Sarvador stood motionless at the foot of the ivory steps.
He had only moved forward, then stopped.
And yet, that simple halt seemed to have frozen the world.
The steps leading to the royal throne rose before him, immaculate, carved from a primordial ivory whose surface mirrored the light of the suns suspended above the Ivory Isles. That light now hesitated. It vibrated. It trembled, as though it had to justify its very right to exist in his presence.
Sarvador did not move.
His hands rested calmly behind his back. His face was relaxed. His shoulders were loose.
No perceptible energy emanated from him.
Nothing.
And it was precisely that which terrified everyone.
For absolute nothingness, when it stands in the midst of the world, is far more terrifying than any explosion of power.
His gaze was raised.
Fixed upon the lower throne.
Upon him.
Nihraël Arcanyrus.
His nephew.
The bearer of the Leap.
The prince sat motionless, back straight, face perfectly stoic, sculpted into such total absence of emotion that he might have been a statue forgotten by time.
But it was not a statue.
It was an abyss.
Their gazes met.
And in that precise instant, something changed.
Not in the hall.
Not in the air.
But in reality itself.
Nihraël observed his uncle without blinking.
His black eyes, deep and unfathomable, reflected neither fear, nor respect, nor defiance.
They reflected only a silent understanding.
His breathing remained slow. Perfect. Controlled.
But, deep within him…
His very being trembled.
Not from fear.
Not from weakness.
But as one ocean recognizes the existence of another.
The Leap, sealed within his existence, vibrated slowly.
It observed.
It recognized.
It waited.
Around them, the entire hall held its breath.
No one dared to move.
No one dared to speak.
And some did not even dare to think, for fear their thoughts might be read.
For they all understood, instinctively, that they were witnessing something that surpassed politics… that surpassed royalty… that surpassed even their understanding.
Two existences that should not coexist.
Two anomalies.
Two truths incompatible with the natural order.
They faced each other.
Some nobles looked away, unable to bear the sight. Others stared at the scene with a fascination mingled with terror.
For a troubling truth was becoming clear.
They resembled each other.
Not perfectly.
But enough.
Sarvador and Nihraël shared the same fundamental features. The same pale skin, akin to divine porcelain. The same dark hair, deep as the primordial night. The same abyssal gaze, capable of swallowing the divine.
Sarvador was slightly taller.
His build was more imposing.
His body bore the maturity of eternity.
He wore a simple garment, deep grey, fluid, almost alive. A black belt held the fabric at his waist, and yet this modest clothing seemed more noble than the entirety of the hall.
But despite their physical resemblance…
They were opposites.
Nihraël was empty.
A cold, silent, unfathomable void. Light and shadow seemed to lose themselves around him, unable to find meaning. Unable to accept him.
Sarvador, on the other hand…
Was the absolute.
His eyes held an unshakeable will. A certainty. A dominion that surpassed the very meaning of the divine.
He did not dominate through force.
He dominated through his very existence.
The world did not resist Sarvador.
It aligned.
On the dais, Seijūrō observed the scene without breathing. His mind, honed by millennia of service, struggled to analyse what he saw.
He saw a reflection.
Two beings who mirrored each other—and yet each was the inverted image of the other, save for one detail.
Seijūrō could clearly read their gazes.
Nihraël's eyes burned with no flame, no desire. They expressed neither ambition, nor anger, nor pride. And yet… behind that apparent void, he sensed something so deep that shivers ran down his spine the moment he tried to dive further into it.
It was not an absence.
It was a depth.
A contained immensity.
Sarvador, on the other hand…
His eyes burned.
No.
His very being burned.
He radiated a flame made of a desire that had no meaning, no comprehensible direction. It was neither conquest, nor domination, nor war.
It was a pure will.
His eyes were too bright to truly see anything—not because they were blinded, but because they surpassed the very necessity of seeing. His will was absolute. Total. Indisputable.
Sarvador surpassed the very incarnation of greatness.
He surpassed domination.
He surpassed will.
He was so vast, so crushing in his mere presence, that he became absurd.
Almost unreal.
If Nihraël was unfathomable…
Sarvador overflowed.
He overflowed so entirely that to seek understanding of him became an absurdity. He could not be measured. He could not be analysed.
He could only be witnessed.
Around them, the assembled beings watched in silence.
No murmurs.
No movement.
They were witnessing a confrontation that held nothing of a battle, nothing of an exchange of words, and yet everything in the air cried out of judgement.
Two beings.
Who seemed to form but one.
And who, nonetheless, perfectly embodied duality.
The Alpha and the Omega.
The all and the nothing.
Restraint and the absolute.
Seijūrō then understood something.
His long existence—those millennia of observation, strategies, wars, and peace—had not been mere service. It was accompanied by an intuition forged by time, a capacity to recognise the invisible fractures of history.
