The forty-eight hours following the Resonance Ceremony were the quietest Cian had ever known. In the original novel, this was the "liminal space"—the period of deceptive calm where the villains finalized their logistics and the political gears shifted into their final, lethal alignment. But for Cian, trapped in the body of a ten-year-old with the soul of a weary surgeon, it was a period of agonizing, fragile beauty.
The manor was filled with the scent of lavender and beeswax. Sunbeams cut through the tall windows of the conservatory, illuminating the dust motes that danced in the air like tiny, golden spirits.
The Mother's Heart
"Hold still, my little phantom," Elara murmured, her fingers deftly adjusting the collar of Cian's linen shirt.
She wasn't a powerhouse of the Empire; she was a woman of books and botanical gardens, a B-rank scholar who had traded the academy for the quiet life of the western estates. But her intuition was sharper than any S-rank blade. She looked down at her son, and for a moment, her breath hitched.
Cian was looking out the window, his gaze fixed on a horizon she couldn't see. There was a gravity to him, a stillness that made him feel less like a child and more like a statue carved from ancient, sorrowful stone.
'He's so relieved,' Elara thought, her heart swelling with a mixture of guilt and fierce, protective love. 'He thinks he's safe because he's a C-rank. He thinks the world will leave him alone now.'
She reached out, cupping his cheek. "You look disappointed, Cian. Are you sad you won't be flying hover-ships or leading legions like your father?"
Cian turned his gaze to her, and the coldness in his eyes melted into something soft, something desperate. "No, Mom. I'm happy. I just want to stay here. With you. I want to learn the rest of the herbal tinctures for the winter fever."
Elara pulled him into a sudden, tight embrace, burying her face in his hair. 'Thank the Goddess,' she prayed silently. 'Let him be a doctor. Let him be a C-rank. Let him be an extra in the history books if it means he never has to see the things Kaelen saw. I don't need a hero for a son. I just need him to grow old.'
She didn't know that her son's "C-rank" was a mask hiding a cosmic predator. She only knew that his heart beat against hers, and it was the only rhythm in the world that mattered.
The Father's Pride
Later that afternoon, Cian found his father in the training grounds. General Kaelen wasn't practicing with a sword; he was sitting on a crate, polishing a set of old, rusted armor—the armor he had worn before he became a General.
"Cian! Come here, boy," Kaelen roared, beckoning him over.
Cian sat beside him. The air smelled of oil and metal.
"I saw the way the other nobles looked at us in the chapel," Kaelen said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "They thought I'd be ashamed. A War God's son, phasing through walls like a common thief or a stage magician."
He let out a bark of laughter and ruffled Cian's hair so hard it nearly gave him whiplash.
"But they're fools, Cian. I've led S-ranks into battle who couldn't tie their own boots without a servant. Power is a curse in this Empire. It makes you a target. It makes you a tool for the Emperor's ego."
Kaelen looked at his son, his expression becoming uncharacteristically solemn. 'I saw that black flicker in the crystal,' the General thought. 'I saw it for a millisecond before he suppressed it. My boy isn't a C-rank. He's hiding... just like I taught him.'
"You have a gift, Cian," Kaelen said aloud. "Not the phasing. The mind. You see the world as it is, not as the poems describe it. Use that. Heal people. Be the man I couldn't be because I was too busy breaking things."
"I will, Father," Cian said, his voice thick.
The Last Supper of the Innocent
The evening before the "Red Ash," the family sat in the small dining nook, avoiding the grand hall. They ate a simple meal of thick crusty bread, beef stew, and wine from the General's private vineyard.
It was a night of laughter. Elara told stories of Kaelen's clumsiness when they first met—how the "Lion of the West" had tripped over his own scabbard during their first dance. Kaelen retaliated by describing Elara's "deadly" cooking experiments from their early years.
Cian laughed with them. For a few hours, he let himself forget the novel. He was just a boy with parents who loved him more than life itself. He was unaware that high above, an entity was sewing his thread into a knot; he only knew the warmth of the hearth.
But as the night deepened, the Void in his soul began to grow restless.
[...The... air... is... souring... Master...] Cian looked at his mother as she laughed, a piece of bread halfway to her mouth. He looked at his father, whose eyes were crinkled with joy.
'I know what's coming according to the book,' Cian realized, a cold dread settling in his gut. 'I have the power to phase us all out of here right now. I could take them to the mountains. I could hide them.'
But he looked at the manor—the history, the servants, the legacy his father had built. If they fled now, based on a "hunch" or a novel's plot, they would be hunted as traitors before the first drop of blood was even spilled. His father, the man of honor, would never live as a fugitive on the word of a ten-year-old.
'I'll wait,' Cian decided, his grip tightening on his spoon until the metal began to phase and bend under his touch. 'I'll let the villains come. I'll let them show their faces. And then... I'll make sure they never have faces again.'
"Cian?" Elara asked, noticing his white knuckles. "Are you alright, sweetheart?"
Cian looked up and gave her the most genuine smile he had ever managed in two lifetimes. "I'm perfect, Mom. I was just thinking... I'm really glad I'm your son."
Elara's eyes softened, and she blew him a kiss. "And we are the luckiest parents in the Empire."
Outside, in the tall grass beyond the manor walls, the first of the Inquisitors were already taking their positions. The red flares were being prepped. The "God's Breath" gas was being loaded into the vents.
The golden hour was over.
Next Chapter: Chapter 5 - The Night of Red Ash. The massacre begins in earnest.