Chapter 14: Chapter 12. House of Caelondor

Darkness weighed heavy in the air—thick as smoke, stifling as a grave. Damp stone pressed against Prince’s back as he stirred, his wrists bound by cold, rune-carved manacles that clinked faintly with his every movement. Each breath came ragged, the bruises on his ribs flaring like fire beneath his skin.

His vision swam, the world nothing but shadow and silence—until memory struck like a blade.

Ivan.

A spear through the chest. A flash of red. The soundless fall into the abyss.

Sky, coughing blood, still dragging Taigami through the underbrush. His voice—barely a whisper—urging them to run.

Taigami’s cry echoing into the void as the forest swallowed them whole.

Prince gritted his teeth, the pain in his body nothing compared to the hollow in his chest. He had failed. He couldn’t protect them—not Ivan, not Sky, not even Taigami. And now he was here… alone. Shackled like a beast in the belly of his clan’s fortress.

Then—a shift. Footsteps. Crisp. Deliberate. Regal.

The iron gate groaned open, casting a blade of white light across the cold floor like a sword cleaving shadow. Prince winced, his eyes adjusting, the light stabbing at his skull. But then the figure stepped into view—and he knew.

“So,” came a deep, resonant voice—regal, commanding, and ice-cold—“the prodigal coward returns.”

The voice of a king.

“Prince Caelondor,” the guards intoned as they bowed and stepped aside.

Towering in the threshold stood Zephyrion Caelondor, Lord of the Cloud Clan. Clad in flowing white-and-silver robes embroidered with the sigils of their ancient line, his presence filled the chamber like storm-tide over lowlands. His posture was flawless. His expression—frozen, unreadable. And in his pale blue eyes, no trace of warmth, only the silent weight of judgment.

Prince rose slowly to his knees, the manacles dragging against stone. His breath hitched. Rage boiled up like a tidal surge, breaking free with a tremor in his voice.

“You…”

Zephyrion arched a brow. “Still capable of speech, I see. A surprise.”

“You’re the reason Ivan is dead,” Prince growled, his voice low, feral. “You sent your dogs after us. You hunted children like beasts. And now Sky and Taigami… I don’t even know if they made it out alive.”

Zephyrion’s expression did not flicker.

“You—” Prince spat blood to the side, “—you have always ruled like a tyrant, cloaked in silk and silver words. But now you’ve crossed into something worse. A coward who sends shadows to do his butchery.”

Zephyrion’s lips curled faintly. “You mistake responsibility for tyranny, boy. I sent enforcers to bring a wayward heir home. The rest… were unfortunate side effects.”

“Side effects?” Prince surged against his chains, fury making him shake. “You murdered my best friend! You nearly killed the only ones who still cared about me!”

Silence stretched.

And then Zephyrion stepped closer, his boots ringing softly on the stone. “You made your choice, Taelos. You ran from your name, your duty, your blood. You consorted with vagrants, thieves, and dissidents. Did you expect no consequence?”

Prince’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped, trembling with something deeper. Older.

“No,” he said. “This isn’t about consequence. It’s about you. About what you did to her.”

Zephyrion said nothing.

“You killed her,” Prince hissed. “Don’t you dare deny it. Mother knew. She knew something. And that last Council session with OBS-1D1AN—she wasn’t just an inconvenience to you. She was a threat. You silenced her.”

A flash of something—fleeting and unreadable—passed behind Zephyrion’s eyes.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he raised a gloved hand and struck his son across the face.

The crack echoed like thunder in the chamber.

Prince reeled, blood smearing across his cheek. He didn’t fall. Didn’t flinch.

“You dare speak her name in accusation?” Zephyrion’s voice now trembled with restrained fury. “You dishonor her memory with the poison of your fantasies. You disgrace this family and the legacy of the Cloudblood.”

“She was the only thing good in this place,” Prince growled. “And you—”

“You are a child,” Zephyrion snapped, “clinging to grief like a badge of righteousness. You think yourself a victim. But it was your weakness, your disobedience, that brought you here. Your mother’s softness—” his voice dropped to a cruel hush, “—made you blind. And now you break under truths you were never meant to hold.”

He turned toward the doorway, voice trailing like wind through steel.

“Clean him up. I want him alive for the Tribunal.”

As the guards approached, Prince slumped forward, chains clinking. But his eyes—burning now with fire deeper than lightning—remained fixed on the retreating figure of his father.

He would not break.

Not here.

Not in chains forged by the sins of kings.

The heavy doors groaned shut behind Prince Caelondor as the guards led him up the winding, torch-lit corridors of the fortress. His hands were bound, his limbs weak, but his gaze—furious, unwavering—remained fixed on the tall figure ahead.

