Valeria arrived at the library as she did every afternoon. She greeted the guards at the entrance, then the clerk behind the front desk, and a few of the regular readers who seemed permanently woven into the quiet fabric of the place. Before slipping between the towering shelves, she lifted a hand toward the group of youths who always gathered at the back.
She had known them since the day she first saw Daverion, and since then they had shared that easy familiarity born only of repeated afternoons and unspoken rituals.
Their chatter faltered when the stoutest among them struck the table with theatrical gravity. The blow was so overcommitted that he immediately shook his hand, attempting to conceal the sting. He rose, puffed out his chest, and drew in a breath as though preparing to declare war.
"Why am I forbidden from attending the Conference? I refuse to accept it. I'll do it today. I'll infiltrate the palace and plunder every treasure it holds."
A brief silence followed.
The young man seated beside his sister regarded him with a crooked smile.
"It's the tenth time you've said that," he replied evenly. "And you've never done anything."
Without lifting her gaze from her book, the sister added, "You wouldn't make it past the palace gates."
A ripple of laughter circled the table. The stout boy cast them a look of feigned severity.
"Do not underestimate me. I, your grandfather, can enter and leave the palace whenever I please."
The laughter swelled.
"Of course," another girl chimed in. "If you were the Head of the Library, perhaps they'd invite you."
The boy, who had collapsed dramatically onto the floor, lay still for several seconds. He blinked. Then his eyes flared with sudden revelation. He sprang to his feet.
"You're right!"
The laughter faltered, puzzled.
"My grandfather can take me to the Conference. How did I not think of it before? I've gone days without eating or sleeping, trying to figure out how to get in—"
At that very moment, he seized a bun from the table and bit into it absentmindedly, still flushed with triumph.
The room erupted.
The girl beside her brother doubled over, clutching her stomach.
"Stop—stop—I'm going to die laughing—"
Her brother had tears in his eyes.
"You? The grandson of the Head Librarian? He's a great scholar. Respected by everyone. And you—" he gestured from head to toe— "you possess none of his qualities."
The laughter climbed higher. Some pounded the table. Others leaned back in their chairs, breathless. Even the older youth absorbed in a manga lifted his gaze at last.
"Fatty… do you think you're inside a novel? Or some manga?"
He turned the page with perfect calm.
"Do you imagine that if you declare yourself the son of a Sovereign, you simply become one?"
The silence that followed lasted scarcely a heartbeat.
The boy stood there, face flushed with indignation and wounded dignity, glaring at them all.
"You'll see. I'm bringing my grandfather right now."
He spun with exaggerated grace—nearly collided with a chair—recovered his composure, and strode off between the shelves with heroic determination.
The laughter lingered long after he vanished from sight.
From a distance, Valeria shook her head, smiling softly.
At least with them, no afternoon in the library was ever dull.
Valeria approached the group once the earlier commotion had thinned into a memory. She glanced toward the entrance where Jhoran had made his theatrical exit and shook her head, a faint smile curving her lips.
"I hope he actually manages to get those invitations."
Neris, seated beside her brother Nerek, let out a short laugh, though it carried little faith.
"It's impossible. He's always staging some grand spectacle. Don't pay him any mind."
She shifted in her chair and, after a brief pause, added with a quiet sigh,
"At least we were able to witness the Fourth Sovereign."
The table fell still.
Nerek lowered his voice, as though speaking in a sanctuary.
"There hadn't been a trace of the Fourth for millennia. No reliable record. No confirmed sighting. To see him—" he shook his head slowly— "was a privilege beyond measure. We must have been unimaginably fortunate to witness what many believed no longer existed outside of legend."
A few nodded in solemn agreement.
From his corner, Orven snapped his manga shut with a sharp crack.
"Fourth, Fourth, Fourth…" he muttered, irritation plain in his tone. "You repeat it as if nothing else matters. He doesn't compare to the Seventh."
He raised the volume in his hand as though presenting sacred scripture.
"The Seventh does more than fight. He brought joy to the world. He inspired millions. Someone that creative—someone that visionary—deserves reverence."
"And who cares about the Seventh?" Nerek countered, folding his arms. "He's obsessed with combat. The only worthwhile thing about him is the manga he's created."
Orven's brow darkened.
"Not 'the only thing.' Creation is no small feat. He didn't merely tell stories—he shaped a movement. He carved out an entirely new path. That, too, is power."
The air tightened again, faintly electric, until Neris chose to redirect it. She turned to Valeria.
"Where's the older brother?"
Valeria understood at once. A subtle tension passed through her expression.
"I don't know. I haven't seen him."
Her gaze drifted toward the towering shelves.
"He probably left without saying anything."
Neris tilted her head, thoughtful.
"I don't know… but when I think about the Seventh, I feel like he resembles him."
Beside her, Yulary nodded firmly.
"It's true. And everyone mocked us when we said we'd seen the Fourth before."
A few at the table remembered the laughter of that day.
Valeria turned back to them.
"That's impossible. Why would a Sovereign waste his time speaking with us?"
She placed her hands on her hips and held Neris's gaze.
"And didn't you say his beauty was incomparable?"
She leaned in slightly.
"Tell me—does Daverion possess that kind of beauty?"
Neris shook her head without hesitation.
"No. He doesn't. But he's still very attractive."
A beat of silence.
"Otherwise… why did you blush when you mentioned him?"
Several heads turned toward Valeria.
She looked away too quickly, pretending sudden fascination with a nearby shelf.
