The Tower Without Noise

"The child born beneath stillness, whose blood walks with gods,

Shall either raise the sun upon the ruins...

Or plunge the world into silence once more."

That was the prophecy.

Carved in stone at the base of the tower long before the war ended.

Most thought it was a myth.

A few believed it was a warning.

But only three men knew it was about him.

The walls of the Tower were quiet.

Not peaceful.

Not sacred.

Just... quiet.

Too quiet for a place where legends once screamed.

A young man walked alone through the upper halls. His steps didn't echo.

They never did. The tower swallowed sound like it feared being overheard by something older than time.

Bookshelves lined the walls, some untouched for years.

Paintings of dead men stared down at him—

some kings, some murderers, some both.

He didn't stop for any of them.

He paused only once—before a fireplace.

Above it hung a sword. Thin. Sharp. Cold steel with veins of violet running through the blade.

A weapon that looked too quiet to be dangerous.

His reflection stared back at him from the metal.

Blue hair, slightly messy. Eyes that never blinked for too long.

A face that hadn't learned to smile naturally.

He hated that sword.

Not because it was sharp.

Because it had expectations.

Then—

Thud. Thud. Thud.

Three heavy footsteps.

Not urgent. Not hesitant.

Just... cold.

He turned, looked.

A man stood there—tall, pale, sharp in every angle.

Black coat, high-collared and tailored. Gloves spotless.

Hair dark, slicked back without a strand out of place.

His face looked carved, not grown—handsome, but distant.

At his hip, a sword. Slim. Precise. Like him.

"Gareth," the young boy said.

"Young master," the man replied.

"You weren't there."

The boy shrugged. "I already know how to swing a sword."

"You know how to move your arms. That's different."

Silence.

Then, Gareth turned, gaze flat.

"You're being sent away."

The boy froze. "What?"

"To the World Academy," the man said. "You leave tomorrow. Quietly.

No announcement. No banners."

The boy's voice lowered. "Whose decision?"

Gareth didn't flinch. "The Tower's."

A pause. The boy's lips pressed together, jaw tight, fist clenched.

Then:

"And if I don't go?"

Gareth stared at him.

"You will."

And that was it.

Gareth turned to leave.

Paused, and looked back once.

"You'll meet children of kings.

Some will underestimate you.

Others will try to own you."

A breath.

"They won’t see you as a student. They’ll see you as a warning.."

Then he left.

The boy stood there, unmoving.

His eyes drifted back to the sword on the wall.

The prophecy whispered in his memory again.

The world didn't know who he was yet.

But soon...

It would.

The boy slowly turned, leaving the sword and silence behind.

The hallway stretched long and empty, cloaked in that same strange quiet like the walls were listening, maybe mourning. 

He walked past rows of portraits, cold torches, and forgotten tomes.

And finally, a door.

Heavy. Ancient. Marked not by a name... but by the faint scorch of magic long since burned into the wood.

He didn't knock.

He never had to. 

The door opened on its own.

He found them in the study.

Two shadows by the hearth, one seated, one standing.

The man seated by the fire didn’t lift his head right away. He didn’t need to. 

He sat like a statue left behind by something holy—untouched by time, yet never meant to comfort. 

Not relaxed—but still. Still in the way a blade is before it’s drawn.

His hair was pale blonde, the color of dying light, falling cleanly past his shoulders. 

His robes were immaculate, silver-trimmed, and silent, catching just enough firelight to seem regal—or ghostly.

And his eyes—crystal blue, flawless—looked like they should have belonged to a healer or a savior.

But they didn’t. They belonged to something colder. 

Something that had once loved the world and learned better.

The man standing by the window didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

He stood like someone who belonged to silence—not imposed by it, but born from it. 

Not rigid, not tense. Just... still. Like something watching the world move from very far away. 

His coat hung open, black on black, the fabric too soft to rustle. 

His hair was dark and slightly unkept, as if the wind had tried to touch him once and never dared to again.

He wasn’t beautiful, not in the way statues were. But there was something in his stillness that unsettled. Something in the way the light from the window touched only half his face — and left the rest in shadow.

When he did glance back, his eyes were unreadable. Not cold. Not warm. Just watching.

The fire had burned low, casting silhouettes across the cold stone floor. No servants. 

No guards. Just the weight of the room and the weight of silence.

The boy stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.

"I heard from Gareth," he said quietly. 

No response. 

"You could've told me yourself."

The seated man didn't look up. He simply exhaled. Slow, tired, calculated.

"I knew you would come," the man replied.

The boy stepped further in. "You're sending me away."

The man sitting finally raised his eyes. There was no softness there. No cruelty either.

Just... burden.

“To be unknown is dangerous. To be misunderstood is deadly.”

 

“You want me to be understood?” the boy asked, almost bitter.

 

“I want you to be watched.”

 

The one standing by the window chuckled under his breath.

 

“You’ll hate it there,” he said. His voice was deep, scarred by humor and steel. “Too many pretty uniforms. Too many fragile egos.”

 

The boy looked at him. “Then why send me?”

 

“Because they need to see what walks among them,” the man by the fire replied.

 

Silence returned, thick as the walls that surrounded them.

“I’m not ready,” the boy muttered.

 

The man at the window raised a brow. “You’re more ready than we were.”

 

The seated man stood now — tall, composed, with eyes that didn’t blink often.

 He walked slowly to the boy.

His signet ring caught the firelight — a single crest etched in silver: D. I. V.

Damien Isadora di Valtor.

The boy hated that name. Too many expectations. Too much legacy.

 

“You think you’ll walk out of here and the world will treat you as equal,” he said. “It won’t.”

 

The boy tensed.

 

“Then I’ll force it to.”

 

A pause.

 

Damien stared down at him. The fire behind cast a faint glow across his features — elegant and cold, like something carved from stone.

 

“You are not to force anything,” he said, voice low. “You are to become something they cannot deny.”

  

The boy looked down, eyes narrowing. 

"Does it have to be tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"Do I get a choice?"

Damien stepped back.

"This is your choice."

The boy's jaw clenched. “That’s not just the Tower speaking, is it?”

A breath. A flicker in his eyes.

“That’s you." 

Another breath.

“My father.”

Damien didn’t react. He rarely did.

Silence was safer than regret.

The other man, still glancing by the window, sighed and looked over.

"If it makes you feel better.... we'll be watching you."

The boy gave him a glance. 

"Will you intervene?"

A faint grin.

"No."

The man turned to leave, his coat shifting like smoke behind him.

But in the doorway, he paused — just once.

“You’ll be surrounded by lions trying to act like wolves.”

A beat.

“Bite first."

"Remember, you were taught by me, Zayed Javier."

Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him.

The boy didn’t move. 

Damien returned to his chair. For a moment, the fire crackled; the only sound left.

"It will happen," the boy whispered. "Right?"

Damien didn't answer immediately.

Then, quietly: 

"It will. It's bound to happen."

The man looked at the boy. This time, it was warm. 

Softy, he said. "Just don't fall in love with it."

"My son, Elarion."

The child was leaving the Tower.

And the world would never be quiet again.