The stillness of the royal infirmary was deceptive.
The golden light that usually bathed the palace was dimmed in this wing—by choice. Heavy drapes had been drawn across the stained glass, casting the room in hues of deep indigo and cold pearl.
Lysander lay on the velvet-sheeted bed like a doll abandoned by time, his skin pale and dewed with cold sweat. His breath came in shallow gasps, barely rising from his chest.
His eyes were half-lidded. Open, but not awake. Awake, but not present.
A soft hum echoed from the doorway.
High Priest Alvinar entered, his robes trailing behind him like whispers from the old world. His silver staff gleamed with divine runes, the sapphire atop it pulsing in sync with Lysander's heartbeat.
The Queen stood beside the bed, her fingers clenched tight over the frame. She said nothing, but her silver eyes were narrowed—sharp, calculating. Worried.
"How long has he been like this?" Alvinar asked, kneeling beside the bed, his voice a deep thrum of thunderclouds and old fire.
"Since dawn," she replied quietly. "He was trembling. And then he… stopped moving. But he's not unconscious."
"His spirit is drifting," the priest muttered, placing two fingers to Lysander's temple. "Between realms. Not dead. Not dreaming. Caught."
He pressed his palm to Lysander's forehead.
A flash of blue light filled the chamber.
Lysander's back arched slightly, a soft gasp slipping from his lips—but his eyes remained unfocused.
Alvinar removed the silk gown from Lysander's shoulders, baring his back carefully. What he saw turned his blood to ice.
The feathers were changing.
Where once shone pure, shimmering wings of white and pastel blue—symbols of divine heritage—now a creeping shadow had begun to claim them.
Blackness like molten onyx bled from the base of each wing, spidering upward, feather by feather.
Not enough for an ordinary eye to see the danger.
But to Alvinar… it was a prophecy being fulfilled.
He turned sharply toward the Queen.
Her gaze met his. Unwavering. Cold. But underneath it—fear.
He gave her a look.
She nodded once.
"Leave us," she ordered the guards and maids.
"But Your Majes—"
"Now."
The room emptied in seconds. Only the Queen, the High Priest, and the boy who had no idea who he truly was remained.
Alvinar's voice was low. Controlled. But laced with dread.
"It's begun."
The Queen turned away slightly, gripping her arms.
"How much time do we have?" she asked.
"I cannot say. But his wings… are responding. The seal is failing." He gestured to the creeping black. "If this continues, his mate will find him."
Her breath hitched.
"No one must know," she whispered. "Not the council. Not the princes. Not Lysander."
"He's already hearing the call," Alvinar said grimly. "In his dreams. The fire. The wings. The fall. He is remembering, even if he doesn't understand it yet."
"He must not remember."
"Your Majesty," Alvinar said, stepping closer, lowering his voice. "If his mate finds him… no one in this world will be able to stop what follows."
Her throat tightened. "He doesn't even know he's cursed."
Alvinar's gaze darkened. "You mean… he doesn't know what you did."
The air grew colder.
"I did what I had to," the Queen said, her voice sharp, trembling. "He was born under an omen. His wings were already tainted. If the others had seen—"
"They would have killed him," Alvinar finished solemnly.
Silence settled.
Queen Celestina walked to the edge of the bed and looked down at her youngest son.
The child she had sworn to love in secret.
The child no one else could ever truly protect.
…"When his wings turn fully black," Alvinar continued, "his mate will come."
She turned slowly. "And when he does?"
Alvinar closed his eyes.
"Then may the stars have mercy."
Because no force—not angelic armies, not ancient relics, not even royal blood—could stop him.
The one destined to claim Lysander.
The one born in flame and ruin.
A creature cloaked in shadow and wrath. The mate none dared name.
The Queen's lips parted. "He's… still out there?"
Alvinar nodded. "Hidden. Waiting. Watching. I've felt his presence stir in the void more than once these past months."
"You told me he wouldn't awaken unless—"
"Unless Lysander did first," the priest said grimly. "But this illness… this curse… is unraveling. Faster than prophecy allowed."
Her knuckles turned white. "Then seal him again."
"I can't." Alvinar's voice dropped. "The bond is alive now. The other half is seeking. We can no longer mask his soul's signature."
She turned away, swallowing hard.
So long, she had hidden the truth.
Not just from the realm.
Not just from her husband.
But from Lysander himself.
And now… it was all falling apart.
Lysander stirred.
A soft sound—almost a breath—escaped him as his head shifted on the pillow.
His silver lashes fluttered. His brows furrowed.
"Mm…" he murmured, his voice dry, distant. "Mate…"
Alvinar froze.
The Queen stiffened.
Lysander's lips parted again, repeating the word like a forgotten prayer.
…"Mate?"
Then his eyes rolled back slightly, and he fell into stillness once more.
The Queen's breath caught.
"He heard us," she whispered. "Even in this state…"
Alvinar's face darkened.
"It's already begun."
___________________________________
Alvinar – The Angel Priest
Race: Celestial Angel
Apparent Age: 30s | Real Age: 7000+ years
Role: Royal High Priest of the Angelic Realm
Background:
Alvinar is one of the oldest beings in existence, older even than the current angelic king and queen. Once a founder of the ancient Sealing Order, he holds mastery over divine runes, soul bonds, and temporal magic. Long ago, he fell in love with the Demon Priest and bore a forbidden child—now his memories are sealed by the king himself.
By royal decree, he unknowingly drinks a potion daily that suppresses his powers and memories under the lie of "treating his poor health." by king. His heart aches with dreams he cannot explain.
Personality:
Gentle, soft-spoken, mysterious. Holds deep sorrow behind his calm exterior. Fears love and fire. Avoids personal contact.
Likes: Silence, sacred texts, star-gazing
Dislikes: Conflict, fire, touch, and talk of the past