It was no awakening in the classical sense. No startling, no catching of breath, no shock. Consciousness arrived like a fact. He still did not know who he was, but he knew that he was. And that was enough for now. He lay there in silence — or floated, he could not say — while something within him listened. Not with ears, but deeper. There, where questions arise before they find words.

  Interesting, he thought, mildly amused. I exist and something expects me to accept that.

  A dry thought, free of panic.

  He felt movement without anything moving. Closeness without touch. As if the universe itself breathed more slowly, only for him.

  Within him something stirred — no pain, no urgency. More like… a remembering without memory. Lines. Not seen, but felt. They lay beneath his skin, ordered, intertwined, not chaotic. They did not lead outward, but inward. Each of them seemed to converge on the same point — there, where his heart beat, calm, steady, as if it had never done anything else. He slowly raised his hand. The movement was… too correct. As if his body had long since learned what his mind was only now beginning to comprehend.

  Before him a smooth surface formed, appearing to consist of neither glass nor metal. A calm, dark surface that did not reflect light, but gathered it. A mirror was the last thing he needed right now. He hesitated a moment. Not from fear — more from instinct. Then he looked at himself and forgot to think for one breath. The eyes did not belong to a child. Not to anything that should have been permitted to exist unpunished.

  In the iris, depth stretched. Not black — movement. As if space itself had curled up there, drawn by an invisible centre. A silent horizon that devoured nothing… but promised everything.

  He stepped closer to the mirror, not out of curiosity, but because something within him was pulled. The surface was smooth, flawless, yet the image within it seemed… deeper than it should. For one breath he saw only himself. Then his gaze caught where his eyes should have been. They were dark. Not empty, not dead — but condensed. As if all light had decided to linger there. In their centre lay a depth that did not devour, but held. A silent point around which colours gathered like thoughts before an unspoken word. A fine hem of shimmering light bordered this darkness. No radiance, more a hovering — a play of violet, cold gold and that red which spoke not of heat, but of weight. As if a boundary had been drawn there, beyond a horizon from which nothing could escape.

  He did not move. And yet he had the feeling that the mirror was drawing closer. What he saw was no ordinary reflection. It was a promise without a voice. Something that did not ask who he was — but waited until he understood it himself. For one fleeting moment he believed the light at the edge of his eyes was moving. It seemed to him as if it were refracting and curving inward. Yet that could not be possible. Then he exhaled. And the mirror fell silent as if nothing had happened.

  The lines beneath his skin answered immediately. A quiet pulsing, synchronous, as if they had only been waiting. His heartbeat quickened. Not from fear, but from recognition.

  "So not a dream after all."

  It was a dry statement. What he could see was no imagination. It was too real, felt too genuine to be one. He raised his hand, touched the surface of the mirror. The reflection did the same. No distortion. No hesitation. That is really me, he thought. Or at least what remains. A pull spread through his chest. As if something within him quietly agreed.

  "You have seen them."

  The voice did not come from outside. It was simply there, with an inevitable calm.

  He did not look away.

  "Hard to overlook."

  A brief, weighing pause.

  "Do not be afraid," she said.

  He snorted quietly. "I am still deliberating."

  A pleasant warmth settled around him. Like a hand that had always been there — ready, but not insistent.

  "Where am I," thought Aethyrael. And as quickly and casually as the thought came and went, his question was answered without him needing to speak it aloud.

  "You are on the way," she continued.

  "Sounds like an excuse for people who have all the answers but do not wish to share them."

  A trace of amusement passed like a whisper through the room.

  "You will learn," she said. "Not to question everything."

  He let his gaze glide once more over his reflection. Over the eyes. Over the lines. Over the being that seemed to gaze back at him, yet did not wish to be explained.

  Then he nodded slowly.

  "Good," he said calmly. "But I reserve the right to do it anyway."

  The lines beneath his skin pulsed in quiet agreement. Every pulse was clearly visible through a brief flickering of his runes. He let his hand sink, yet the mirror did not dissolve to his surprise. It remained patiently in place, as if carved in stone. As if it knew it would be needed again later.

  "Since we are already speaking of obligations," he said finally, lifting his gaze without knowing quite where, "it would be helpful to know what one calls me."

