Chapter 15: Chapter 13. If Only I Had Known

The high tribunal chamber was cloaked in silence, broken only by the rustle of silk robes and the distant echo of wind whispering through the cloud-carved spires. Above the gathered nobles, the Orb of Judgment hovered—its glow pale and unmoved, as if the heavens themselves waited for what would unfold.

Prince Caelondor stood at the center of it all—chained, bruised, but burning with a rage no fetter could subdue. His Black obsidian eyes, once dulled by captivity, now shone with stormfire as they locked on a single, heartbreaking sight.

Selphira.

She sat still in her wheeled chair, her once-lively features masked in porcelain calm. Her gaze hadn’t left him, but it bore no spark, no flicker of emotion. That stillness—the blankness behind her eyes—gutted him more than any blow his father had ever dealt.

His heart thundered. Something inside him cracked.

“No…” he whispered, then louder—“No!”

He thrashed, pulling violently at the aetherite chains binding his wrists. The metal glowed faintly in resistance, humming with magical force, but he didn’t care. He tugged and pulled until the skin of his wrists began to bleed.

“Selphira!!” he cried out, eyes wide with agony. “What happened to you while I was gone?! Why are you in a wheelchair?!”

Two guards stepped forward to hold him in place.

“Get your cursed hands off me, you overgrown iron puppets!” he shouted, baring his teeth like a cornered beast. “You’re not men—you’re just collars with legs!”

Selphira blinked once, her lips parting slightly.

“I swear,” Prince roared, his voice echoing through the tribunal, “if any of you so much as laid a single hand on her—if even one strand of her hair was harmed while I was gone—I will burn every one of your titles to the ground!”

The elders stirred. Whispers spread. Shock painted the faces of more than a few aristocrats.

“I promise… on Mother’s grave,” he growled through clenched teeth, “I will end anyone who dared—”

CRACK!

A brutal kick struck him square in the gut.

Prince doubled over, coughing violently as spittle and blood hit the polished cloudstone beneath him. The room gasped collectively.

“Such insolence,” sneered a voice from the left dais.

Striding forward was a tall young man, clad in a deep navy cloak trimmed in royal green. His stance was arrogant, his gaze brimming with disdain. A silver ring marked his station, though his crest bore no Caelondor sigil.

“Do you speak of oaths before the elders like a street thug?” he spat. “How dare you raise your voice in the sacred court of Cloudblood—before the noble Houses who’ve upheld our skies for centuries?”

Prince looked up slowly, blood trickling from his mouth, but his eyes never wavered.

“Zorath… Silvanth,” he hissed the name with venom.

Zorath Silvanth—cousin by blood, rival by birthright. His father had married into the Caleondor line, and he'd never forgiven Prince for being first in the succession.

“I see your manners remain as stunted as your ambition,” Zorath sneered. “What? Thought your tears and tantrums would move the Tribunal?”

Prince exhaled, biting back his fury. “She’s my sister. She shouldn’t be here like this. You may have buried your heart in your father’s gold, Zorath, but I haven’t.”

“Your sister is not your shield,” Zorath snapped. “And you are not a prince anymore. You’re a stain we are now forced to clean.”

Prince straightened up, despite the pain, despite the blood. “Say what you want. Call me a disgrace. Chain me, judge me, throw your best words at me. But none of you know what loyalty means.”

He turned his eyes once more toward Selphira.

“But I do. And I’ll get her out of this nightmare—even if it means tearing down the very skies you rule.”

Zorath's sneer faltered, just a flicker—but it was there.

And Prince held that moment like a blade, cold and sharp, ready to draw truth from shadows.

A tense silence followed Zorath Silvanth’s violent outburst. Prince Caelondor, hunched forward, coughed raggedly, spitting blood onto the marbled floor. His arms remained shackled, his chest heaving, but his eyes—wild with fury—locked with Zorath’s, daring him to try again.

From the high bench above, Zephyrion Caelondor rose slightly from his seat, raising one regal hand. His voice came firm, deep, and controlled—like thunder sheathed in silk.

“That will be enough, Zorath. Return to your seat.”

Zorath glanced toward the King, tension still surging through his fists, but he bowed sharply and stepped back, the edge of his ornate cloak flicking in the air as he turned.

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“As you command, Lord Zephyrion,” he said, his tone clipped with restrained contempt, before retreating to his assigned place among the noble scions.

Prince slowly straightened, his bruised body protesting every movement. But he didn’t speak. Not yet. His eyes were locked on the royal platform—where Selphira sat silent in her wheelchair, her gaze unreadable.

Then the presiding judge, an elder robed in luminous cloud-white and storm-grey, stood from the central podium. His thin silver staff tapped against the marble three times, a ceremonial cue.

“The tribunal shall now proceed,” he declared, his voice resonating through the stone chamber. “The charges brought against Prince Caelondor are grave, and must be judged before the Winds and the Law.”

He unfurled a scroll, its edges marked by the Caelondor seal.

“On the twenty-fourth day of Zephyrwind, Year 881 of the Unified Sky Calendar—Prince Caelondor is accused of the following transgressions against Crown, Clan, and Code:

Firstly, the brutal assault and incapacitation of two Cloudguard sentinels during an unsanctioned departure from the royal citadel.

Secondly, the illegal activation and usage of a Royal Transportation Module—reserved exclusively for the sovereign and his appointed envoys in matters of the OBS-1D1AN and inter-clan diplomacy.

