The tower chamber was too bright for this early hour—but that was exactly how Lio liked it.
Morning sunlight poured in from five arched windows, each carefully enchanted to warm the polished marble floors and reflect clean white light across the gold-veined pillars. Not a shadow remained in the room, except the one he allowed: his own.
Lio von Argent stood still, motionless as a statue carved by the gods of symmetry.
He was tall for his age—only twenty—but his posture carried the weight of a dynasty. Shoulders squared. Chin lifted. Hair as white-gold as his family crest, combed back so precisely that not a single strand dared defy him. His boots, untouched by dust. His gloves, perfectly creased. Every inch of him was studied, curated, impossible to ignore.
And yet, this morning, his hands were bare.
He stood barefoot on the heated floor, arms behind his back, watching the Archive Quarter from above. The magical shimmer covering the distant district pulsed faintly even from here.
There it is again. Thirteen pulses a minute. It breathes like it's alive.
His eyes narrowed—not in suspicion. In fascination.
Behind him, his steward cleared his throat.
Lio didn't move.
"Still asleep?" he asked softly.
"Yes, my lord. Ten hours, forty-one minutes now. The guards refuse to enter. The district is sealed tighter than the Vaults of Mouran."
Lio gave a slow nod. "And?"
"The Mage Council convened twice overnight. They're debating whether to treat this as a sovereign threat or divine incident. No conclusion."
Lio exhaled through his nose.
"They never conclude anything. That's their method."
He turned.
His coat was draped over a sculpted mannequin: midnight-black with golden trim, lined with runes from four separate schools of refinement. It was ceremonial armor for a man who'd already outdueled most of the noble houses in peacetime duels by the age of sixteen.
He didn't reach for it yet.
Instead, he stepped toward the long mirror by the balcony and looked at himself.
Not admiring.
Assessing.
Eyes sharp. Jaw steady. Aura calm.
Still flawless.
But that man in the archive... he didn't earn power with perfection. He earned it by sleeping. Sleeping—and making the world bow.
He clenched his jaw, just once. No more than that.
The steward coughed again. "Shall I contact your father's guard?"
"No."
"Your brother—?"
"No."
Lio lifted his coat from the mannequin and slung it over one shoulder. The weight of it grounded him. Familiar. Controlled.
"I'm not bringing backup," he said. "This isn't a raid. It's a witnessing."
"A what, sir?"
Lio glanced at him.
"If what they say is true, I'll know it the moment I see him."
He looked again out the window. Toward the dome. Toward the silence.
"Miracles don't need introductions. They just exist."
💬 Internal Monologue
Everyone loves a hero. But they love an untouchable one more.I've spent my whole life climbing walls others never see. Passing tests no one else takes. Dueling prodigies just to feel anything close to challenge.And now there's a man who whispers in his sleep and the world reshapes itself around him.I don't envy him.I need him to be real. Because if he's not… there's nothing left above me but sky.
The steward spoke again, this time more hesitantly.
"If he is a god, my lord…"
"He's not," Lio said.
"But if he is?"
Lio took one last look in the mirror, then turned—his silhouette framed in the white-gold sun.
"Then for once," he said quietly, "I'll know what it means to kneel."