The moment the doors to the Sun Palace opened, it felt like I'd stepped into a place not made by human hands. The light inside wasn't just from the windows, though the glass panels stretched from floor to ceiling, stained with reds, blues, and golds in shapes I didn't yet understand. The walls themselves seemed to glow—softly, like candlelight. Not harsh. Not cold. But warm. Inviting. Alive.
It was like standing in the belly of the sun. The floors were pale marble veined with gold. Every step echoed faintly, but not in a way that made me feel small. Just… noticed. Acknowledged. The hallway was long and wide enough for four carriages to ride through side by side. Pillars lined either side, carved with suns at the base and moons near the top—rising like stone trees that held the sky.
Between them stood statues. People. Some wore armor. Some robes. Some held books, others swords. All of them looked strong. Not because of their posture, but because of the weight they carried in their expressions—soft pride, quiet sorrow, fierce hope. I didn't know who they were. But I knew they mattered.
And between the pillars hung paintings—grand portraits taller than two men, trimmed in gold and framed in deep velvet. Faces of rulers and heroes. Of past emperors and empresses, I guessed. Their eyes followed you, but not harshly. Like they were watching… to remember. To guard. To welcome.
I stayed close to Caelum's side, though my steps were steady. The servants we passed bowed deeply—not rushed, but with care. As if they weren't just showing respect, but recognition. Not just to Caelum. To me, too.
Two tall knights stood at the next doorway. Their armor shimmered like sunlight on steel, their spears crossed over the threshold. When we stopped before them, they didn't ask our names. They didn't stop us. They bowed, touched the base of their weapons to the floor in unison, and stepped aside.
One of them turned, raised his voice with solemn clarity, and said: "His Grace, Duke Caelum La Caelith, and His Highness, Elarion of House Caelith."
The door opened. And I saw him. The throne hall wasn't what I expected. It was wide, but not empty. Grand, but not cold. Sunlight spilled through high windows, falling across the golden floor in bands of brightness. Pillars framed the space, but did not crowd it.
The throne itself sat on a raised platform—but only a few steps high. Its frame was gold, but softened with white cushions. On either side of it stood gentle braziers, their flames dancing low and steady. And there, seated calmly, watching us with eyes that held more power than storm or steel—Was the Emperor.
He rose when he saw us. Not fast. Not stiff. Just... purposefully. I stopped walking. And kneeled. Because it felt right. Because something inside me—something older than memory—told me to. Caelum's hand rested lightly on my shoulder, not to pull me up, but to let me know he was still there.
I didn't look up until the Emperor's voice came. "Rise, little brother."
I lifted my head. And saw his face. He looked… so much like Caelum that it startled me. Same posture. Same steady eyes. Same way of holding still without being rigid. But where Caelum was ink and moonlight, the Emperor was gold. His hair gleamed like sunlight against fresh snow, cropped just above the shoulders, neatly tucked behind one ear. His eyes were paler than Caelum's. More like glass filled with flame.
He wore a white tunic under a high-collared mantle, embroidered with suns that shimmered as he moved. No crown rested on his brow—just a simple gold circlet, thin and curved, holding back his hair like a halo.
He looked serious. But not cruel. And when he spoke again, I could feel it—not just authority, but kindness hidden beneath layers of steel. "I've waited a long time to meet you," he said, descending the steps.
Caelum stepped aside. The Emperor came forward, each step careful, deliberate. "I never stopped hoping," he said, his voice gentler now, "that the baby they stole might still be out there somewhere."
I didn't answer. I didn't know what to say. But I looked up into his eyes. And saw something there that I hadn't seen in anyone before. Not expectation. Not judgment. Not even relief. Just… grief. The kind that had waited too long to speak.
He knelt down before me—not towering above, not beckoning me upward. He knelt. And he opened his arms. "If you'll allow it," he said quietly, "I'd like to hold you."
I stepped forward. He lifted me into his arms. And held me against his chest with such gentleness that I forgot I'd ever been afraid of emperors. He smelled faintly of cedar and parchment and morning air. His heartbeat was steady.
"You've grown so much," he murmured into my hair. "I wish I had been there to see it."
He turned slightly, looking at Caelum with a quiet smile. "He's beautiful," he said. "Thank you for finding him."
Caelum's voice was quiet. "I didn't do anything he didn't do himself. He came to me."
The Emperor looked back at me. "You're home now," he whispered.
And even though his voice didn't break—I could feel him about to cry. So I wrapped my arms around his neck and hugged him tighter. Not because I thought he needed it. But because I did. And maybe… that was enough.
He didn't set me down as we left the throne room. Instead, he carried me—like I was precious cargo, like I was still small enough to be protected entirely by his arms. He walked with measured steps, his hand resting gently on my back, speaking to me in quiet tones. He told me about the day I was born. How the snow had fallen late that year. How my mother had smiled one last time before closing her eyes.
"I wasn't there when it happened," he said softly. "We were told she was resting. By the time we knew the truth, she was already gone. And so were you."
We walked slowly. Guards bowed as we passed. Doors opened before us. And soon, we stepped out into the Empress' Garden. It wasn't a garden like I imagined. It wasn't rows of vegetables or narrow paths lined with neat hedges. It was alive.
Wild and beautiful in a way that felt deliberate—like a story growing without need for words. There were flowering vines, wide green leaves, fragrant trees, and water lilies blooming in a stone-lined pond. And in the center, beneath a shade of wisteria, was a table. And her.
She looked like something out of a painting. Not a mortal woman. But a goddess dressed in light. Her hair was silvery white, falling in soft waves around her shoulders, catching the breeze like strands of starlight. Her eyes were golden, bright without being sharp, glowing without glowing. And her hands rested gently on her rounded stomach—swollen with child, but not unsteady.
She rose slowly when she saw us. And smiled. The kind of smile that made things bloom. Not wide. Not forced. Just… true. And when she looked at me, I knew she wasn't looking at a mystery, or a miracle, or a piece of imperial history. She was looking at a child. Just a boy. Just me.
The Emperor set me down on my feet, but didn't move far. She walked toward me and knelt. She didn't ask my name. She didn't ask if I was afraid. She just reached out, touched my cheek, and whispered—"You're beautiful."
I blinked. And then she said— "Welcome home, Elarion."
I looked from her to the Emperor, and then to Caelum. None of them were wearing crowns. None of them told me to kneel. None of them looked down at me. They were just people. My family. And then—For the first time—I heard their real names. Not the Sun and Moon of the Empire. Not the Emperor and Empress. Just—Alric and Serenya. And with that—Something inside me shifted. The palace stopped feeling like a monument. And started to feel like a home.