Chapter 15: The Thirteenth Winter
The snow came early that year.
Soft and quiet, like a secret falling from the heavens. The Grand Duke's estate lay blanketed in white, its spires frosted in moonlight. Lanterns glowed faintly against the cold, casting long shadows across the stone pathways.
It was the night of Sirius's thirteenth birthday.
There was no grand celebration. No feast. No parade of nobles or suitors, no music echoing through the halls.
Only silence.
Just as he preferred it.
The staff had been told not to disturb him. The Grand Duke and Duchess had left a quiet letter in his study—handwritten, warm, and respectful. They had long since learned that their son did not celebrate life the way others did.
Because for Sirius… birthdays were not beginnings.
They were reminders.
Of a time long before this life.
Of the blood, the betrayal, the ancient throne long buried.
Of the woman he still could not touch—but always felt watching from above.
Tonight, as always, he climbed to the highest terrace.
He no longer needed servants to fetch cloaks or light the path.
He walked barefoot in the snow.
And when he reached the edge of the terrace—when he stood under the gaze of the full moon—he finally stopped.
Not because of the cold.
But because he felt her.
More than ever.
The moon was different tonight—brighter, fuller, closer. The kind of light that didn't just illuminate… it remembered.
He stood there for what felt like hours, arms crossed behind his back, eyes unwavering.
"I'm thirteen now," he murmured.
His voice was still young—but deeper. Sharper. No longer that of a child.
"They think this is the beginning of my journey. The moment I enter the world. Politics. Power. Nobles. War."
He smiled bitterly.
"They don't realize I've already lived through all of it. And lost more than they can imagine."
He sat down, slowly, folding his legs beneath him. Snowflakes gathered on his shoulders but melted before they could chill him. The air around him had shifted—he was no longer just a boy.
Not to the world.
Not to the moon.
He reached for the old charcoal stub beside him and began to draw again.
The same shape he always returned to.
The moon.
But this time… he didn't finish it.
He stopped halfway, staring down at the half-circle.
His fingers stilled.
"It's strange," he whispered. "For thirteen years I've waited for this… and yet…"
He looked up.
"I still feel like I'm waiting for you."
The wind brushed against his face. He closed his eyes.
Elsewhere in the capital, the rumors had not died down.
They had only grown.
The tale of the boy who called Sirius a god had reached every corner of the Empire. And though Sirius had denied divinity, his declaration of loyalty—to the Moon Goddess—had shaken the spiritual foundation of the realm.
"He is not a god," the story went, "but he kneels to the moon alone."
The Moon Church called it a divine sign. A rebirth. A chosen herald.
Attendance in moonlit prayers doubled again.
A new phrase began to circulate in whispers and songs:
"Even the Swordmaster bows beneath the moon."
But Sirius paid it no mind.
He didn't worship for the sake of others.
He worshiped because he remembered.
Because every time the moon rose, it reminded him of her.
Of Abylay.
Of the goddess who once held him when the world was aflame and time itself trembled.
Of the one who loved him when he had nothing left but hate.
That night, on the eve of his thirteenth year, Sirius did not sleep.
He rarely did.
Instead, he wrote a line in the snow with his finger, beneath the unfinished drawing:
The gods walk above us.
I walk beneath her.
And that is more than enough.