Chapter 249 - The Farian emperor Caen Aras’Ther

The stars shimmered differently above Gia.From the windows of the command cruiser Tivaras, they looked like ribbons—gold and violet, twining and rippling through the void. They danced, not flickered. Bian watched them in silence as the fleet broke through the last veil of deep space, nearing the shimmering horizon of their homeworld.

Gia came into view not like a planet, but like a vision.

A glowing opal hanging in the velvet dark, ringed in misty teal atmosphere that glittered faintly like powdered jewels. Its continents pulsed with golden warmth, framed by black glass forests and winding crystalline rivers that gleamed under the twin suns’ embrace.

Bian, standing with Dican near the observation deck, said nothing.

The fleet—hundreds strong—moved as one, an elegant armada of silver and light, slipping past Gia’s outer defense grids and refracting the sunlight off their hulls like falling stars. Tivaras led the formation, flanked by command dreadnoughts, research barges, medical arks, and trailing recovery units still hauling in the last of the emergency pods. The curved hulls of each ship caught the twin suns, casting long silhouettes over the planet’s glittering rings.

As they approached lower orbit, Bian could see the shimmering spires of Ciren’thal below—towers carved from moonstone and veined with glowing crystal, each one stretching skyward like a prayer of light. Bridges like spun silver connected them across floating terraces, and rivers of illuminated wind spiraled between the towers.

It didn’t feel like home.

Not yet.

"Bian," Dican murmured beside him, voice low and careful. "We’re almost there. You’ll have your audience soon."

Bian said nothing. His new arm gleamed faintly under the observation window’s filtered sunlight, the metallic sheen blending too perfectly with the ship’s interior. His flesh arm clutched his jar of brood sac extract close to his chest.

He didn’t look at Dican. Only at Gia.

The fleet began their descent into the atmosphere.

From below, the sky shimmered like silk being brushed by starlight. The clouds parted like a curtain drawn aside, revealing the full glory of the planet beneath. Vast golden plains shimmered gently under the twin suns, while forest canopies of obsidian glass trees tinkled in the wind like faint windchimes. Along the planet’s equator, the sacred mountain spine cut across the land like the backbone of a great sleeping beast—and at its heart rose Ciren’thal, the city of grandeur.

As Tivaras slowed into final approach, docking spirals unfurled from the mountain’s flanks like the petals of a mechanical lotus. The ship locked into place with a tremble and a deep, resonant hum.

Dican turned toward Bian. "They’re waiting. Are you ready?"

"I’ve been ready," Bian replied flatly. He didn’t blink.

A personal escort awaited at the landing corridor—tall Farian sentinels in black and silver robes, their eyes downcast as they bowed. Dican walked forward first, but Bian followed with slow, deliberate steps, his left arm tucked beneath his cloak, and his right hand still gripping the sealed vial tightly.

They entered the Hall of Stellar Decrees.

Bian’s breath caught, just slightly.

The chamber was exactly as he had imagined from old memory-shards—walls translucent, etched in swirls of silver script that shimmered like ink under sunlight. Obsidian glass furniture reflected his face back at him in warped fragments, and at the center of the vast room stood a great viewing dome of woven crystal and star-metal, through which the twin suns filtered in golden rays.

At the forefront of the great hall, beneath the twin beams of sunlight that poured through the crystalline dome, stood a figure so radiant that for a brief moment, Bian forgot how to breathe.

The man was dressed in robes of liquid gold that flowed like sunlight itself, the folds catching light in waves that shimmered with every breath he took. His hair was long—falling straight and smooth all the way to his knees—with countless fine braids woven into it, each braid threaded with tiny gemstones. Emeralds, sapphires, shards of pale opal and deep blue tourmaline—they sparkled with the twin suns’ light, casting rainbow patterns onto the polished floor. It was not a crown, but it looked like one, the way the gems adorned him—regal not by ornament, but by presence.

And his face—

Bian stared.

His heartbeat slowed.

It was not that the man was merely beautiful—he was unearthly. Ethereal. A presence carved from the most graceful aspects of life itself. His skin had a faint silvery luminescence under the suns, like a pearl woken into breath. His features—sharp and noble—held the elegant sharpness of Farian ancestry: slanted, regal eyes that gleamed with quiet depth; a long, slender nose; lips shaped like they could cut or comfort with a single movement; and ears that curved upward into delicate points, like some long-forgotten elven prince out of myth.

But it wasn’t just the beauty.

It was the familiarity.

Bian’s breath hitched. Because—

He looked like Dican.

Not entirely. The resemblance was partial—perhaps thirty percent, no more. But enough that Bian’s stomach curled with something strange and unfamiliar. Where Dican was softer in presence, all gentle lines and controlled strength, this man was distant thunder and polished brilliance. If Dican was moonlight, this man was the sun on a blade’s edge.

