When Lorne returned to his room alone, it was already very late.
Ian was stopped outside the door by Iris. She spoke softly, saying they should let his younger brother rest first. Ian wanted to press for answers, but their mother’s hand came down on his shoulder—the pressure gentle yet unmistakably firm.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. When he turned to leave, his steps dragged a little, as if he couldn’t quite bear to leave his brother alone in the room.
Lorne pushed the door open.
Only a single low lamp was lit inside. The glow filtered through a blue lampshade and pooled on the floor like a stretch of motionless seawater.
There were no extra sounds; even the wind seemed shut out beyond the window. He didn’t turn on the main light. He simply closed the door, leaned his back against it, and slowly slid down to sit.
Knees drawn up, chin resting on his arms.
The fan-shaped shell in his palm was still warm.
Not hot—more like a stone that had been held for a long time, carrying body heat, yet steadier, heavier than body heat alone. He took the shell out and set it on his knees, studying it carefully by the lamplight.
The silver veins were still clear, like a wiped-clean river of stars.
He closed his eyes and replayed every second from deep within the library.
Sera had not given him an answer.
Sera had only given him “seeing.”
Seeing why that snowflake could appear—not because he had “created” it, but because he had “allowed” it to appear. Sera’s gaze was like a mirror, reflecting with startling clarity that impossible pattern in his mind, then leaving him to confirm it himself: yes, it could exist.
And he had done it.
He had only touched the tip of the needle to it—no force, no incantation, no unnecessary movement. The line of light had grown on its own, like water naturally flowing when it finds a gap, like a snowflake crystallizing on its own in the cold.
Lorne opened his eyes.
He lowered his gaze to the shell.
He suddenly remembered something Master Ryan had once said in the study: “Runes aren’t drawn. They are ‘let into being.’”
That was what Sera had done as well.
They had not created the snowflake. They had only “let Lorne see” that the snowflake could appear.
And Lorne himself had only “let” the snowflake appear on the piece of whale bone.
Suddenly, everything felt both absurd and perfectly reasonable.
Gods do not give answers.
Gods only give “possibility.”
And possibility itself is the most dangerous thing of all.
Because once you have seen the “possible,” you can never go back to the “impossible.”
Lorne slipped the shell back into his pocket.
He stood and walked to the window.
Outside lay the nightscape of Valian City. The outlines of the Twin Northern Wind Towers were faintly visible, the lights at their peaks flickering in the darkness like two eyes that never closed.
From far away came the muted sound of tides from the Inner Sea, rising and falling, like a heartbeat—or like a countdown.
He suddenly thought of Master Ryan’s bloodshot eyes outside the door.
Of Ian holding him and saying, “You scared me to death.”
Of the look his mother had given him in the hall—gentle, yet hiding a weight he couldn’t read.
Lorne pressed his forehead against the cold window glass.
The glass reflected his face.
Silver-white short hair, deep-set eyes, slightly pale cheeks.
Everything still looked the same as before.
But he knew that some things had already changed.
That snowflake was no longer just a pattern in his mind.
It had been recorded, archived, registered.
It had a name, an “owner,” “returns.”
And he, too, had a “future”—one that no longer needed to rely on the protection of his family, yet might also be one he could never turn back from.
Lorne closed his eyes.
He felt the shell in his pocket pulsing faintly, as if responding to his heartbeat.
He wasn’t afraid.
He was simply suddenly very clear about one thing:
From tonight onward, he was no longer just “observing” this world.
He had already begun to “change” it.
And change always comes at a price.
It was just that he didn’t yet know what that price would be.
The night grew deeper.
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The light slowly dimmed.
Lorne leaned against the window ledge and gradually slid down to sit.
He took out the shell and held it in his palm.
The shell was warm.
Like a heart that hadn’t cooled yet.
He whispered a single sentence, so softly that only he could hear it:
“Good night.”
He didn’t know who he was saying it to.
Maybe the shell.
Maybe that snowflake.
Maybe… his former self.
The room fell into darkness.
Only outside the window, the lights of the Twin Northern Wind Towers still burned.
Like two eyes that never closed.
Watching him.
Waiting.
Waiting for the next “possible” to appear.
Iris did not leave right away.
She stood outside the door, her back to it, fingers lightly pressed against the doorframe.
The corridor’s low lights stretched her shadow long.
The silver star embroidery on her cloak glimmered faintly under the light, like stars in the night sky. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Starfrost Month.
The twins’ birthday had only passed a few days ago.
Originally, she had planned to delay the Calling Ritual until Harvest Month (August), during the Sky God’s sacred festival.
On that day, the Sky God Vali would cast His gaze down, and the flow of authority over the Holy City’s skies would reach its strongest peak of the year, greatly increasing the chance of a response.
The Church would arrange the grandest ceremony, the purest rune arrays, the safest guides. She had wanted the two children to touch the gods at that safest moment.
But now, everything had changed.
Lorne had seen Sera.
Not through Ryan’s retelling, not through indirect knowledge, but directly.
That pattern—that structure that did not belong to this world—had already been recorded, archived, and registered by the God of Knowledge.
It was no longer just a thought in Lorne’s mind; it now had proof of “existence.”
Iris’s fingers tightened slightly on the doorframe.
The longer she delayed, the greater the risk.
She could no longer wait.
She had to let the two children complete the Calling Ritual as soon as possible.
Let them be formally “named” under the gaze of the gods.
Once they received a response and entered the Tavara system, everything would be “rationalized.”
The Church would demand much, but for the House of Starcrown, none of that was a real problem.
Family was what mattered most.
Iris opened her eyes.
She turned and walked toward the study deep within the main hall—the private chamber where she conferred with the family elders, though it was empty now.
