations, she saw people.
If someone like him were to reveal himself…
it would be before something genuine.
And that was exactly what happened.
Daverion did not react to Theron.
He did not react to Mael.
He did not react to the object, to the attempt at measurement, or to the carefully contained tension.
But he reacted to Lyra.
Not with surprise.
Not with condescension.
With natural ease.
That, more than any data, confirmed that Theron's intuition had not been wrong.
The plan had worked.
Daverion had not left offended.
He had not responded with violence.
He had not shown disdain.
He had accepted the presence of the child as something… normal.
And yet—
Theron closed his eyes for a moment.
I misjudged the distance.
He had assumed Daverion would be beyond his reach.
He had accepted that he could not measure him precisely.
But he had not anticipated how far beyond.
His fingers curled softly, almost without his noticing.
He had brought his granddaughter believing it would give him an advantage…
only to realize that all it had truly done was prevent an irreversible mistake.
If Daverion had been approached differently…
if Lyra had not been there…
if the atmosphere had not been so human…
He refused to finish that thought.
He looked at the girl again.
Lyra turned and smiled at him, as if she had felt his gaze.
Theron returned the smile—tired, but sincere.
It worked, he told himself.
But not the way I believed.
He had not gained an alliance.
He had not secured protection.
He had achieved something far more fragile…
and far more valuable.
Not becoming an enemy.
And at that level of power,
that alone was a victory.
Mael, standing beside Theron, appeared calm on the outside.
Inside, his mind never stopped.
One could say I completed the mission.
The thought settled with ambiguous weight.
A rank S mission.
The kind that appears only once every ten thousand years.
His gaze drifted to the place where Daverion had been sitting just moments ago. The chair remained there, untouched, as if nothing extraordinary had happened—and yet everything had changed.
I accepted this mission for one reason alone, he thought.
The oracle.
The words of the prophecy returned with uncomfortable clarity.
An event that would shake organizations, sects, and groups attending the conference. A disturbance on the scale of the Stellar Dominion.
And a clear recommendation—almost a warning:
Approach the sovereigns.
Mael's organization was not naïve. It had contacts. Indirect channels. Even ties to one of them… perhaps.
But Mael had never trusted "perhaps."
That's not enough, he concluded coldly.
One mistake, and everything collapses.
His attention returned to the artifact—or rather, to what remained of it in his memory.
The object broke.
It did not fail.
It did not give an incorrect reading.
It broke.
That detail was the truly terrifying part.
It was never designed to measure something like him, he analyzed.
Not even to approach it.
For the first time in a long while, Mael felt his calculations fall short—not wrong, but insufficient.
Perhaps the organization wanted an alliance.
Perhaps they wanted information.
I don't.
He needed something more basic. More primal.
I need the most powerful, he admitted bluntly.
Not out of ambition.
Out of survival.
If the oracle was right—and it had never been wrong—what was coming would not allow half measures. It would not be enough to stand on the right side. One had to stand far above, where the storm could not reach.
Mael exhaled slowly.
And if Daverion is not a sovereign…
then he is something worse.
Something the current hierarchies did not even account for.
I completed the mission, he repeated.
But now I know the real danger has just begun.
And for the first time since accepting the assignment, Mael understood that he had not been the one observing the target.
It had been the other way around.
Mael toyed with his cup for a moment longer.
Report… or not?
There was no urgency.
No panic.
Only an uneasy certainty.
In the end, he closed his eyes and sent the report
through the sealed channel.
The Seventh Shadownresponded immediately.
"Record accepted."
"Classification: Reconnaissance."
"Threat level: indeterminate."
Mael released a slow breath.
Fortunately…
it was only a reconnaissance mission.