The gardens of House Caelum stretched wide beneath the spring-blue sky, their hedges trimmed to mathematical precision, flowers arranged by color, scent, and season with the obsession of nobles who feared disorder more than death.
Marble paths curved like rivers between tall white fountains, glistening with water so clear it seemed enchanted.
Children darted between statues of old heroes, their polished swords raised high as if guarding the peace.
Noble sons and daughters in tailored tunics and silk gloves twirled wooden practice blades under the watchful eyes of Ventors in gleaming white coats.
Laughter rang like wind chimes in the air.
It was harmony.
It was order.
It was Eden.
And at the center of it all — like a misplaced chess piece dropped on the wrong board — stood a boy with silver hair, dressed like the punchline of a party joke.
Lucius Caelum.
He wore the full formal uniform of House Caelum — navy velvet, silver trim, his family’s crest on his chest —
but atop his immaculate hair sat a small paper party hat, striped blue and white, listing slightly to one side.
A piece of confetti clung stubbornly to his shoulder, glittering in the sun like it belonged there.
His face was unreadable.
Not in the way a noble learns to hide his emotions — but in the way a boy silently begs the universe to kill him in his sleep and be done with it.
He stood perfectly still, spine straight, arms relaxed just-so.
Only the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed the truth.
Nearby, struggling not to burst into open laughter, stood two traitors:
his personal maid, Elise, and his sword tutor, Master Orien.
They were both making the exact same face — the kind people make when trying to suppress laughter but failing in increasingly violent bursts.
Orien had one hand over his mouth, eyes squeezed shut, his entire body vibrating like a man seconds from spontaneous combustion.
Elise had puffed her cheeks full of air like a squirrel caught mid-snack, her shoulders shaking as she tried desperately not to make a sound.
Their faces looked like they’d just swallowed a balloon full of bees and were trying to pretend everything was normal.
Lucius’s eye twitched.
His smile — razor-thin and formal — held like a cracked porcelain mask.
One more breath, one more second, and it would split.
The reason for Lucius’s current expression — somewhere between dignified despair and divine wrath — stood proudly in front of him.
A cake.
No, not just a cake.
A comically enormous, multi-tiered monstrosity of sugar and cream, shaped like Lucius himself, cast in molded fondant and polished chocolate.
His likeness — rendered in absurd detail — wore full silver armor, one foot resting on a fondant rock, a frosting sword pointed toward the heavens like some sugary savior.
The eyes didn’t even match.
One was slightly lopsided.
The smile was too wide.
Lucius stared at it, his real face blank, while his icing counterpart grinned heroically under the golden sun.
A step behind him, Elise stepped forward with all the gravity of someone preparing for public execution.
"H-H-Happy..." she began, voice cracking mid-word.
"Happy... b-birthday... my k-kindest... young l-lord, L-Lucius—"
Her voice pitched higher with each syllable, until it sounded like a songbird on the edge of panic.
"Elise," Orien cut in, clearing his throat with exaggerated formality,
"You mean... ahem —" Master Orien adjusting his collar
"The G-Grand... H-Hero K-Knight... L-Lucius... of House C-Caelum."
Elise clapped both hands over her mouth, turning away with her whole body trembling.
Orien was red in the face now, tears building in his eyes as he forced himself not to laugh aloud.
Their expressions were identical — cheeks puffed out, brows twitching, both trying not to explode in front of the nobility.
They looked like two frogs trying not to croak during a royal funeral.
Lucius didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
His smile remained — razor-thin, forced, twitching at the corners like a fault line moments before eruption.
Inside, his mind whispered calmly, almost fondly:
'I am going to kill them one day for this humiliation.'
And then, as if summoned by his quiet rage, the world blurred slightly — the light shifted, the sounds around him warped like fabric pulled too tight, and his eyes grew a tinted shade of aqua.
Earlier that day...
The doors opened wide with a soft, old groan — ancient hinges whispering secrets into the golden air.
