The royal study was bathed in the soft glow of evening lanterns, their silver light casting long shadows across the heavy oak table covered with maps and reports. Outside the tall windows, the capital slept peacefully under a clear summer sky, but inside, a quiet tension filled the air.Prince Aether Draven, now eight years old, sat on a cushioned stool, his small hands carefully tracing letters on a parchment. His dark curls caught the light, and his golden eyes — flecked with delicate silver — were focused with quiet determination. He had grown into a bright, curious boy, but tonight his usual energy was subdued.Caelan sat beside him, one hand resting gently on his son’s shoulder. His own presence radiated calm resilience, the ancient power within him a steady, nurturing force that occasionally sent gentle moonlight threads drifting toward Aether to steady his hand or ease his frustration.“You are doing well, Aether,” Caelan said softly, voice warm with encouragement. “The letters
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