The silence lingered for only a heartbeat before knowing smiles began to spread around the table like the first glimmer of dawn.
Still flushed, Valeria took a step back.
"I'm sorry, I have to go. I just received a message… they say it's urgent."
The youths nodded, their smiles poorly concealed. No one seemed inclined to believe her.
Neris tilted her head.
"You see? Right after that, you suddenly get a message."
Yulary added, her voice laced with syrupy sarcasm,
"Go on, then. I'm sure you didn't just invent an excuse to escape."
Valeria drew in a steadying breath, willing her composure not to fracture.
"I'm serious. They told me I need to return immediately. A letter arrived—from the Celestial Court."
The table went still.
One second.
Two.
Glances passed between them.
"The Court…?" Nerek murmured, almost instinctively.
Then the laughter broke loose.
"Please," Neris managed between giggles. "If you're going to fabricate something, at least make it believable."
Orven shook his head, amused.
"Exactly. If you'd said it was from the palace, that would've been more convincing."
The laughter surged again, brighter than before. To them, it was obvious: she was embarrassed by the teasing about Daverion and grasping for a dignified exit.
Valeria pressed her lips together.
She wasn't angry with them.
She was angry with Andrés—her steward—for choosing the worst possible moment to send that message.
She turned and strode out of the library, her steps crisp against the stone.
"The Celestial Court?" she muttered under her breath as she crossed the threshold. "How could it be the Celestial Court?"
She reread the message. The wording was precise. The notification unmistakable.
A faint chill threaded down her spine.
"Andrés must have made a mistake…" she insisted to herself. "And now I look like a liar because of him."
Behind her, the group's laughter still echoed.
She should never have mentioned the contents. She should have left without explanation.
But the truth was simpler—she had felt exposed.
Her fingers tightened in the fabric of her dress.
"I lacked prudence…"
Valeria reached the Red Zone at a brisk pace. She ascended to the fourth floor still simmering, prepared to reprimand Sebastián for the ill-timed message.
Instead, she found Andrés waiting in the corridor.
He did not appear nervous. He appeared rigid—like a man who had been holding himself together by deliberate force.
"Miss… the two young ladies are in the infirmary. They fainted."
Valeria stopped cold.
"What happened, Andrés? Is it serious?"
"No. Nothing serious."
"Then what happened?"
He hesitated—a flicker, barely perceptible.
"As a matter of fact… I fainted as well. I regained consciousness half an hour ago."
She stared at him.
"You fainted?"
"If I told you the reason, you wouldn't believe me."
Her irritation dissolved into unease.
"Take me to the girls first."
They entered an adjoining chamber. The two young women lay on separate beds, their breathing even and untroubled. No convulsions. No fever. Their pulses were steady beneath Valeria's fingers.
She exhaled softly.
"Tell me exactly what occurred."
Andrés reached into the inner pocket of his suit and withdrew a thick paper envelope.
"This was the cause."
Valeria accepted it, still uncertain.
"It's the emblem on the other side," he added quietly.
She turned the letter.
A perfectly inscribed triangle.
Within it, seven open eyes.
Encircling them, seven beasts oriented toward the center.
It was not a forbidden sigil. Not a mark of shadow.
It was the seal of the Millennial Conference—the convocation held once every thousand years.
But this time, it was not an ordinary gathering.
This time, every Sovereign would attend.
All of them.
Valeria recognized it instantly.
Her body reacted before her thoughts could assemble.
Pressure descended like an unseen tide. Not fear. Not imagination. Density—as though the air itself had acquired weight.
Her fingers trembled. The letter tilted.
It should never have been sent like this.
Not without preparation.
Not bearing the complete seal.
Her breathing fractured. Her pulse surged violently in her throat.
The symbol did not merely announce a meeting.
It implied presence.
Seven converging gazes.
Seven distinct wills.
For a fleeting, vertiginous instant, she felt something looking back at her through the paper.
The floor seemed to shift beneath her feet.
"Miss. Miss, are you well?"
Andrés's voice struck her like a physical blow.
Valeria blinked, forced a breath into her lungs, and stepped back, bracing herself against the nearest table.
Had he not spoken, she might have collapsed as the others had.
The seal was not dangerous.
But it was not meant for unprepared eyes.
On the fourth floor of the Red Zone, Valeria stood motionless for several long seconds, gripping the letter with renewed steadiness.
Unsettled.
Back in the library, the atmosphere shifted without warning.
A murmur began at the entrance and spread like a current through water. Books remained open mid-sentence. Chairs scraped softly against stone. Readers rose, craning for a glimpse.
Neris and Nerek exchanged a look before standing. The others followed without question.
Orven placed his manga on the table—an act nearly unprecedented—and moved with the crowd.
Whispers overlapped.
"It's the Leader of the Scholars."
"Yes… it's him."
"It's rare to see him here. He almost never leaves his study."
"I only saw him once—during the palace celebration."
As the elderly man advanced, conversations diminished of their own accord. No command was given. Even the tap of his dark wooden cane made scarcely a sound upon the floor.
He did not need to impose order.
His presence arranged the space around him.
The youths managed to press toward the front.
And then they saw him clearly.
The old man wore a simple robe, unadorned, leaning lightly upon his cane. His gaze swept across the library with tranquil assurance, as if he already knew precisely whom he sought.
At his side walked Jhoran.
His chest was thrust forward with exaggerated pride. He adjusted his clothes as though freshly invested with nobility, casting triumphant glances at the onlookers he had so recently entertained.
His expression said everything.
He had returned.