Alaric swallowed. "Mother…"
He expected anger first. He expected accusation, interrogation, punishment delivered with velvet words and iron consequences. He expected the palace's habit of turning mistakes into lessons that bled.
Instead, Asimi leaned forward, and her hand came to rest against his cheek with a gentleness that made his chest ache.
"Thank Lune," she whispered, and for a heartbeat the Empress-Consort sounded less like a ruler and more like a mother who had held her breath too long. "You are safe."
Alaric's eyes stung unexpectedly. He blinked hard, refusing tears. Tears were dangerous. Tears made adults think you were weak, and weakness became a place people pushed their knives.
"I… I didn't mean…" he began, voice small, and then the words tangled. How did one explain that the tower had called to him? That the barrier had responded to his mana? That he had heard an ancient voice and accepted a master who lived inside a ring?
How did one explain that he had stepped into a story and discovered the story had teeth?
Asimi's fingers remained at his cheek, cool and steady. "I know you did not mean to endanger yourself," she said, her gaze sharp. "But you did. Thoroughly."
Alaric flinched.
Asimi withdrew her hand and sat back, shoulders still composed, but the softness did not vanish entirely. "Alaric," she continued, "I am happy. Happier than you understand. I arrived and I saw you breathing. I saw your heartbeat strong beneath your ribs. That is what matters most to me."
His stomach tightened. The words sounded like relief, yet they also sounded like the quiet edge before a storm.
Then Asimi's eyes narrowed further, and her tone cooled.
"However," she said, and the word carried the weight of a gavel, "you are not a child in a common home who can wander into trouble and be scolded and forgiven. You are an imperial prince. Every risk you take becomes a weapon someone else might use against you. Your life is not yours alone."
Alaric's fingers curled under the blanket. "I thought I could handle it," he admitted quietly.
Asimi's lips pressed into a thin line. "That," she said, "was your first mistake."
He lowered his gaze, shame burning hot and cold at once. James Silver, the man behind the prince, wanted to argue, wanted to insist that curiosity was not sin, that discovery was necessary. But Alaric—the boy who had learned the palace's rules the hard way—knew when argument would only sharpen consequences.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
Asimi studied him for a long moment, and the room felt too still. Even the candle flames seemed to hold their breath.
Then she exhaled slowly.
"You are sorry," she said, as if deciding something. "Good. Hold onto that. Not as guilt, but as instruction."
Alaric's eyes flicked up, hopeful and wary.
Asimi's gaze softened a fraction. "Next time," she said, "be smarter."
Alaric blinked. "Next time?"
Asimi's mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile, but the shadow of one. "Do not mistake my restraint for ignorance," she replied. "If you found something beneath that hill, if you awakened something, then it will not simply go back to sleep because we wish it. I will not pretend it is gone. But you will not face it alone again."
His chest loosened a little, though fear still sat heavy. "Mother… I—"
Asimi lifted a hand, silencing him gently. "First," she said, "tell me what you have."
Alaric hesitated, then remembered the ring.
His hand moved instinctively, and he felt it: cold metal hugging his finger, smooth as glass. He raised his hand slowly from beneath the blanket.
The ring gleamed in the lamplight.
Only… it was not the ring he remembered.
Before, it had been simple silver etched with subtle, moving runes like flowing water. Now, the band's surface looked mirror-polished, reflecting candle flame and Asimi's pale fingers in crisp clarity. And along that reflective surface, faint lines had appeared—runes, delicate and ancient, arranged in a pattern that spiraled around the band as though carved by a hand older than the Empire.
Alaric stared, pulse quickening.
"It changed," he whispered before he could stop himself.
Asimi's eyes sharpened. "It has etched itself," she murmured, leaning closer. Her gaze traced the runes with a scholar's precision and a mother's caution. "These are not imperial glyphs."
"No," Alaric said softly. "They weren't there before."
Asimi extended her hand. Not grabbing, not demanding, but requesting with an authority that made refusal impossible.
"May I see it," she said.
Alaric's stomach twisted. Part of him wanted to protect the ring, to hide it the way he had hidden books and scrolls, because possession meant control. Yet another part of him knew that if he tried to keep it from Asimi, he would be declaring distrust, and distrust between them would be a crack large enough for the palace to crawl through.
He slid the ring off slowly.
The metal resisted for a heartbeat, tightening around his finger as if reluctant to leave him, then released.
Alaric placed it into Asimi's palm.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Asimi's fingers closed around it, and she held it up to the candlelight, studying the runes. Her expression was calm, but Alaric saw the tension around her eyes, the subtle tightening of her jaw. She was weighing danger and opportunity the way she weighed every political threat.
Then her eyes widened slightly.
The candle flames wavered.
A presence pressed into the room like a cold wind moving through a closed window.
Alaric felt it immediately: Alanor stirring, lifting himself from silence like a man rising from a long sleep.
Asimi stiffened, though her face remained composed.
And then the voice came.
Not aloud, not through air.
Inside their minds.
Lune-bound Empress, it said, ancient and resonant, words shaped by a language older than their common tongue. Yet meaning flowed into Alaric's understanding through the ring's connection, and he knew Asimi would understand too, because the ring was now the bridge between them. Do not fear.
Asimi's gaze snapped to Alaric, sharp and questioning.
Alaric's throat tightened. "Mother, I—there is someone—"
I am Alanor, the voice continued, calm as moonlit water. Archmage of this tower, once. This ring is my vessel.
