CHAPTER 86: PAPER PLANES, AND THE BIRTH OF ELYSIA

[Rynthall Estate—The Ceremonial Hall | Late Afternoon]

The great ceremonial hall had never looked more decadent—or more dangerously over-decorated.

There were floating crystal orbs, petal storms, and magic-dusted chandeliers that sparkled with every coo from a baby. The aisle was lined with live peacocks wearing golden sashes (one was already screaming). The harpist had fainted twice due to emotional overwhelm. And someone—Callen—had scattered scented glitter over the ceremonial rug and called it "holy dust."

In short: It was a lot.

At the center of it all, seated on a silver throne with embroidered cushions and exactly thirteen safety charms, Lucien held the star of the show—his daughter, draped in tiny royal robes, a flower crown sliding halfway down her head.

She was asleep.

Heaven.

Silas stood beside him, dressed like the god of overprepared fatherhood. His ceremonial sash had pockets. He had baby wipes. A backup pacifier. A vial of blessed milk. A knife.

You know, just in case.

Seraphina was seated nearby on a dramatic velvet chair she’d brought herself, fanning like a queen who absolutely could’ve won that duel if someone hadn’t intervened.

The Empress and Emperor of Aetheria sat on the imperial bench, watching with visible amusement. Prince Kael had fallen asleep with his hand still outstretched—clearly dreaming of rejection.

Countess Isodore was already holding a glass of wine and sighing, "I survived three wars, and yet this is the most dramatic event I’ve witnessed."

Lucien muttered, "Wait until the godparents speak."

At that very moment—

Callen leapt onto the platform like he was presenting the next ruler of the universe.

"BEHOLD!" he declared, voice magically amplified, "The most awaited naming ceremony of the season—nay, the century! Witnessed by stars, sanctioned by law, blessed by ancestors, and styled by yours truly!"

Lucien whispered to Silas, "Did we agree to him being the announcer?"

Silas deadpanned, "He made a contract with glitter. I lost the legal battle."

Callen continued, spinning with a twirl of his silken robes, "Now begins the naming of our future duchess, storm-bringer, chaos child, and tiny empress of hearts!"

Callen twirled like a stage magician and pointed at the throne. "Will the parents step forward and announce the name?"

The room hushed again.

Lucien stood slowly, cradling his daughter like the tiniest, most demanding crown jewel in existence. His robes shimmered. His hair was only half-combed. His soul? Still somewhere in the ether.

He stepped forward with grave elegance, eyes glittering, and said clearly—

"We will let our daughter... choose her own name."

The entire hall shuddered.

Eyebrows rose like synchronized fireworks. Callen froze mid-curtsy. A noble in the second row dropped their teacup. Even a harp string snapped.

"...Did he say select...?"

"...The baby? She can’t even sit up—"

"...Is this legal? Is this imperial magic or parenting failure?"

Callen blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

Silas blinked beside him. "My love... what do you mean? How will she choose? She’s a baby. She chews her own sock."

Lucien turned to his husband with the serenity of a man who had absolutely lost his mind. "By flying an aeroplane."

Silas opened and closed his mouth. "Aeroplane? What is that?"

"...Aeroplane?" someone finally muttered.

"What’s an aero-what?"

Silas leaned in, voice gentle but confused. "My love... what is that?"

Lucien beamed with suspicious calm. "It’s a majestic paper beast from the Old World. A vessel of fate. A creation of dreams and childhood chaos."

Silas blinked. "That means nothing."

"Exactly," Lucien replied. "Now watch closely."

Callen gasped like someone just proposed to him. "Oh gods. He’s innovating naming ceremonies. We’re witnessing history."

Meanwhile, nobles were whispering—

"Is this part of the plan?""Did he say ’air pain’?""Is this a cultural ritual? Should we clap?"

Countess Isodore sipped her wine. "No one stop him. I want to see how this ends."

Lucien, ignoring the confusion, handed the baby carefully to Silas.

"Hold her," he said, dramatically pulling out... a scroll.

A very large scroll.

Covered in names.

"Darling, what is this?" Silas asked cautiously.

"These," Lucien said, unrolling it across the ceremonial rug, "are the top ten baby name suggestions we received from the people. I removed the inappropriate ones. Mostly."

From the audience, Callen leaned forward. "What’s inappropriate to Lucien?"

Lucien unbothered: "Someone suggested ’Wiggy von Stormsnack.’"

Silas winced.

Seraphina nodded approvingly. "That was me."

Lucien clapped his hands. "NOW BRING FORTH... THE AEROPLANE!"

From behind the curtain, a maid walked in with a tray, held aloft by enchanted teacups. On it—ten beautifully folded paper airplanes, each one crafted from gilded parchment. On every plane: a single name written in shimmering ink.

Names whispered in secret.

Names declared in passionate rage.

Names suggested by unhinged relatives, suspicious court magicians, and one (1) disgruntled chef.

Lucien turned to the crowd, glowing with exhausted excitement.

"In each of these sacred scrolls of destiny... are names chosen by friends, family, enemies, fanboys, and me," he declared dramatically, holding his daughter with one arm like she was Simba on Pride Rock. "And now... just like the great ancient prophet Shinchan did for Himawari... we shall throw these paper birds into the air—and whichever one the stars guide to land upon my daughter shall be her name."