Zephyrion Caelondor. His father. His betrayer.

The king’s silhouette moved with the measured grace of a predator, robes of white and storm-gray silk trailing behind him. And yet, in Prince’s eyes, his father’s regal stride no longer carried authority—only the weight of guilt and tyranny.

But as the flames of hatred blazed in his chest, another fire flickered quietly beneath it.

A memory.

A softer time.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

—

"Queen Elysera Caelondor approaches," one of the guards called reverently, straightening at once.

Morning sunlight cascaded through the high-vaulted windows of the royal garden. Dew-kissed leaves shimmered in the light. Birds chirped their endless lullabies, and flowers of every hue stretched lazily toward the dawn.

A younger Prince—no more than six—darted through the garden paths, giggling as he weaved between hedges and fountains.

“Catch me if you can, Mama!” he called out, his laughter like wind chimes in spring.

Behind him, a glowing figure moved with gentle steps. Queen Elysera Caelondor, the luminous heart of the Cloud Clan palace. Her long white robes flowed like water, tinged with soft lilac and pearl, a silver circlet resting against her golden-brown hair. Her hands—one resting gently on her growing belly—extended playfully toward her son.

“Prince Caelondor, you rogue!” she laughed, eyes sparkling. “You’ll have me breathless before this child is even born!”

“Your Majesty,” said a concerned guard nearby, “perhaps you should rest. His Highness is exhausting you.”

But Elysera only waved a graceful hand. “Oh, let me enjoy this, Drenin. These days come only once, and too soon they vanish.”

She turned to her son, stooping slightly to sweep him into her arms with surprising strength. He squealed with delight, and she spun him once before settling onto the marble bench beneath the flowering moonshade tree.

“I win again,” Prince whispered, curling against her, catching his breath.

Elysera smiled down at him, her expression more radiant than the morning sun. “Indeed you do, my little storm. You always do.”

—

Another memory—months later. The sun dipped behind the palace towers, casting amber light over the quiet nursery. Prince stood beside his mother’s chair, eyes wide with awe as he looked at the swaddled bundle in her arms.

His baby sister.

“She’s so small…” he whispered. “And pretty.”

“She takes after her brother,” Elysera replied, brushing a lock of silver-blond hair from the baby’s forehead. “Would you like to hold her?”

Prince nodded eagerly, arms outstretched. His mother guided her gently into his embrace, and for a moment, he felt like the world had grown just a little larger.

But his joy was shadowed by something quiet. A doubt.

“Mother,” he asked hesitantly, “now that she’s here… will you still have time for me?”

Elysera looked at him, startled. “Taelos, of course I will.”

“You won’t… forget me?” he asked, his small voice tight. “You won’t love her more, right?”

“Oh, my sweet boy,” she whispered, eyes shimmering. “You are my first light. My joy. My strength. No matter how many children I bear, there is a corner of my heart reserved for you—and you alone.”

Then, as if remembering something precious, she reached into the folds of her flowing robes and pulled out a delicate pendant—an iridescent blue crystal, shaped like a teardrop, suspended from a silver thread. The gem pulsed faintly, as if breathing.

She fastened it gently around Prince’s neck, her fingers lingering on the clasp.

“This,” she said softly, “holds a part of me. My energy, my light.”

Prince stared down at the glowing pendant, its shimmer reflecting in his wide, awestruck eyes.

“No matter how far you are,” she continued, her voice low and melodic, “my light will always reach you. When you feel alone… or afraid… hold it close.”

She kissed his forehead, a warm press of love that seemed to linger in his skin even now, years later.

“You are not only my son,” she said. “You are the future I believe in.”

Servants passed nearby, bowing with warm smiles. The queen acknowledged each of them with gentle kindness—thanking the maidens by name, blessing the guards with well-wishes. Her love flowed not only to her son, but to all who dwelled under her protection.

That garden had been a haven. That voice a promise. That world—perfect.

—

Now, in the darkness of the present, chains bit into his wrists.

Prince blinked as the guards hauled him forward. His mother’s words echoed in his heart like distant thunder. His fists trembled. But his eyes—they were fixed on Zephyrion Caelondor with the fury of a thousand storms.

The world had taken his queen.

But not her truth.

They dragged him forward—through iron gates and down stone steps slick with the weight of history. Prince Caelondor’s wrists were bound with gleaming aetherite cuffs, his posture rigid, his expression unreadable… but his storm-filled eyes never left his father’s back.

The moment his boots scraped against the gravel outside the fortress, something stopped him.

A swing.

Old, wooden, hanging lopsided from the branches of a pale-blossomed tree, about a hundred meters across the courtyard.

The memory slammed into him with the force of a lightning bolt.