And then, light.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
Blinding, burning, brilliant.
It poured in like a tidal wave of radiance, crashing through the doorway and swallowing the marble halls in white.
Lucius flinched.
Just for a breath.
When his vision adjusted, the garden of House Caelum bloomed open like a storybook brought to life.
The quiet hum of voices outside rose with it — soft at first, then louder, brighter, clearer.
Children ran across the garden’s vast, velvet grass like starlight let loose — laughing, shrieking, their voices high and golden, echoing between marble columns like enchanted wind chimes.
Their games had no rules, only purpose: to chase, to tag, to fall over breathless and rise again with dirt on their knees and sun in their eyes.
Little nobles in silk tunics and scuffed boots dueled with wooden swords, capes tied haphazardly around their necks, shouting over each other in declarations of honor, betrayal, and glory.
“My blade is blessed!” one cried. “You can’t block divine damage!”
Another yelled, “That’s cheating!” and tackled him into a hedge.
Wooden swords clashed midair with dramatic gasps and exaggerated yells, each child calling themselves a knight, a monster, a hero.
One girl stood on the edge of a fountain, arms raised high, declaring herself a goddess of light — before promptly slipping and falling in to the delighted screams of her companions.
Among the hedges — which had been trimmed into great winged lions and antlered deer — the young nobles weaved like a flash of painted silk.
Their clothes were too expensive for running, but they ran anyway —
high collars undone, shoes scuffed from daring too many corners too fast.
Laughter broke in fits between gasps, little rivalries born and resolved in seconds.
Near the terrace, a long table lined with pale linens buzzed with the energy of the Market Ventors — men and women wrapped in layered robes of coral, copper, sea-glass green and twilight blue, their fingers adorned with rings and trinkets that glinted like promises.
Their voices rose in a song of commerce — smooth, practiced tones peppered with laughter, gossip, and bets placed over fruit slices and spinning gemstone trinkets.
They bartered not for need, but for sport, exchanging favors like currency and names like weapons.
And walking gently, almost silently, in perfect trios along the marble path, were the priests of the Edenic Church.
Their black robes shimmered faintly with threads of silver stitched into geometric patterns, their eyes half-lowered in serene attention.
They did not speak often — and when they did, it was only in blessings, whispered softly against the foreheads of passing children or murmured into the ears of anxious parents.
They smelled faintly of incense and cold stone — ancient and careful.
The sky above was cloudless — too blue, too wide — like something painted by a hand that had never known rain.
No one turned toward the open doors.
No horns announced arrival. No servants called attention.
No one noticed Lucius Caelum.
Not yet.
Just beyond the eastern fountain, a man was turning, too — not with authority or grandeur, but joy.
Elias Tartarus — husband of Lady Selene — stood among the younger children, his black velvet sleeves rolled to the elbow, his collar undone.
He spun a girl in circles by her wrists, laughing with her, until both stumbled into the grass in a heap.
A small boy clambered onto his back; he let him win the climb without protest.
Another child ran toward him, arms outstretched, and Elias caught her mid-jump, lifting her with practiced ease.
He didn’t speak loudly. He didn’t draw attention.
And yet the children clustered to him like birds to warmth.
Around them, the nobility carried on — conversation drifting, wine being poured, hands politely shaking — but the center of the garden belonged to them.
The world was spinning, alive, full of a joy so natural it felt violent.
Then—
“LUCIUS!”
The name rang out clear, bright, and loud.
Heads turned.
And then came the streak of black velvet.
Elias Tartarus — tall, thin, came jogging across the field like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His coat was flapping behind him. His smile could’ve powered the entire city.
Several children trailed behind him like sparks from a thrown torch.
One of the priests made a sound of horror.
A Ventor dropped a peach.
Lucius didn’t even have time to brace.
“Wait— Lord Elias—!” someone gasped.
But it was too late.
