Chapter 16 – What Remains Unseen
It had been three months since Luceris fell. Three months since the capital of House Vaelmont, Valaris, lost two hundred elite soldiers — and its heir.
And still… no word had come from the border.
Beneath the towers of Valaris, life marched on. Nobles dined behind gold-veined curtains. Merchants haggled under jeweled lanterns. In the lower quarters, children chased dreams that would never rise beyond stone walls.Priests preached of stability. Courtiers whispered of succession. But no one spoke of Luceris. His absence had become a shadow draped over the city unseen, but always felt. And in that silence, a question lingered like perfume clinging to rotting silk: was the heir dead… or forgotten?
Lady Morveth stood beneath the high arch of the eastern spire, her crimson cloak fluttering against the walls. The city stretched before her — a mosaic of domes and towers bathed in moonlight, the noble district glowing like a silver crown.
Behind her, whispers danced through the air like smoke. Advisors. Spymasters. Priestesses from the temple of Tharos.
But none dared interrupt.
Morveth didn't move. Her gaze was locked on a raven circling the palace dome — dark wings slicing the stars.
> "Three figures," she murmured, more to herself than to anyone listening. "One in flame. One in shadow. And the third… unknown."
The door behind her creaked open.
A man entered — robed in gold and ink, one of her agents from the Greynor ring. He knelt without ceremony.
"My lady. Another outpost fell. Same signature. No survivors."
"Signs of magic?" she asked.
"Only residue. Traces of dark energy and… something older. No known type of magic"
"And the elf?".
"Still unnamed. Still unseen. Locals call him 'the Hollow Star.'" "They say he shines like a ghost… and leaves nothing behind but silence."
Morveth turned, one brow raised.
"Poetic fools."
She stepped past the messenger, cloak trailing like blood in water.
"Prepare a report. The Duke will summon soon. And this time, we speak truth — even if it burns him."
In Valaris, the throne room stank of old perfume and older power. The Duke of House Vaelmont sat crooked on his throne, goblet in hand, crown tilted as if even it had grown tired of the weight it bore.
At his side stood High Chancellor Breven, silent as always.
Then came the soft echo of boots.
Morveth entered without bowing.
"You summoned me."
The Duke didn't look at her right away. His gaze was fixed on a tapestry — the old war, stitched in gold and ash.
"Three months," he said. "No word from my son. No body. No victory."
''You didn't lose a son. You lost the sharpest blade you ever forged — and sent it into fog without knowing what waited beyond."
That made him turn.
"Mind your tongue."
"You forget," she added, voice sharp as a knife sheathed in silk, "you made him a blade. And when blades are lost… they often return pointed the other way."
The Duke's gaze hardened, but she didn't flinch.
"You taught me to strike with precision, my lord," she said. "But you forget — poison takes longer to kill than fire. And it lingers longer, too."
"Careful, Morveth," the Duke said. "That sounds like a threat."
She smiled. "No. That sounds like your own lesson coming home."
"You knew Caelondor stirred. You knew Aurelia's agents were watching the borders. But you sent your heir to crush a nameless village. And now, your heir is gone."
The Duke's fingers tightened around his goblet. The wine sloshed.
"Then what do you suggest? That we grovel before a ghost in the trees? That we parley with an elf no one can name?"
"I suggest we act like rulers," Morveth said, eyes narrowing. "Not grieving fathers."
A long pause.
"What do your spies say?" he asked at last.
Morveth stepped forward, unfolding a map across the floor between them. Pins glimmered like teeth along the eastern ridge.
"They say the village stands — stronger than ever. Fortified. Patrolled. Prosperous. They say a draconian trains their men. A vampire commands their networks. And the elf…"
She hesitated.
"…the elf is their symbol. Their silence. Their god."
The Duke scoffed.
"A god. Please."
> "Tell that to the soldiers who scream in their sleep," Morveth replied. "The ones who did return — broken, mad. The ones who whisper of presence like a curse they can't forget."
The Duke's voice lowered.
"And what do you believe, Morveth?"
She looked him dead in the eye.
"I believe we misjudged him. He's not a myth. He's a movement. And if we wait too long… he'll be more than that."
"Then strike," the Duke snapped. "You're my blade in the dark. Use it."
"No," she said, voice cold as frostbite. "If we strike now, we show fear. We feed the myth. Let me spin the web first."
"The elf has no past. No allies. No claim."
"Exactly," Morveth murmured. "Which means no one will defend him… if I turn the right screws."
She stepped into the stained-glass light, crimson cloak catching like smoke in a breeze.
"Send a diplomat," she said. "Not to negotiate — to watch. To provoke. To measure what he is… and what he isn't."
The Duke's voice lowered.> "And if he doesn't return my son ?"
Morveth smiled.
"Then we remind the world what happens when silence dares to speak."
The Duke didn't speak again. He only stared at the map — and the crimson pin that marked the village. His fingers drummed the arm of the throne like a war drum muffled in velvet.
Behind the throne, Chancellor Breven finally spoke.
"If we wait too long, my lord," he said, "the court will stir. Already there are whispers in the Hall of Banners. Lords without sons ask why yours hasn't returned. They smell weakness — and opportunity."
The Duke didn't flinch. But something passed across his eyes.
Morveth folded her hands behind her back.
"Then we give them what they want," she said smoothly. "A cause to rally behind. A shadow to fear. And a silence to curse."
She turned, and her voice was almost a whisper.
"Let them fear the Hollow Star."
Far to the east, the village slept beneath a veil of starlight.
Torches lined the walls now — real walls, carved of blackstone and ashwood. The scent of smoke lingered, not from ruin, but from hearths and training fields. Children dreamt in homes once broken. Men sharpened blades they once feared to carry.
And in the longhouse, beneath a quiet flame, he sat alone — the one they called the Hollow Star. He said nothing.
But his eyes were open and he was waiting.