The man stepped forward.

The hall fell into a hush so deep that even Bian could hear the distant whisper of the air regulators.

The golden-robed man stopped a few feet from them and inclined his head slightly—just slightly—to Caelus, then turned his gaze onto Bian.

Those eyes. They were not cold. They were not warm either. They were... curious.

"Welcome home," the man said, voice smooth as low chimes.

Dican’s voice trembled with a hush of awe and sentiment few had ever heard from him.

"...Father," he murmured, a soft smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

The man opened his arms, and Dican moved into them without hesitation.

"Welcome home, my son," the elder whispered, his voice low and deep like the roots of mountains. Their embrace was not overly long nor overly stiff—just the right pressure, just the right silence between them. Two pulses, briefly reunited.

As they parted, the man’s eyes turned.

They were striking—green overlaid with a smoky gray, like the sea beneath storm clouds. Intelligent. Unshaken. And they landed upon Bian with a gentle warmth that startled him.

"So this," the elder said, voice like woven wind, "must be his mate."

Bian stiffened slightly.

The man stepped forward slowly, not imposing. He raised one hand—not a gesture of power, but of reverence—and laid it lightly against Bian’s cheek. His hand was warm. Calloused. Alive.

"I am so regretful," he said gently, "that your journey was filled with leril, young one."

Bian blinked. The word was unfamiliar.

"Pain," Dican translated quietly beside him.

"But," the elder continued, his smile deepening, "here you are. Despite it. Despite the dark tides and broken stars. Here you are, completely safe. Nothing can harm you now."

Bian stood very still for a second. But he quickly snapped out of it.

He quickly bowed low, letting his silvery hair fall like a curtain to veil his expression. When he rose again, his eyes were slightly misted, lips curled into a delicate and bashful smile.

"Your Majesty... I truly don’t know what to say," he began, voice soft and honeyed. "I never imagined the Sovereign of Gia himself would speak to someone like me so kindly. Your presence... it’s like standing in sunlight after lifetimes of shadow."

Caen Aras’Ther paused mid-turn, the corner of his mouth curving ever so slightly as if amused. But he said nothing, watching.

Bian turned slightly, slipping his hand into Dican’s—interlacing their fingers right there in front of the ethereal emperor. His new prosthetic arm was smooth and pale steel, but the way he held Dican’s hand was tender, reverent, with just a little tremble in his wrist as if he were still emotionally shaken. A vulnerable child, needing grounding.

He leaned into Dican’s shoulder just so, as if overwhelmed, and added sweetly, "I don’t know what I would’ve done without Dican... He’s been my only light since we escaped. He saved me when I was at my weakest... and even now, he’s the only one who calms me."

He turned those luminous violet-gray eyes toward Caen again.

"I hope... I can become worthy of him. Of this place. And of your trust, someday." He smiled faintly, adding with just the right hint of self-effacement, "I know I’m not strong, not like the warriors of your kind. But I’ll try. I’ll learn. If it pleases you, I’ll serve him with everything I have."

Dican blinked. His cheeks colored faintly—whether from the unexpected hand-holding or the dramatic devotion being showered on him so publicly, it was unclear. He coughed and glanced at his father, who was still watching in silence.

Bian wasn’t finished.

Still holding Dican’s hand, he stepped slightly forward and lowered his head again.

"I am truly, deeply grateful to be brought into your home, Sovereign. It’s more than I deserve... And... may I say..." He lifted his head, eyes glittering with awed admiration, "You are even more majestic than the stories say. I thought Dican was the most elegant being I’d ever seen—but now I know where he got it from."

Behind Bian’s sickeningly earnest smile was a calculating glint, perfectly hidden.

Let him think I’m nothing but a delicate flower, clinging to his son’s arm. Let him lower his guard.

No one looks twice at someone so obedient. And when I strike... it’ll be clean.

But on the surface, Bian simply clutched Dican’s hand tighter with trembling devotion and cast his eyes down again, modest and grateful.

Caen finally chuckled.

"Your words," he said, approaching once more, "are dangerously sweet, little flame." He gently tapped Bian’s temple with a single finger. "But your eyes... ah, they are sharper than you let on."

Bian looked up, letting just the faintest blush touch his cheeks. "I-I don’t understand, Your Majesty..."

"Mm. No need to." Caen turned away, lifting a hand for the servants to prepare their transport.

"Walk with him, Dican. Let him see Gia not as a place to fear, but a home to keep."

The moment the Sovereign’s back was turned, Bian let out a tiny sigh and leaned dramatically into Dican’s arm again, looking up at him with soft, wet eyes. "Did I do alright? I was so nervous... I didn’t want to embarrass you..."

Dican looked down at him, stunned.

"Y-Yeah," he muttered. "You were... perfect."

Bian gave the softest smile—and tightened his grip on Dican’s hand like a lock snapping into place.