When the Light Bleeds: The Fall and Rise of Lumiel Aetherion

The orchard prince returned to Aetheris three days after the skirmish, riding through the palace gates at dusk beneath a drizzle that washed dried blood from his cloak but not from his mind.

The capital welcomed him with hushed cheers and scattered petals — too soft for what he carried home. Women pressed hands to lips as he passed, whispering prayers. Men bowed low, eyes flicking to the dent in his breastplate like they might find omens in the scratch of iron.

Inside the keep, King Thalior waited at the high dais of the council hall. Pillars rose like white trees toward the vaulted ceiling, where painted saints stared down with calm, indifferent eyes.

Lumiel stepped forward, helmet tucked beneath one arm. His hair clung damp to his temples. The scent of the orchard still clung faintly to him, though the stink of battle pressed louder in his lungs.

"My son returns blooded." Thalior's voice cut through marble and silence. The assembled lords bowed deeper — wolves in silk, circled tight.

Varcan stood at Lumiel's shoulder, a stone among reeds. The Iron Wolf's armor still bore mud from the border. He did not kneel.

"He stood his ground," Varcan rasped, rough pride threading each word. "He shed blood and did not weep for it. A prince worthy of the orchard's roots."

Thalior's eyes flicked to his son. Sharp. Measuring. For an instant, something almost warm crossed the king's face — a memory, perhaps, of a smaller boy curled in Seraphine's arms beneath the blossoms.

"You are your mother's son," he murmured, softer than the court could hear. Then louder, for all: "Come. Sit. Hear what your blade has bought you."

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The Council of Wolves, they called it behind closed doors. Thalior's inner circle — generals, high lords, merchant princes, the bishop's thin-lipped shadow.

Tonight, they circled the obsidian table like carrion birds around a still-warm carcass. Maps sprawled between goblets of dark wine. Wax dripped from iron candelabras, lighting faces worn by secrets.

"The border holds," croaked Lord Veyran, ancient as the walls. "But the western passes bleed us dry."

"We must pull back the trade routes," murmured Lady Kyra, her rings clicking against her goblet. "The coffers run thin. War costs more than gold now. It costs trust."

Thalior leaned forward, fingers steepled. "Trust is paid in blood, my lady. And my orchard has given more than enough."

All eyes flicked to Lumiel then — the boy who had left the orchard and returned with rust on his palms. He felt it — the way they measured him, weighed him, carved him up like so much meat behind polished smiles.

He sat rigid beside Varcan, wishing for Caelum's laughter, for his mother's warm palm brushing hair from his brow. But Seraphine's ghost kept to the orchard these days.

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One voice, however, rose above the murmurs — steady, calm, soaked in oil and incense.

"We might question the cost," said High Bishop Rhael. His robes brushed the marble like whispers. "The orchard's prince bleeds now, but will he bleed enough to keep the kingdom whole?"

A hush fell. Even Varcan's jaw tightened.

Lumiel lifted his chin, voice raw from silence. "Is that what you ask, Bishop? How much of me you can carve away before the tree rots?"

Rhael did not flinch. He folded pale hands before him, head bowed as if in prayer. "I ask what our people ask. How many more sons must die? How long must the orchard drink their blood?"

Thalior's fist struck the table, loud enough to rattle goblets.

"Speak plainly," he growled. "Or not at all."

The bishop's eyes glimmered under the candlelight. "Then plainly: your wars sow seeds of doubt. Some think peace is worth more than your orchard's bloom."

The threat lay bare between marble and gold.

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Later, when the council dissolved like salt in water — lords slinking to their silk chambers, Varcan growling at shadows, Thalior unmoving at his dais — Lumiel lingered.

He stared at the maps, his fingers ghosting over inked lines where men like him bled out on frozen hills.

"Father," he said at last, his voice too soft for the high arches. "Do they truly doubt you? Do they doubt us?"

Thalior looked up — and Lumiel saw it again: the crack behind the iron. Something old and tired and terribly alone.

"All men doubt, Lumiel. That is how they remember they are small."

He rose then, massive in his royal furs, casting a shadow that swallowed even the orchard's memory.

"One day," the king said, placing a heavy hand on his son's shoulder, "when you wear this crown, you will understand. Steel holds the borders. Blood waters the orchard. And doubt feeds the roots."

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In the corridor outside, Varcan waited. His silhouette blocked the torchlight, more beast than man.

"Walk with me, Dawnstar."

They said nothing for a time. Just the echo of boots over marble, the scent of rain drifting in through high archways.

At last, Varcan spoke — low and dangerous. "Veyran. Kyra. The bishop. They test the orchard's fence."

Lumiel's voice cracked. "You mean they test my father."

Varcan's hand fell heavy on his back. "They test us all, lad."

The Iron Wolf's eyes gleamed under torchlight — hard, fierce, a promise.

"Let them come. Let them think you're soft. One day you'll remind them whose roots choke these marble halls."

And somewhere far behind them, in the hush of the orchard at midnight, petals fell like drops of blood on ancient soil.