  A silence that could be described as neither empty nor heavy. So this decision too had already been made. A regrettable turn of events, and yet somehow predictable.

  "You mean a name," she said.

  "I mean something that prevents me from constantly having to paraphrase myself."

  "Names are no coincidence," she answered. "They are a promise."

  He twisted his mouth. "Then I hope you chose carefully."

  This time she was silent longer. The runes beneath his skin reacted before she spoke. A quiet, even lighting up, as if something ancient were becoming attentive.

  "Aethyrael," she said finally.

  The sound did not reach his ears. It settled deep within him like an anchor on the floor of an ocean. It felt neither foreign nor new — but… correct. As if something had long been waiting to be addressed. He did not repeat the name aloud. And even if he had wanted to, it would not have been possible. Instead he let it take effect like a verdict. For that was exactly how the name felt when the woman had spoken the words aloud.

  "And you?" he asked after a while. Calm, without a trace of provocation.

  "Or shall I continue to call you creator with an affectionate tendency toward finality?"

  A trace of something — amusement perhaps.

  "Others call me many things," she said. "But you may know my name."

  The warmth around him grew stronger for one brief moment. Not heavy or unpleasant. It was more a brief confirmation of the words that were to follow.

  "I am Aelthyria."

  The name carried an uncanny weight. Not through sound, but through a deep connection. The runes beneath his skin answered quietly, almost respectfully.

  He nodded slowly and smiled.

  "Good," he said. "Then at least we are… no longer completely nameless."

  Aethyrael took his time with his next question, accompanied by silence.

  Then, carefully: "And what are you, Aelthyria?"

  The answer did not come immediately. Instead something completely different happened. Something Aethyrael had not expected. For one tiny moment — shorter than a heartbeat — he understood without being able to place it. The room tensed comprehensively. As if something immeasurable were consciously choosing not to become fully visible. It was not power but control — and a creation that knew when to hold still. His breath caught briefly in awe. Then it was over abruptly as if nothing had ever happened.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  "That," she said calmly, "you need not know — but feel."

  Aethyrael swallowed and leaned back slightly, letting the feeling take effect. How was he supposed to hold his own against that. As beautiful as she was to look at, she was equally powerful. And yet — he would not simply yield. To give up and submit to his fate? That was not an option.

  "And I?" he asked finally, quietly. "What am I?"

  Again that deliberate pause on questions whose answers should have been easy for her.

  "You are," said Aelthyria, "not what was. And not yet what will be."

  The runes beneath his skin pulsed — two currents touching without mingling.

  "You are the point between."

  Aethyrael briefly closed his eyes and thought hard about it. What could he say to that. Sarcasm lay on his tongue yet he let it pass.

  The point between, he thought. That is supposed to be a joke — and not a particularly good one.

  He had a deep need to tell her that this answer was not enough. Yet something within him felt that there would be no more answers than that for now.

  "Sounds," he said instead, "like trouble."

  A quiet, genuine smile lay in her voice.

  "Like possibilities."

  And again. Nothing but words without meaning, hm? thought Aethyrael.

  He did not look away from his reflection. Yet it was not vanity — it was curiosity.

  "'Possibility'," he repeated quietly, almost experimentally, as if turning the word over from all sides.

  One breath passed. He knew his dissatisfaction was visible, yet it did not concern him in the slightest. Doubting her meaningless answers was also a possibility in his eyes.

  "That is, by the way, not a particularly helpful concept," he added matter-of-factly. "It explains everything — and nothing."

  No answer, not even a reaction. He snorted quietly. No mockery — more resignation with humour.

  "I see," he said finally. "You speak in riddles because you can. And because I am apparently meant to feel them before I understand them. And perhaps also because it brings you pleasure?"

  The presence barely stirred. Yet something within it… accepted the observation. He nodded once, more to himself than to her. At least this small insight she granted him. Even if he knew little about Aelthyria beyond her name, he knew at least that.

  "Good," he murmured. "Then let us begin where you do not evade."

  His gaze lowered once more to the mirror. He stepped half a pace closer and examined his reflection again in calm.

