The great hall of Limbus filled slowly. Tall windows admitted the muted light of distant stars. Crystals in the walls glowed faintly and cast patterns across the floor that suggested more than they explained. Servants, constructs, scholars and lesser mortals drew back as Aelthyria took her place upon the throne.

  The throne room was silent.

  Not the silence of restraint.

  Not that of fear before wrong words. It was a silence that had existed long before anyone had entered the room — and that would remain when they were long gone. The floor consisted of dark, smooth material, neither stone nor metal. It reflected no light, but swallowed it, as if it had no interest in being seen. Every step of the mortals echoed too loudly, too present, as if the room itself had not accounted for them.

  The ceiling was lost in the heights. Where a vault should have been, something stretched that recalled more an unmoving night sky. Points of light glimmered within it — too distant to be stars, too ordered to be chance. For the witches the hall was a place of assembly.

  For the mortals it was a contradiction. Artefacts rested along the walls, set into the architecture like organic components. Some pulsed sluggishly, others lay completely motionless. Not one reacted to the presence of the limbic souls. Not from contempt.

  From indifference.

  They were not intended.

  There were no guards. No visible protective mechanisms. And yet over everything lay the unmistakable feeling that every thought, every stirring had already been registered before it could take form.

  Aelthyria sat upon her throne — elevated not through splendour, but through position. The seat was less a piece of furniture than a fixed point. A place where space ordered itself. Runes hovered sluggishly around her, fine, symmetrical, of a precision without emotion. The mortals stood at the edge.

  Not directed.

  Not corrected.

  Simply… there.

  And that was precisely wrong. For them Limbus had been everything: sky, abyss, history. A closed cosmos of war, magic and survival. Here however that order did not exist. Limbus was no centre. Not even a peripheral territory.

  Only a name among many. Conversations of the witches drifted through the room, quiet, casual. Fragments without context: harvests. Cycles. Collapse. Decisions across timeframes that no limbic measure knew.

  No one explained anything. No one paused.

  Not from cruelty.

  But because explanation presupposes that understanding is possible. Some of the mortals lowered their gaze, unable to say from what exactly. Others stared, seeking hold in details — shapes, light, structure. Yet the room offered no anchor.

  Their world had been complete.

  Here it was insufficient.

  Aethyrael however stood differently. He too did not belong here — but not in the same way. An artefact on the wall flickered a moment as his gaze passed over it. A rune near the throne altered its rhythm for the fraction of a moment. Neither recognised nor rejected. Like a brief reassessment of the situation. Aelthyria noticed.

  Of course she did. Her gaze rested a moment longer on him, then she turned away. No gesture. No sign. Yet something had changed — not in the room, but in the possibility.

  The mortals were here where they should not be.

  Not forbidden.

  Not condemned. An error of the order.

  And the throne room would not correct it.

  The iron seat rose like a dark flame from the marble floor, the crown upon her head seeming forged directly from the battlements and towers of her castle, as if she had carried the architecture within herself. Everyone in the hall felt the authority that emanated from her — a presence that made even the most restless hearts freeze.

  A quiet pulsing passed through the air, subtle but unmistakable. Aelthyria let her blood resonance flow, at first barely perceptible, then stronger — an invisible band that conducted through the child's runes and impressed all present simultaneously. For the lesser beings in the hall it felt like magic, overwhelming, almost incomprehensible — and yet compliance-inducing. Everyone felt: the creator determines who is touched, who is seen, who is handled.

  In that moment Aelthyria stepped behind him almost like a shadow. In a flowing movement she laid her arms gently around his shoulders, possessively — an unmistakable sign: this child belongs to me alone. The presence of her blood resonance streamed through him — no pain, only warmth, hold and a quiet pulsing that united binding, authority and claim. Every spark of his defiance vanished, yet curiosity and cynicism remained, perfectly balanced.

  "Look carefully," Aelthyria began, her voice like liquid metal — strong, calm, unstoppable. "This is my creation. Not merely a child, not merely a tool. He carries the inheritance, the power and the responsibility that you can never fully comprehend."

  The subordinates, the oldest witches and the lesser mortals lowered their eyes in reverence. They felt the concentrated power of the blood resonance flowing like a living net through the hall. The child's runes pulsed in unison — every beat an echo of the creator herself.

  Aethyrael briefly raised his eyes, the horizon of his pupils visible, the infinite depth within them glimmering. A shimmer of surprise flitted across his face — no discomfort. The embrace, the presence, the pulsing — all was part of a moment that had been predetermined. He recognised instinctively: everything was calculated, nothing coincidence.

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  "You will all know your place," Aelthyria continued, the blood resonance now subtler but firm. "Whoever ignores the order will feel the consequences. Whoever resists the current will have to relearn their place. Whoever… approaches my child without permission will be destroyed."

  A quiet murmur passed through the subordinates. The daemon lowered her gaze, the dark elf exhaled audibly. Even the lesser mortals felt that this creator possessed not only power, but absolute control.

  "And now," said Aelthyria, "I will show you why this is not merely a child, but my greatest creation."

  Aethyrael felt once more the gentle pressure, the resonance in his runes. No pain. Only a quiet indication that everything that happens is embedded in love, education and power. It was no coincidence — it was Aelthyria. Always.

