My Shard Bearer System - Elias's Legacy-Chapter 223: Why this Pain?

Not gold. Not white. But blue.

A violent, radiant blue—electric and alive, the color of something not meant for this world.

It tore across the firmament like a blade. Not slow like a comet, nor wild like a storm. Direct. Sharp. Intentional.

Alaric’s heart slowed. His breathing didn’t match it.

Every rune on his chestplate ignited in sequence, pale amber light flickering to life across the ceremonial etching that only glowed during moments of oath-binding or spiritual collision. His crown hummed. The spirit gems inlaid along the parapet crackled, threads of soul energy sparking from one stone to the next.

His eyes never left the sky.

The blue trail fractured mid-flight, splitting briefly into three before coalescing again, then vanishing beyond the southern ridge like it had been swallowed by reality itself.

The sky healed behind it. But the weight remained.

The hum that followed wasn’t just vibration—it was pressure. A ripple in the weave of space, like something had punched a tunnel through every plane at once and left a wake for others to follow.

"...By the Twin Moons," he muttered, barely aware the words had left him.

The towers behind him were silent.

Even the warm scent of the city—smoke, meat, magic—felt thinner. Like the whole world had paused, watching, waiting for something to answer.

Alaric leaned forward, his grip white-knuckled against the railing. The runes on his armor pulsed brighter, then steadied, syncing to his heartbeat. His eyes narrowed, not with fear... but calculation.

"What in the name of Kaelith and Voryn is that?"The streak vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind a silence that settled like dust. The sky stilled. Stars blinked in and out, as if unsure of their own brightness. The air held the weight of something not just ancient—but invasive, threaded with presence. Alaric didn’t move at first.

His crimson cloak fluttered behind him, the twin-moon crest at its hem catching the dimming starlight. Pale spirit energy laced the fabric, a soft ripple of ancestral memory woven into each stitch. House Vorynthar’s oath to Giselsin—protection, sacrifice, unity—was older than any stone in the city below, and it now pulsed against his back like a silent reminder.

He exhaled, slow and measured.

To his left stood Captain Torvyn, younger by decades, still smoothing into his new armor. The green gem embedded in his gauntlet pulsed steady, not yet flaring, not yet reacting to whatever had just torn across the sky. The boy looked at him—half a question, half waiting for orders.

Alaric didn’t hesitate.

"Captain Torvyn," he said, his voice cutting clean through the hush. "Summon the seers."

The captain flinched slightly, then nodded, already turning. The spirit gem in his gauntlet glowed brighter, signaling his runner squad with a sharp pulse through the citadel network.

Alaric’s eyes stayed on the sky.

"Something just entered our skies," he muttered, more to himself now. "And I want to know what it means for the Banquet..."

He paused.

"...and for Giselsin."

—

Meanwhile, in Kenosha Shibuya, the birthing chamber of House Kaelithar brimmed with light, pain, and motion.

The lavender incense smoldered from four iron braziers, set in a square around the rune-marked birthing bed. It clashed with the sharper scent of iron, of sweat, of old blood being made new again. Spirit energy laced the chamber—green, vibrant, alive—drawing and receding with Seraphine’s breath.

The glow around her was steady now. Not wild. Not failing.

It pulsed with purpose.

Her body fought for control. Every contraction gripped her spine and dragged fire through her abdomen. She didn’t scream this time. She growled. A low, primal sound, teeth clenched, eyes locked not on Lira but across the room.

Gavric stood there.

His broad frame shook as he clutched his shattered hand against his chest. Blood from the boar he’d dragged in had already begun drying against his armor, forming a cracked trail across the Kaelithar sigil. He didn’t speak—too winded, too stunned. He blinked twice, then took a step forward, eyes full of apology, pain, and awe.

Lira gave him a look like she was deciding whether to hex him.

"Do something useful," she said through gritted teeth, her hand never leaving Seraphine’s wrist. The green gem in her arm glowed brighter, pulsing in rhythm with the labor.

Gavric stepped closer, unsure, hand hovering in the air like it might help or be torn off.

Seraphine’s hand shot up and yanked him down beside her. Seraphine screamed again, a final breathless cry that rattled the runes along the walls and made Gavric flinch. Blood spilled—not in gushes, but in sharp trails, sliding down her thighs and soaking the cloth beneath her. Something hadn’t gone clean. Her breath hitched as she dropped back against the bed, but her eyes never left Lira’s.

The maiden’s brows furrowed. She leaned forward, the green gem in her wrist flaring as she reached carefully between the folds of cloth. A flicker of light caught her eye. Not spirit energy.

Something else.

"Lady Kaelithar," she said quietly, her voice steady but uncertain. "There’s... something hard sticking from the baby’s shoulder. Small, but sharp. Like crystal."

Seraphine blinked, disoriented. "What?"

"I—don’t know," Lira admitted. "It looks like a... a shard of diamond, but it’s embedded. Not bleeding, just... there."

Another cry rang out, high-pitched and raw.

The baby’s.

Lira wrapped him quickly in the emerald-saturated cloth and lifted him from the chaos of the bed. The glow in his shoulder flashed once, a tiny flick of pale blue like a reflection off steel.

"He’s stable," Lira said, her voice firmer now. "He’s breathing fine. It’s not hurting him."

Seraphine couldn’t hear her anymore. She reached out, fingers trembling, blood on her palms. "Let me see him."

Lira placed the child in her arms.

The scar across Seraphine’s temple glistened with sweat, but her expression softened the moment her eyes met the newborn’s face. Her voice cracked.

"...You’re safe."

Gavric dropped the broken carcass he’d dragged in like a trophy, the boar’s blood forgotten as he crossed the room, nearly knocking over one of the oil lamps in his rush.

"Is that... is that him?" he asked, his voice hushed now, his earlier bravado peeled away.

Seraphine looked up, then handed the child over with a glance that said don’t be stupid—hold him right this time.

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