  "Since we are already speaking of things one is meant to feel," he said and tilted his head slightly, "then at least explain this to me."

  His gaze held his own — even though Aethyrael was still unable to comprehend what he saw there. The movement in his eyes was subtle, but unmistakable — no ordinary play of light, more… tension. As if something behind the surface were waiting, without pressing.

  "They do not look like eyes," he observed. "Not quite."

  "And before you say it," he added, "yes — I have noticed that yours are similar. But not the same."

  For a brief moment nothing happened. Yet then Aethyrael felt the aura in the room shift abruptly. From the shadows of the chamber, the figure of an elegant woman seemed to manifest. A gentle touch brushed him on the back — and suddenly she stood behind him. Perhaps Aelthyria had been woven into the shadows behind him the entire time and had merely waited for the right moment. He could not say with certainty. Yet one thing was certain: coincidences in her presence probably did not occur very often. At least not yet.

  With a merciless matter-of-factness she stepped one pace closer and drew Aethyrael gently toward her. Her hands rested heavily and possessively on his shoulders, while her azure eyes looked down at him knowingly and relentlessly. For a moment both stood in silence. Fascinated, Aethyrael regarded the reflection and waited eagerly for the answer of his creator.

  "Your eyes," said Aelthyria calmly, "are no plaything."

  He blinked once and looked up at her. "That sounds like a warning."

  "Like a fact."

  The runes on his chest glimmered briefly — not brighter, but deeper. As if someone had struck a tone not meant for ears.

  "My eyes," she continued, "were created to shape."

  He raised an eyebrow slightly. "Wonderful facts those are."

  A trace of something that distantly recalled amusement.

  "Yours," she said then, and this time more weight lay in the word, "came into being to carry."

  He looked back into the mirror, sighed quietly — and rubbed his forehead with thumb and forefinger. What exactly were his eyes supposed to carry? He had once had the hope of an answer that would not leave him at a loss. Yet this one definitely did not belong to such answers.

  What did I even hope for…

  "Very well then…" he began, eyes still on the mirror, "what now? Where do we go? Or shall I simply stand here and wait for my reflection to tell me more than you do?"

  Aelthyria remained still for a moment. Not from uncertainty, but to let the following words take effect. Every line on her skin, every rune in her gaze pulsed, barely visible but perceptible — like a quiet band anchoring itself within him.

  "We will go," she said finally, calm, resolute. "And you will observe and understand before you act."

  He twisted his mouth. "Sounds like a walk through one of my nightmares. At least there is a destination?"

  She nodded and smiled serenely, the aura around him flowing and certain.

  "Yes. A planet — our home planet, Limbus. There you will live and learn for the coming cycles. Do not be afraid, my child. I will not let you out of my sight."

  He raised an eyebrow. "So essentially the illusion of freedom with a built-in… surveillance mode."

  "No illusion," she corrected calmly. "My estate, Castle Moonshire, my lands — and from now on your home. You are my greatest creation. I will ensure that you understand the balance — within yourself and in the world we observe. Your education lies in my hands alone and in no other's, my star."

  A quiet pulsing passed through his runes that he could not immediately place. It was not unpleasant, yet hard, resolute — as if something were reaching for him that he was not yet permitted to grasp. He drew in a breath. The uncanny energy behind the subtle resonance of her blood made him look up at her briefly. And she looked down at him once more with satisfaction. In her gaze lay no open threat, only the silent expression of superiority. An undertone of force that made clear to him: You cannot escape me. Never.

  He briefly twisted his face, a dry snort. His hand briefly placed over his chest.

  "Limbus… castles and Moonshire… wonderful. Sounds like fun. Are you certain you do not mean a gilded cage, Aelthyria?"

  "You doubt," she said calmly, her voice gentle but with a quiet undertone of severity. "I hear it and I feel it. Every movement, every breath, every thought of your runes speaks volumes."

  He crossed his arms, mildly defiant, yet the pull in his chest made him pause.

  "And? I am permitted to be suspicious, correct?"

  "Naturally." A spark of amusement glided through her shimmering form. "But be careful how you deploy doubt. One wrong impulse, one unnecessary hesitation…"

  Again that connection, subtle as a heartbeat drawing through his runes.