—He was younger then, maybe seven, the morning sun spilling over the gardens in golden waves. Birds chirped in the hedges. Lush petals carpeted the stone walkways. His mother—Queen Elysera Caelondor—stood beside the new baby swing, laughing softly as she cradled his infant sister.

“Easy, little prince,” one of the guards called playfully, his polished armor gleaming in the light. “Don’t get Her Majesty tired with all your energy.”

But Queen Elysera only smiled—radiant, calm. “Let him be,” she said warmly. “The garden is happier with his laughter.”

Prince had dashed around the courtyard, circling the tree like a comet, before coming to a stop and pouting dramatically.

“Mother,” he’d said, pointing to the squirming bundle on the swing, “Selphira is crying again! I didn’t even do anything!”

“She’s just tired,” Elysera replied with a queenly laugh, brushing a lock of silvery hair from her face. “Even princesses have their moods.”

She lifted the baby—soft and pink and cooing—into her arms, then looked at him with a gentle, knowing smile.

“Come now. It’s almost dinner. Let’s return to the palace.”

He had nodded, walking beside her, holding the corner of her gown.

Later that evening, after dinner in the candlelit hall, Queen Elysera sat them both in her private lounge. The baby lay in a cradle beside them, already nodding off. She handed Prince a storybook bound in white velvet.

“Why don’t you read to her?” she said, tucking him beneath her arm. “She listens better when it’s your voice.”

He read in careful tones, his small finger trailing beneath each word like a guide. Every few sentences, he’d pause—glancing toward the cradle, where the tiny girl lay swaddled in silk, her wide violet eyes fixed on him with quiet wonder.

“She really likes it,” he whispered, almost in awe, as if her attention were the greatest honor he’d ever received.

Queen Elysera smiled, watching the two of them with a warmth that could melt the stars. “Of course she does,” she said, wrapping one arm gently around his shoulders. “You’re her big brother. Her light.”

Prince beamed under her praise, his chest swelling with a new and unfamiliar sense of pride. He scooted closer to the cradle, laying the book down across his lap. Carefully, as if the motion itself might shatter the moment, he reached out and brushed a single finger against his sister’s tiny hand. Her fingers curled instinctively around his.

A gasp caught in his throat. “She… she grabbed me,” he whispered, stunned.

“She knows you,” Elysera said softly, brushing his hair with a mother’s grace. “From the moment she heard your voice, even before she was born.”

Prince leaned closer, his forehead almost touching the edge of the cradle. “Hi, Selphira,” he murmured. “I’m your big brother. And I’ll always take care of you. No one will ever hurt you… I promise.”

The baby blinked once, then smiled—soft and sleepy—and that smile etched itself permanently into Prince’s heart.

From that moment on, something changed in him.

He no longer saw her as the strange bundle that stole their mother’s attention. She was his. His sister. His responsibility. His joy.

When they finally slept, she placed them gently in their rooms, brushing hair from their faces, pressing a kiss to each brow.

“You’ll always be my brave boy,” she’d whispered.

—Back in the present, Prince gritted his teeth, eyes locked on the worn swing, swaying slightly in the breeze.

What would Mom say if she saw him now? Shackled, bruised, humiliated. Would her eyes still see him as her brave boy?

What about Selphira herself?

What had she become?

The guards didn’t give him time to dwell. They pulled him forward once more—through golden archways now, into the heart of the Sky Tribunal.

It was massive.

An amphitheater carved of windstone and cloud marble, wide as a parade square and high as a cathedral. A glowing orb above cast pure daylight upon its central floor.

He walked a gauntlet of glares—his uncles, cousins, nobles draped in sapphire-trimmed robes. Uncle Veylan narrowed his eyes, cousin Therya turned away in disdain. Murmurs followed him like smoke.

“Prince Caelondor…”

“…an absolute disgrace…”

“…has sullied the Cloudblood…”

He held his head high, fury masking the tremble in his chest.

The presiding judge, robed in white and silver, raised a staff and struck the cloudstone thrice.

“This Tribunal shall now convene,” he proclaimed. “All rise for the honored elders of House Caelondor—”

The crowd began to shift as more nobles entered, robes fluttering like banners in a storm.

Then Prince froze.

Wheels. A soft creak of turning wood.

And then… her.

Selphira Caelondor.

In a wheeled chair. Pale. Fragile. Her once-sparkling eyes dulled by time and silence. Hair bound in formal loops, face serene but unreadable.

She was rolled beside the elders' bench—placed in full view.

His heart stopped. His breath caught.

Selphira. In a wheelchair.

What happened to you?

What happened while I was gone?

She turned slowly… and her gaze met his.

And Prince Caelondor’s world shattered again.