Chapter 17: Silver Silence
The moon hung high, draping the estate in a soft, silvery veil.
Inside the Grand Duke's fortress of stone and power, the world stirred with rumors and nnnnnnnnnnnreverence. But within Sirius Farah Von Ross's chamber, the stillness was absolute. Silence reigned—not as absence, but as presence. As worship.
The world saw him as the Tenth Pillar. The youngest Swordmaster. A prodigy touched by mystery.
But Sirius never once saw himself as extraordinary.
He was simply a boy who loved the moon.
The only difference was that his love burned like a star collapsed into itself—quiet, eternal, and hidden from all eyes but hers.
No one was permitted beyond the threshold of his room. Not the servants, not his aides, not even the most trusted knights. His parents alone were granted occasional entrance, and only because they understood without needing to ask.
To the rest of the world, his room was a mystery. A sealed door. A forbidden sanctuary.
Inside, however, it was a different world.
The walls were lined with rows of paintings—hundreds, perhaps thousands. All of the moon.
Different phases. Different skies. Different emotions. Some glowed faintly with enchanted paint. Some shimmered with silver flecks. Some were so minimal they showed only a single curved brushstroke, a suggestion of a crescent in the dark. Others were overwhelming in detail—celestial oceans rippling under pale light, mountains bathed in lunar fire.
Each one a fragment of devotion. A prayer captured in silence.
Beneath the paintings were scrolls—dozens upon dozens—filled with poetry. Sirius's own hand had written them, sometimes late into the night, his fingers ink-stained and eyes half-closed.
He never showed them to anyone. Never would.
They were not written for the world.
They were written for her.
For Abylay.
The Moon Goddess.
His one and only.
His every heartbeat was a rhythm of remembrance. Every spell he cast, every blade he swung, was in tune with her grace. And while the Empire clamored to draw him into its politics, Sirius withdrew ever deeper into his quiet sanctuary, where the moon's presence was absolute.
Through silent magic, the room remained immaculate. Dust never gathered. The ink never dried out. Paints floated in the air, ready to answer his unspoken call.
That night, after dismissing the Moon Church envoys, he returned to this room.
He stood still for a moment, letting the silence wash over him.
Then he walked to the far corner, where a blank canvas awaited. The moonlight filtered through the balcony window, illuminating his path. With a flick of his fingers, a brush flew into his grasp.
Sirius dipped it in silver, and painted.
A thin crescent, almost vanishing against the darkness.
A single star beneath it.
He stared at it for a long time, then whispered:
"You looked like this... the first time I remembered you."
He set the brush down.
Walked to the center of the room.
Sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by paintings and poems, with the moonlight resting gently across his back.
No one else would ever know.
No one else needed to.
He was not the Moon's chosen.
He was not her shadow.
He was merely one of countless followers.
But in his heart, he believed this:
That no one on this earth had ever loved the moon as he did.
And that was enough.