CHAPTER 3: STALWART, STANDING, SOVEREIGN

Caedrion stepped into his en suite bath chamber.

A space so vast and luxurious it transcended the word bath.

A polished stone pool dominated the floor, its surface still and waiting.

At its center stood a gilded statue: a feminine form, bare like he was now, yet more than human.

More perfect than any woman he had ever seen.

Runes etched across her body glowed with a faint blue light, mimicking the waves of oceans and the coursing of rivers.

They mirrored his own. Where her glyphs flowed like water, his glowed with the ordered circuitry of something arcane and artificial. The divine geometry of a different age.

As he reached toward her, amber light ignited along the markings of his flesh.

Euphoria surged through his mind.

Not the haze of opium, nor the illusion of dreams... but something purer. As if he had touched the lifeblood of the world itself.

Power cracked through his nerves, blazing along synaptic paths like lightning over iron.

Then the statue’s eyes opened, crystalline aquamarine, and water spilled forth like divine tears.

The pool filled unnaturally fast... the work of spellcraft far beyond anything he had seen on Earth.

He stepped in. Jets of steaming water struck his joints, tendons, and weary muscles. Not random, but targeted, calculated, engineered for healing.

The glow faded from his hand. The rustlight dimmed in his veins.

What remained was flesh, porcelain and marked.

And then, in the rising mist, his voice was soft... but cold as tempered steel:

"They say House Ferrondel is the last to bear the blood of the Architect. That we are magi in name only. A house of pacifists and builders, not warriors. But they forget that Architects forged the world. Let them mock our defenses. Let them sneer at our bloodline. They will learn. They will all learn... that ours is the fury that will make even gods tremble."

A voice pierced the steam-choked air:

"Are you devising poetry now? Little brother, are you still fevered? Shall I call for the Hematurge?"

Before she fully emerged from the mist, he already knew it was Aelindria.

It made sense. She always had a habit of checking on him when he was unwell, ever since they were children.

This time, though, her concern carried more weight; he had been on the edge of death.

And in a house that prized its remaining blood above all else, losing him would’ve meant the end.

But even more than duty, he sensed her fear.

The kind that ran deeper than politics. Her presence here was not just for the House’s sake. She had nearly lost him. And the thought devastated her.

Caedrion looked up, and saw the same rust-colored eyes from that morning.

He did not startle. Not like earlier that day. The memories had shifted his perception of her.

Now, he simply met her sublime gaze as she descended into the water without shame.

"Is this appropriate, Aelindria? We are not yet wed."

His hesitation did nothing to stop her. She waded through the pool and wrapped herself around him; not with seduction, but with quiet intent.

She sniffed him like a beast searching for sickness.

"Why wouldn’t it be? We’ve been close since we were children. And unlike you, I have the modesty to wear a towel. Do you have no shame, little brother?"

She did not wait for a response. Rather, she pressed her hand to his chest. Immediately, he felt a spark erupt within him.

Not violent, but investigative.

It pulsed through his bloodstream, searching for something hidden, something malignant.

He grimaced as he tried to pull away, but she nibbled his ear and subdued him with practiced grace.

Her gaze narrowed as though reading his soul strand by strand.

"Don’t fight it... I need to see the extent of the damage that was dealt... That was not a normal fever... You were afflicted with a fierce poison, one that reasonably should have killed you..."

At last, she withdrew with a sigh, her tone returning to its usual fire:

"You scared me half to death. That bastard will pay for what he’s done. Even if it takes me a thousand lifetimes, I’ll have his head on a silver platter!"

Caedrion said nothing.

But for a brief, flickering moment his mind gave way to memory. Not his own, but the one now fused into his soul.

A golden-haired youth, with streaks of flames licking its gilded edges, and eyes like twin infernos, laughing as he walked away from a burning workshop.

The scent of melting brass. The screams of retainers turned to smoke. And the name... the name was spoken not in hatred, but in warning.

"Valerius Ignarion..."

Aelindria froze. Her expression sharpened.

"You knew?"

He nodded, taking her hand with surprising calm.

"House Ignarion has looked down on us for too long. They think they can do as they please. If Valerius believes he can poison the heir of the Architect... and in doing so steal my bride, then he is sorely mistaken."

Despite the fury that had burned in her eyes just a moment ago, Aelindria softened. She clung to him again, voice low and tremulous.

"Little brother... I know I spoke boldly just now, but please don’t speak such words, even alone. The Ignarions could erase us with a whisper. We can’t afford to provoke them."

He didn’t answer immediately. His past life would have agreed with her.

Discretion was survival. Playing weak was smart. But in this world, weakness only fed the fires of tyrants.

But Caedrion’s gaze did not falter. If anything, it hardened. He lifted a hand through her wet, steel-colored hair.

"It’s the damnedest thing... The moment I awoke, I thought: this world needs a proper king. And now... Now I’m certain of it. What are the words of our house, big sister?"

Aelindria looked away, her voice barely a whisper:

"Stalwart. Standing. Sovereign."

Words once spoken with pride... now weighed down by shame. Until now.

"That’s right," Caedrion said, his voice rising like iron in a forge. "We are the last of the Architect’s scions. We’ve endured where others broke. Why? Because while House Ignarion is mighty and proud, they are volatile just like the fire they command. But we?

We are the builders of a better world. And it’s time our magic returned to its rightful place."

Aelindria gazed at him in awe. She had searched every fiber of his being... and found no poison, no illusion.

But the man before her was not the boy she’d always known.

He was proud. Defiant. Changed.

"You’ve grown up..."

He said nothing in reply. Only kissed her, firm and deliberate, as they stood together before the statue of the weeping goddess.

And somewhere behind the statue’s eyes, the goddess wept again, not for mourning, but awakening.