  "…and you will feel that I am more than merely words."

  Those who will not listen must feel, hm? What a wonderful approach. A thought he was to feel in a subtle way immediately. As if she had read it. He narrowed his eyes, tried to resist, yet felt immediately how his own pulse responded to the fine force of her blood resonance. No pain, no compulsion — only the knowledge that she monitored every movement and could correct it if necessary. His body tensed reflexively, as if bracing against something he could not see. His runes flared up — stronger this time — as if wanting to rebel, their lines seeking hold, direction, resistance. He found none.

  "Unpleasant," he murmured dryly. "So you are quieting me before I can work myself up?"

  He blinked. Once. Twice. The blood-red mist that had settled increasingly around his body in the course of their debate was now in the process of swallowing him completely. A soothing pulse emanated from it.

  A warm, quiet smile settled on her face.

  "Yes. But not to punish you. To protect you. And so that you recognise that control is not only power — it is responsibility."

  His breath came haltingly, not from fear — from recognition.

  "You… enjoy this," he observed, breathless, half outraged.

  "No," replied Aelthyria. "I enjoy that you are learning."

  "I officially protest…" he murmured quietly, his voice already soft.

  "…against everything…"

  A quiet, genuine laugh. Warm and heartfelt, yet inevitable.

  "Noted," she said gently. "And rejected."

  He felt how her emotion flowed through the mist into him, like a quiet hint: I could break you if I wished. But I choose affection.

  "Very well then…" he murmured, half reluctant, half fascinated.

  "Then tell me, dearest mother. What will you do if I do not wish to be quieted?"

  Suddenly the room pulsed stronger — not as a warning, but as a signal. The walls of the fortress seemed to breathe, the runes on the surface lit up as if waking something. Aelthyria tilted her head slightly, as if listening.

  "Enough," she said calmly, her voice a command that permitted no discussion. "As much as I enjoy this moment, we have arrived."

  Aelthyria looked deep into his eyes and regarded him for a moment. Then the dome of blood-red mist that had settled around him slowly and steadily began to lift. With one last gentle flaring of his runes, the mist merged with the shadows of the room and finally dissolved — the culmination of their little debate. Aethyrael could not at first place what exactly had happened, yet she gave him no time to think about it. Her expression appeared thoroughly satisfied — and somehow he was not quite sure how to react to that. It was impossible to overlook that his brief moment of confusion had not escaped Aelthyria.

  A trace of delight glided across her face. "Follow me and I will permit you to behold what you will soon be permitted to experience yourself."

  Aethyrael blinked incredulously, the impatience within him growing. "I can hardly wait to see this gilded cage."

  She released his shoulders — the warmth remained, but the grip loosened — and turned away. Aethyrael followed her, his steps echoing through the fortress that felt like a living creature. The walls were threaded with runes that pulsed with every step, as if breathing. The corridor led upward, through hallways that seemed endless, lit by a faint red shimmer that came from nowhere. It felt as if the fortress itself were carrying them, gliding through space and time, far from everything he had ever known.

  On the way he could observe her — truly observe her. Aelthyria strode ahead, her form elegant and untouchable. Her hair flowed like dark galaxies in which stars flickered and died. Her skin shimmered like polished obsidian, threaded with fine runes that glowed with every step — not bright, but deep, as if whispering secrets. Her azure eyes, which he only saw from the corner of his eye, were like abysses in which knowledge slumbered that could shatter worlds. She was beautiful, in a way that hurt — not warm, not inviting, but like a storm that had not yet broken. Fascinating, he thought, but dangerous. Like a blade one should not touch.

  They reached an open platform, surrounded by transparent walls through which space was visible. Stars raced past, nebulae swirled, and in the distance a planet shimmered — green-blue, enveloped in banks of mist that pulsed in the atmosphere. Limbus.

  "Look," said Aelthyria, her hand resting once more on his shoulder. "That is your home. Or your gilded cage — as you call it."

  Aethyrael stared out, fascinated and suspicious at once. The sight before him was a pleasant surprise.

  "A remarkably handsome cage, I must admit," he said and smiled at her.