Thirdly, the willful consorting with outcasts and peasants of the Human Clan—engaging in subversive activities, theft, and the exchange of royal insignia for common coin. In doing so, the accused is charged with tarnishing the honor of House Caelondor and defiling the Cloudblood heritage.

Lastly—and most grievously—he is charged with the public defamation of the King, Lord Zephyrion Caelondor… accusing His Majesty of direct involvement in the demise of the late Queen Elysera Caelondor.”

The final words echoed like a thunderclap.

Gasps spread through the chamber. Nobles turned to one another in horror and disbelief, hands raised to their mouths. The words “defamation” and “Queen Elysera” rolled like poisoned wind among them.

“He accused the King?”

“Of her death?”

“Blasphemy…”

Prince’s hands balled into trembling fists.

That name. That sacred name on their tongues. On the lips of snakes and cowards. He wanted to scream.

His heart pounded louder than the judge’s voice. And as the world around him blurred in noise and contempt, his thoughts spiraled—collapsing into a single thread.

That day.

That cursed day when everything shattered.

The morning had broken soft and golden, pouring light through the tall windows of the royal solar like threads of silk. A cool breeze stirred the translucent curtains as Queen Elysera Caelondor sat gracefully on a garden bench beneath the flowering skydawn tree, her son curled beside her, his head resting gently against her shoulder.

She was radiant that morning—clothed in flowing robes of silver-laced lavender, a circlet of skycrystals adorning her brow. Her hands, delicate but strong, smoothed through Prince’s hair with the quiet patience of a mother who knew her child’s storms by heart.

“One day, Taelos,” she said softly, using his birth name, “you will be one of the greatest Caelondors our lineage has ever known.”

Prince blinked up at her, brow furrowed in curiosity.

She continued, her voice low and sure. “But before that time comes, you will face trials. Doubts. Days where the sky above seems too far, and the ground beneath your feet might crumble. There will be moments when you will question everything—even yourself.”

She turned to face him fully, both hands cupping his cheeks.

“But through it all, my brave boy… I want you to hold fast to who you are. Stay the good, fierce, marvelous brother you’ve always been. Cherish Selphira. Protect her—above all.”

Then she pulled him into a gentle embrace, cradling his head against her chest, and kissed his forehead with the warmth of a thousand sunrises.

The wind shifted. The sky sang.

Prince held onto her tightly.

And something in his chest twisted. A strange knot. A flicker of unease.

“I… I will protect her,” he said, pulling back. “But I’ll protect you too, Mama. When I grow up, I’ll be the strongest soldier in the Cloud Clan. No one will ever lay a finger on you. I swear it.”

Elysera smiled, her eyes shining like mist over the sky. “And I will hold you to that promise, little storm. But remember, true strength… lies in the heart, not just the sword.”

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in morning light and certainty.

Later that day, Prince was helping the kitchen servants unload a crate of skyfruit, sleeves rolled and laughter bright. He didn’t mind the chores—it made him feel closer to the people, real.

But then a footman arrived in a rush, bowing low.

“His Majesty requests your presence, Your Highness. Please pack your effects. You are to accompany him this evening to a diplomatic dinner with southern emissaries.”

Prince’s smile faded.

He sighed and stood, brushing dust from his trousers. “Of course,” he muttered, not meeting the footman’s eyes.

As he walked back to his room, boots tapping along marble floors, he grumbled beneath his breath.

“Why does Father always drag me to these boring meetings? I don’t care about alliances or protocols or any of that nonsense. I hate all of it.”

He scowled as he kicked a loose stone in the corridor. His hand slipped beneath his collar and drew out the pendant—Queen Elysera’s gift, the teardrop-shaped crystal that shimmered with a soft blue glow. Its light pulsed faintly, steady and alive, like a heartbeat echoing through time.

He held it in his palm for a long moment, watching the glow dance across his fingers.

“What I really care about… is spending time with Selphira. And with Mom.”

The pendant pulsed once—warm, almost in response—and for just a second, the anger in his chest quieted, replaced by something tender and aching.

He clenched the pendant in his fist, tucked it close to his chest, and kept walking—his steps heavier now, as if burdened by something more than just royal obligation.

The day passed like wind in the canopy. And when the moon finally rose, casting long silver shadows across the courtyard, Prince stood beside the royal chariot in full ceremonial garb, his father already seated within.

Elysera kissed his brow again, brushing an invisible speck from his collar.

“Travel safe, my star,” she whispered.

Prince turned to Selphira—wrapped in a downy cloak, yawning adorably in the arms of her nursemaid.

“I’ll bring you dolls,” he grinned. “From the south. The best kind—the ones that smell like cinnamon.”

Selphira cooed softly, her tiny fingers waving in the air.

And then he turned.

And climbed into the chariot.

And never looked back.

Back in the present…

Prince’s chest felt like it might collapse in on itself. Every breath scraped his throat.

If I had known…

His fists trembled against the restraints.

If I had known that was the last time…

His gaze flicked toward Selphira again, silent and still beneath her veil of pain.

I would never have turned my back.

I would have stayed.

If only I had known…

But thought was drowned by voice.

The judge struck the staff against the marble, the sound reverberating like a thunderclap.

“Prince Caelondor!” he bellowed, voice like stone dragged through the wind.

“You stand accused of grievous crimes against the Cloudblood and the Crown. You will now answer—formally and without delay. What say you in your defense?!”

The chamber fell silent.

Dozens of noble eyes bore down on him.

Selphira’s expression unreadable.

Zephyrion’s gaze cold as ever.

And in the stillness… the storm gathered.