  The subordinates, standing reverently in the shadows, could barely breathe. What they saw was more than magic. The blood resonance of the creator, flowing through Aethyrael, made the child's runes pulse like living conduits. A current that simultaneously guided, protected, corrected and demonstrated that no mortal — no being not created by her hand — could ever comprehend or survive what was happening here.

  "Do you see?" whispered Silvara more to herself. "That is… not of this world. Not even remotely. Even the oldest witches of the Thirteen would not have the control she shows here. Not even close."

  Aelthyria let a small, self-satisfied smile play across her lips. "They see everything and yet comprehend nothing," she murmured almost contemptuously. "Mortals, servants, even those who call themselves witches — they understand only fragments. And yet they marvel at what only I have created."

  She raised her hand slightly, a tiny flicker of her blood resonance drew through the hall, subtle but perceptible. The child hovered gently, guided, and the runes beneath his skin pulsed in unison. For the subordinates it felt like the manifestation of creation itself — overwhelming, incomprehensible, almost mocking.

  "Look carefully," said Aelthyria, her voice like polished crystal. "This is my creation. Not merely a child. Not merely a lesson. Not merely a tool. It is… everything you can never possess."

  A murmur passed through the ranks. The daemon lowered her gaze, the dark elf held her breath, Ceryne could barely grasp what she saw. The power flowing through this one being was a demonstration that would have brought every mortal to their knees, had Aelthyria wished it.

  Aethyrael felt the presence that held him. No compulsion, no pain. Only the unmistakable, undeniable order of his creator, showing him that every movement, every pulsing of the runes, every reaction in this room was guided by her — a silent, perfect balance between power and care.

  "And yet," Aelthyria continued, her eyes on the child, "no one but me will guide, protect, correct or explain the game of power to you. You are something that only I could have created. A being that carries my resonance — and with whom no one but me may ever interact."

  A small spark of mischief flitted across Aethyrael's face, yet she let him feel immediately: here she rules, and every rebellion, every game, every curiosity will be… registered, corrected, guided.

  "Do you see, Aethyrael?" she whispered quietly, almost like a secret between mother and child. "This is your realm to learn. And yet everything you see is under my hand — my creation, my power, my control. And this is only the beginning."

  The constructs and lesser witches present lowered their eyes in reverence. They knew: this was no power, but an absolute demonstration of creative force. They saw the child — and recognised immediately: it was never independent of the venerable creator. Every attempt to understand it would reveal only a fraction of what was truly transpiring.

  Aelthyria turned away.

  "Come," she said calmly.

  "Your personal chambers await."

  He followed. Not because he had to, but because every step she set felt inevitable. The gate to his personal chambers opened soundlessly. Behind it lay no splendour, but order: dark stone, soft lines of light, runes that did not glow, but waited. The room felt old. Inhabited. Not by people — by decisions.

  And there they stood. Two figures that did not kneel.

  The first was tall, slender, elfin, with softly shimmering skin and curved horns. Her eyes however — golden, deep, calm. Along her left cheek ran runes, linear and old as a forgotten language. Her imposing appearance had something animal about it. Something he had not yet encountered.

  The second figure was stocky. Humanoid, muscular, analytical. No respect from fear — but from calculation. His eyes and appearance were an image Aethyrael already knew. He thought back to the three witches and to Thalyra. That must be a daemon.

  Both inclined their heads.

  "Venerable creator," said the woman calmly. "The child is… different."

  The daemon snorted. "Looks like a problem."

  Aethyrael raised an eyebrow.

  "I feel flattered," he said dryly.

  "Quick with words," laughed the daemon.

  The horned woman however regarded him in complete calm.

  "Your runes," she said slowly, "are no text. No seal. They are… movement."

  "And your runes are an absolute—" Aethyrael began. Yet he did not get far. Before he had the chance to deliver something bold he fell silent.

  A quiet trace of gravity drew him upward. No jerk. No pain. Only a subtle loss of the ground.

  "Not here," said Aelthyria calmly.

  "Not before me."

  The pressure was internal, subtle. The runes drew tighter around his heart, as if someone had briefly stopped the world. Reminder: dependence. Origin. Cause and effect. He caught himself smiling. Not from embarrassment, but from defiance.

  "You are learning," she continued, "that the possibility of speaking is no free pass."

  One heartbeat. Then she let him sink again. Gently. Controlled.

  "…understood," he murmured.

  The horned woman inclined her head. "Quick to learn."

  The daemon: "Or very much alive."

  Aelthyria laid her hand on his shoulder, claiming.

  "These are those who will accompany you," she said.

  "Not to control you. But to shape you."

  She indicated the horned woman with a casual gesture. "She will explain runes to you. And she will oversee your education when I cannot."

  "And he," she indicated the daemon, "will teach you how to use force without wasting it."

  Aethyrael looked between the two. Genuine curiosity flickered.

  "Then," he said more considerately, "I am… pleased to meet you."

  The horned woman: "I am Vaelthrys."

  The daemon: "Kael."

  Aelthyria withdrew her hand.

  "Accustom yourselves to one another. He remains under my supervision."

  A barely perceptible glimmer ran through Aethyrael's runes, synchronous with her gaze.

  "And you," she added, without looking at him,

  "will learn: whoever tests, feels."

  He snorted quietly, this time without provocation.

  "Sounds like a curriculum."

  "Like an upbringing," she added quietly.

  And as she left the room, Aethyrael understood something decisive: He was not here to escape.

  He was here to become.

  But at what price?