Asimi's lips parted slightly. It was the first crack Alaric had ever seen in her perfect composure.
I have observed your son, Alanor said. He is… unusual.
Alaric felt heat climb into his cheeks. He braced for Asimi's reaction, braced for fear, braced for protective fury that would demand the ring be destroyed.
Asimi did not flinch away from the ring. She held it steadier, fingers tightening slightly as if claiming her right to examine the threat.
Her voice, when she spoke aloud, was soft and dangerous. "You live inside my son's possession," she said. "You spoke to him without my knowledge. You guided him into power beyond his sphere. Explain yourself."
Alaric's heart thudded. There it was: the mother's rage, controlled and contained, yet lethal.
Alanor's tone did not change.
I did not lure him, the archmage replied. The tower responded to his mana. He spoke the words. He crossed the threshold. He awakened me.
Asimi's eyes narrowed. "And when goblins attacked, you took control," she said, voice like a blade. "You used his body."
Alaric's stomach clenched. That moment of helplessness returned in memory, the sensation of his limbs moving without consent.
I saved his life, Alanor replied, unruffled. And the lives of your knights. The breach was a doorway for an organized enemy. It would have remained a bleeding wound without sealing.
Asimi's gaze flicked to Alaric again, and for the first time her expression held something like grim understanding. She did not like what Alanor had done. But she could not deny the outcome.
"And what do you want," Asimi asked, "now that you have introduced yourself."
A pause.
Then Alanor spoke with quiet honesty that felt heavier than any oath.
A student, he said. Continuation. I have offered him mastery. Ancient elven magic. Knowledge that has been lost to your era. In return, I guide him, and perhaps, in time, he may free me from this ring's imprisonment.
Asimi's fingers tightened around the ring until her knuckles paled. "You would bind him to your purposes," she said.
I would teach him to survive, Alanor countered. And to grow. Your court is a nest of knives. Your enemies gather beneath your soil. Your son holds two souls in one vessel. He will either become extraordinary… or he will be consumed.
Alaric's breath caught.
Asimi froze.
Her eyes sharpened into something like frost.
"What did you say," she whispered.
Alaric's blood turned cold.
He felt Alanor's presence hover, the archmage's attention shifting toward the dangerous edge of truth he had already revealed once.
Two souls, Alanor repeated calmly. One native. One from elsewhere. It is rare. It is not inherently evil. But it is… unique.
Asimi's gaze locked onto Alaric with an intensity that made his chest ache. She did not look afraid of him. She looked as if she were seeing him fully for the first time, and the sight was both wondrous and terrifying.
Alaric's lips parted. "Mother, I—"
Asimi raised a hand sharply, and the gesture was not anger. It was containment.
"We will speak of that," she said quietly, voice controlled to the point of trembling, "when we have privacy enough that even the walls cannot listen."
Alaric swallowed hard and nodded.
Asimi lowered her hand, eyes still on him, then she turned her gaze to the ring in her palm. "Alanor," she said, and her voice was coldly polite, "if you intend to remain… then understand this. My son is not your pawn. Not your vessel. Not your experiment."
Understood, Alanor replied, and for the first time Alaric sensed something like respect in the archmage's tone. I recognize maternal law. I will not break it without necessity.
Asimi's lips pressed together, as if she disliked that phrasing deeply.
Before she could respond, the chamber door opened.
A servant entered—no, not a servant. A messenger, dressed in travel-stained livery, boots muddy, hair damp with cold sweat. He bowed so quickly it was almost a collapse, then rose with a face pale enough to look sick.
"Your Majesty," he said to Asimi, voice tight. "Forgive the intrusion. This message is from the Office of Foreign Affairs, stamped with the Emperor's emergency seal."
Asimi's posture straightened instantly, her private fear and anger sliding behind her court-mask like a curtain dropped. "Speak," she commanded.
The messenger swallowed. "The Kingdom of Holtzen," he began—then hesitated, as if the name itself was poison."They have delivered formal declaration."
Alaric's stomach sank.
Asimi's eyes narrowed. "Declaration of what."
The messenger's voice dropped. "War."
The word hit the room like a stone dropped into still water. Even the candles seemed to flicker harder, as if startled.
Asimi did not move. "Explain," she said, voice steady.
The messenger hurried on. "Their declaration cites the Empire's refusal to ban worship of Lune and Aurora, and claims the Empire has committed heresy against Valion. They accuse us of… destabilizing the continent. They state their armies are already mobilizing."
Asimi's gaze sharpened further. "And Hammerdeep," she said. "The dwarves."
The messenger's expression flickered with uncertainty. "That is… unclear, Your Majesty. Some reports claim the Dwarven Kingdom of Hammerdeep will honor an alliance and join Holtzen's campaign. Others claim King Rugnar Kyreath has not pledged openly, and that the dwarves are divided. There are rumors of troop movements near the World's End Chain, but no confirmation."
Dubious.
Dangerous.
The kind of uncertainty that killed empires, because one could not plan properly against a shadow.
Asimi's hand closed around the ring unconsciously, tight enough that Alaric worried she might cut her palm on its edge if it had one.
Her eyes turned briefly toward Alaric.
In that look, he saw the mother's relief, the ruler's calculation, and the dawning shape of a war that would not wait for him to grow older.
And somewhere in the quiet back of Alaric's mind, Alanor's presence stirred again, calm as ancient stone.
So, the archmage murmured, almost to himself. The game begins.