Elias reached Lucius in full stride — then grabbed him in a quick, half-hug and laughed.
A second later, the children caught up, and like miniature beasts summoned from hell, they swarmed.
One clung to Lucius’s leg.
Another grabbed his wrist and yelled “TAG!”
A third threw both arms around his waist and shouted “I got him first!”
One of the smaller boys tripped and landed square on Lucius’s foot.
And then Lucius — the heir of Caelum, polished and prepared for ceremony — toppled.
Flat. On the grass. Robes crumpled. Hair mussed. Children squealing on top of him like wild puppies.
For a second, the entire garden froze.
Dozens of nobles turned.
Market Ventors leaned over their tables.
Priests halted mid-blessing.
And there he was — the symbol of Eden’s perfection — buried under laughing children.
Above him, Elias crouched, calm as ever, his long fingers extending with gentle ease.
“My sincerest apologies, Lord Lucius,” he said smoothly, voice full of true warmth.
“I didn’t mean for you to fall.”
Lucius blinked.
He took the hand.
“No worries, Lord Elias.” he said evenly, standing with quiet grace — like he hadn’t just been reduced to a jungle gym.
Behind him, Orien’s voice rang out, smug and theatrical.
“Young Lord Lucius,” he called, “I can’t believe you were defeated not by a Dreamer… but by mere children...”
Lucius turned slightly, smile still fixed in place, lips curled with flawless poise.
“Ahaha. They’re the future of Eden, after all. They’ll have to be stronger than I am.”
The crowd gave polite chuckles.
Several nobles nodded, pleased.
No one saw the flicker in Lucius’s eye.
'Slimy, snort-filled mistakes—'
“I apologize to interrupt,” Elise cut in smoothly, stepping forward with a practiced bow,
“but we are behind schedule.”
“Ah, right,” Orien said, casually adjusting his collar.
“Boy, get ready. The Dreamer you’re facing is a huge threat. Even for me.”
Lucius turned his head slightly — just enough to acknowledge him without shifting his smile.
Elias sighed and rested a hand on his hip.
“Orien, don’t scare the boy like that. His spirit might break before the poor thing even sees the Dreamer.”
“Yeah yeah,” Orien waved him off. “But come on, Elias, you know this is his first time facing anything that might actually kill him.”
Elise tensed slightly beside Lucius.
Lucius closed his eyes for a brief second, inhaled, and opened them again with the same flawless calm.
“Although I understand the concern,” he said, voice as smooth as ever,
“this is no time for us to be talking idly. Elise—lead me. To where the Dreamer is.”
Elise blinked. Once.
Then her whole body jolted.
Her eyes popped wide — comically huge — like two dinner plates suddenly regretting everything.
“...Ah,” she said.
Everyone turned toward her.
She froze.
“I’ve… made a mistake.”
A pause.
“...The Dreamer is inside,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
“Nearby. In the courtyard.”
Silence.
Lucius, Elias, Orien — even two random children nearby — all turned to her slowly with perfect, flat disbelief.
“…”
She coughed politely and adjusted her skirt.
******
The wind moved through the trees just outside the open archway.
The Caelum Courtyard.
Once, it had been a haven. A stage. A cage.
It was the place Lucius had spent thousands of hours.
Where his footwork had been broken down and rebuilt.
Where his wrist alignment had been corrected five degrees to the left.
Where he'd recited forms until the names blurred together and boredom became breathing.
And now?
Now, the air felt different.
There was tension here — not from the presence of the Dreamer, but from the expectation.
He stood just outside of the wide doors that lead to open space, marble tiles beneath him, the soft shuffle of garden leaves just beyond the wall.
Only three figures remained with him now.
Orien. Elias. Elise.
Everyone else in the hall had been cleared.
The trial was about to begin.
The ritual of coming of age — of heroism — wasn’t just for show.
It demanded something real.
And something real was waiting in the courtyard.
END OF CHAPTER 7