And he knew.
What he saw was not a visit.
It was not a family reunion.
It was not even a judgement.
It was a fracture.
In observing these two beings, Seijūrō could think of only one thing.
The future had just changed.
And in the heavy silence of the throne room, all understood it.
Without a single word being spoken.
Finally…
Sarvador looked away from Nihraël.
A faint smile appeared on his lips.
Almost invisible.
But enough to shatter the tension.
He raised his eyes toward the ivory throne.
Toward his brother.
Izanori Arcanyrus.
The King of the Dragons of Creation.
Izanori stood upright upon his throne, wrapped in divine light. His white hair fell upon his shoulders like a river of pure luminance. His robe, made of celestial silk, floated gently, as though it existed between two states.
Light itself obeyed him.
But before Sarvador…
It hesitated.
Sarvador tilted his head slightly.
Then his gaze moved to Valther and Serenith.
Valther, massive, upright, the very incarnation of military might, bowed his head respectfully.
Serenith offered a delicate smile, imbued with sincere respect. Her elegance had no equal but her beauty. She murmured in a soft, gentle voice:
« Lord Sarvador… »
Her voice was beautiful.
But fragile against eternity.
Sarvador then surveyed the entire hall.
The nobles.
The warriors.
The survivors.
The heroes.
Those beings came from every corner of the universe.
They had come to witness his arrival.
His presence.
They looked at him.
They beheld him.
Some with admiration.
Others with fear.
Still others with a silent incomprehension.
But none looked away.
Then, he spoke.
His voice was calm.
Controlled.
Perfectly measured.
He did not raise it.
He forced nothing.
And yet…
When his words carried through the hall, it was not a simple voice that crossed the room.
It was as though a thousand voices spoke at once.
Not in disorder.
But in unison.
As though each word held invisible echoes, resonating through the air, the walls, the very foundations of the palace.
As though his speech did not merely wish to be heard—
It imposed itself.
It vibrated in the chest.
It resonated in the mind.
It inscribed itself into reality.
« It has been a long time, Izanori. »
He paused.
« Valther. Serenith. »
Then his gaze returned to Nihraël.
« …And you as well, Nihraël. »
A silence.
Heavier than a thousand wars.
Then he continued:
« I see the war draws to its end. You have acted well. »
Some nobles felt an instinctive pride.
Others shuddered.
For they understood.
It was not a compliment.
It was a statement of fact.
Then Sarvador raised his eyes slightly toward Izanori.
His smile grew faintly.
« But tell me, Izanori… »
His voice remained calm.
« Is this not excessive… to welcome a simple hermit? »
The hall froze.
Everyone understood the true question.
Why were they all here?
Izanori smiled.
Then he rose.
The light bowed before him.
He descended the steps slowly.
Each step resounded with absolute authority.
He stopped before his brother.
They looked at each other.
Two pillars of existence.
Then Izanori spoke.
« It has been aeons, Sarvador. »
His voice was warm.
But deep.
« The least we could do was to receive you with dignity. »
A silence.
Then Sarvador cast a glance at Izanori.
A glance worth more than a thousand words.
And in that instant, he understood everything.
The staging.
The gathering.
The spectacle.
It was political.
A demonstration.
A message.
To the nobles.
To the generals.
To the survivors of war.
Sarvador stood beside the throne.
And that alone reinforced the King's authority.
Sarvador did not care.
He had not come to serve.
Nor to represent.
But neither had he come to break the balance.
So he made an effort.
Slowly, he extended his hand.
A shiver ran through the hall.
Izanori accepted it.
Firmly.
Without hesitation.
Sarvador spoke:
« I thank you for this welcome, Izanori. I almost forget what I represent in the eyes of this world. It has been an eternity since I last appeared in public… I look forward to making up for lost time. »
The words were courteous.
But distant.
Izanori released his hand.
Then turned to the crowd.
« We shall feast in honour of his return… and of the end of the war. We shall honour the young heroes… and the fallen. »
Murmurs spread.
« But each thing in its time. My brother deserves rest. »
Sarvador placed his hands behind his back once more.
His gaze drifted toward Nihraël.
A flicker.
Then—
« Your thoughtfulness does you honour, Izanori. We shall speak… in private. »
And he left.
Yet his presence remained.
Lingering.
Unavoidable.
The hall came alive again.
Whispers.
Thoughts.
Interpretations.
Izanori resumed speaking calmly.
Nihraël did not move.
He had never truly been there.
Then—
Silence.
His gaze fixed on a single point.
Where the light weakened.
He spoke.
Calm.
Detached.
« What a spectacle you have put on for us, Sarvador. What do you want? »
The air shifted.
The shadows trembled.
Footsteps echoed.
The light hesitated.
The darkness folded.
A silhouette emerged.
And with it—
A familiar laugh.