The crowd went dead silent.

"...Did he say Shin...chan?" Someone whispered.

"Is that a type of wine?"

"No, no—wait—I think it’s an ancient Aetherian prophet—"

Silas leaned in. "Darling. Love of my life. Soul of my soul. Who exactly are these ’legendary’ people you’re referring to?"

Lucien smiled beatifically. "Anime."

Silas blinked. "What?"

Lucien: "Legends. Who shaped destinies with crayons and fart jokes. Don’t question greatness."

Before Silas could protest, Lucien held his daughter close, whispering, "Watch carefully, my child. History is being made."

He turned to the line of maids and servants, each one holding a different paper plane.

Lucien raised a hand like a general of chaos.

"NOW. FLY!"

Ten arms hurled ten planes into the hall.

They soared.

Looped.

Danced.

The wind caught them like they were blessed by the gods of whimsy. One plane zipped over Count and Marcel’s head and made him duck. Another skimmed the Empress’s crown and made it sparkle dramatically. One paper plane did a triple spin and dive-bombed a servant’s hat.

But all eyes turned to the center of the hall—where Lucien’s baby girl blinked up with wide, fascinated eyes.

Her tiny mouth dropped open in awe.

Her arms lifted.

The entire hall held its breath.

And then—FWUMP!

One airplane dropped like fate straight onto her little nose and bounced off—landing squarely on her soft belly.

She stared at it.

The crowd gasped.

She flailed her chubby fingers and tried to catch it. Silas swept in, scooping it from her stomach before she could chew it. He cleared his throat. "And now... let’s see what destiny has decided."

He unfolded the parchment slowly, as if it might explode or insult someone’s lineage.

He read.

Then paused.

And groaned.

Lucien raised a brow. "That bad?"

"No," Silas sighed. "That’s beautiful."

"What is it?"

Silas lifted the glowing paper for all to see.

"...ELYSIA."

The crowd murmured.

Gasps. Sighs. A faint sparkle sound in the distance.

Lucien sparkled. He actually glimmered under the chandelier light like a highly emotional vampire. "That’s... That’s the name I chose," he whispered. "That’s the one I put in."

Silas looked at him, eyes softening. "Well then... she chose you."

Lucien clutched his daughter to his chest, the pacifier still in her mouth, her eyes still wide like she’d just made a stock market decision.

"My little Elysia," he murmured. "My tiny divine gremlin. First of her name. Chooser of destinies. Rejector of princes."

The Empress clapped enthusiastically. "Elysia Rynthall! That’s a name worthy of history books, baby fashion lines, and possible interdimensional rule!"

Seraphina fanned herself. "Fine. I’ll admit it. It’s perfect. I’ll just name my next sword after her."

Callen wiped a tear like a dramatic poet at the end of a tragic romance. "I already wrote the song," he whispered, clutching his music scroll like a newborn.

And from behind a marble pillar, Marcel peeked out, hair sticking out like a startled mop. "SHALL WE CUT CAKE NOW?! I’M LOSING BLOOD SUGAR AND PATIENCE!"

Lucien, still radiant from victory and thirty-percent whiskey, laughed softly—then lifted his daughter high like she was the crown jewel of the empire.

"Let the celebrations begin!" he declared. "For today—chaos has a name... and it’s Elysia!"

A soft chorus of awe swept through the garden.

"Elysia..."

"Such a beautiful name..."

"Elegant..."

"Powerful..."

"Sounds like she could destroy someone with a giggle!"

Lucien looked down at the baby in his arms.

His daughter.

His little Elysia.

She blinked up at him with the ancient wisdom of a loaf of bread. Then, with supreme drama, she spat out her golden pacifier, grabbed his finger with a squishy little fist, and chomped down like a determined squirrel.

Lucien winced.

"Did... Did you just call me mama in your soul language?" he asked, eyes soft. "And also, did you just insult Aunt’s pacifier selection?"

From behind him, Silas peeked over his shoulder with the most besotted expression in human history.

"She really likes chewing you," he said fondly.

Lucien deadpanned, "Clearly. Even though we gave her an imported, priest-blessed pacifier dipped in unicorn chamomile."

Silas leaned in closer. "Maybe she knows what’s priceless."

Lucien raised a brow, "My soul?"

Silas grinned. "Your love."

Lucien snorted—but his heart fluttered.

Then Silas gently took both his daughter’s and Lucien’s hand in his, looking at them like they were his entire world wrapped in matching royal blankets.

"...Thank you," he said softly.

Lucien blinked. "Huh? For what?"

Silas leaned down and pressed a kiss—light and warm—right to Lucien’s forehead.

"For completing me."

Lucien stared for a moment, caught between emotion and sarcasm.

Then he grinned slyly. "Well. I suppose you could... repay me."

Silas raised a brow. "Oh?"

Lucien leaned in. "With a very long massage."

Silas chuckled. "Neck? Shoulders? Feet?"

Lucien: "Yes."

Lucien just cradled Elysia close, smiled at Silas, and whispered, "Let’s enjoy this moment."

Because in that hall of chaos and cake crumbs, of royalty and ridiculousness, of pacifiers and paper planes—

Love had a name.

And it was Elysia.