As soon as the door closed, she summoned the steward.
“Notify the Church,” she said calmly, her voice leaving no room for refusal. “Move the Calling Ritual up to within this month.”
The steward paused for a fraction of a second but asked no questions, bowing as he withdrew.
Iris sat at the long table, her fingers lightly tapping its surface.
She knew the Church would agree.
The status of the House of Starcrown in Valian City went far beyond wealth and bloodline. It was the “star crown” of the Sky God in the mortal world, a symbol of authority within the Holy City.
The Church would not dare refuse—and would not refuse.
But she also knew that advancing the date meant risk.
The sacred festival in August had Vali’s gaze as its blessing—the highest success rate, the lowest side effects.
Now it was Starfrost Month.
The flow of the House of Gods was still at its winter low.
The chance of a response would be much lower.
If one of the children received only a vague response, an echo, or no response at all… she dared not imagine the consequences.
Especially Lorne.
The day he was born…
She closed her eyes, her fingers halting mid-tap.
“Lorne…”
she murmured softly.
“I hope you can be seen.”
Not seen by Sera.
But by Vali.
By the sky.
By order.
By this world—formally accepted.
She opened her eyes.
The night was deep.
But she knew that from tonight onward, everything had already begun its countdown.
The Calling Ritual would take place at the end of Starfrost Month.
And before that, she had to ensure—
that both children would be safe.
_____
She rose and walked toward the children’s room.
Through the crack of the door, Ian’s voice could still be heard, low and gentle, as if lulling his younger brother to sleep.
Iris did not push the door open.
She simply stood outside, listening to those two familiar breaths—one long, one short; one hurried, one slow.
Then she turned quietly.
And walked toward her own chambers.
The silver stars on her cloak shimmered in the lamplight.
Like a countdown.
And like a prayer.
The end of Starfrost Month was drawing near.
And before it arrived, she would ensure that everything was ready.
No matter the cost.
Family, after all, was what mattered most
Iris stepped into the tightly locked study, the chill of the night still lingering in the air. By the long table, Selwyn Starcrown had been waiting for some time; his white hair glimmered faintly gray under the lamplight, and the wrinkles on his face were like a deliberately carved map, recording the rules and warnings passed down through generations of the family.
“The Calling Ritual during the Starfrost Month…” Selwyn’s voice was low and measured, carrying the authority of long experience. “This goes against our longstanding tradition. The children are too young, and neither the weather nor the gods’ gaze is at its most favorable. The risks of failure or lingering backlash cannot be underestimated.”
Iris stood straight-backed, her gaze calm and resolute. Her fingers tapped lightly on the tabletop, the sound like a carefully measured beat. “I understand the rules, and I understand the risks. The heavens’ attention during Starfrost Month may not rival that of Harvest Month, but the children must complete the Calling now. Delaying it will only increase uncontrollable variables.”
Selwyn frowned slightly, his lips pressed into a thin line as he pondered for a moment. “You understand, but… if the ritual goes awry, the impact won’t be limited to the children alone. It will affect the Starcrown family’s reputation and its standing within the Holy City.”
A sharp glint flashed through Iris’s eyes under the lamplight. “I do not mean to disrespect the family, but…” She paused, her voice soft yet unyieldingly firm. “The family’s honor cannot stand above the children’s safety. And besides, I am one of Valian City’s Twelve High Priestesses. No matter how you judge it, I have the authority to decide when the Calling Ritual is performed.”
On the other side of the long table, several elderly family elders exchanged glances. After a moment of silence, they finally nodded, their acquiescence tinged with reluctant obedience. Despite their displeasure, they knew that Iris’s status and capability were enough to render any opposition futile.
Selwyn let out a quiet sigh, his tone yielding slightly. “Very well… we’ll proceed according to your decision. But I advise that, no matter what, the strictest safety measures must be put in place. No accident can be allowed to fall upon the Starcrown family.”
Iris smiled faintly and nodded. “I understand. The preparations are already in order. The children will complete the Calling safely, and the Starcrown family will, as always, stand in honor beneath Vali’s gaze.”
The lamplight fell across her face, and the silver-star-threaded cloak on her shoulders swayed gently with her movement. The study sank into a brief silence, as if even the night wind dared not disturb such resolve.
She rose and walked toward the door, pausing for a moment with her hand on the handle. Her fingers lightly brushed the cold metal, as though making one final confirmation of her resolve.
“Notify the Church,” she said at last. “The ritual is set for the final day of Starfrost Month. All details will be overseen by me personally.”
Selwyn raised no further objection.
He only murmured softly, “May the stars watch over them.”
Iris pushed the door open and left.
The corridor lights stretched a long shadow behind her, like a silent river.
She knew that this Calling Ritual was no longer just a matter of tradition.
It was a gamble.
A wager on whether two children would be answered by the gods.
A wager on whether the Starcrown family could continue to stand beneath the star-crown of the Holy City.
A wager on herself—whether she, as a mother and as a priestess, could protect what mattered most under that divine gaze.
The night wind passed.
The lights flickered.
Iris did not slow her steps.
She walked toward the children’s room.
Through the crack of the door, Ian’s voice could still be heard, low and gentle, as if lulling his younger brother to sleep.
Iris did not push the door open.
She simply stood outside, listening to those two familiar breaths—one long, one short; one hurried, one slow.
Then she turned quietly.
And walked toward her own chambers.
The silver stars on her cloak shimmered in the lamplight.
Like a countdown.
And like a prayer.
The end of Starfrost Month was drawing near.
And before it arrived, she would ensure that everything was ready.
No matter the cost.
Family, after all, was what mattered most.
