The gentle clinking of silverware against porcelain had quieted, replaced by the warm hush of dessert's final bite. Golden light spilled from ornate lanterns above the table, dancing along the polished surfaces of fine goblets and casting soft shadows across the faces of those seated. There was a comforting lull in the conversation—one of those rare silences that hangs not out of awkwardness, but anticipation. The evening had been delightful: a blend of laughter, reminiscing, and the scent of honey-glazed spices still lingering in the air.

And then, Prune Juice Cookie stood.

He didn't raise his voice, nor did he need to. It came gently, steady like the steam curling from a well-brewed potion. "Everyone... I want you to meet my parents."

The words carried more weight than they should have, like thunder murmuring in the distance. The energy at the table shifted—subtle but undeniable. All eyes turned to the far end of the banquet hall, where the candlelight dimmed just slightly, as if the room itself was holding its breath.

From the shrouded end of the chamber, where shadow met stone, came movement. First a ripple of dark mist, thick and soundless, then the silhouette of a figure carved from dusk and reverence itself. Silent Salt Cookie emerged slowly, their stride deliberate, each step echoing softly against the marble. They moved like the tide pulling back to reveal the wreckage of a storm long passed—steady, graceful, and unrelentingly quiet.

The violet of their armor shimmered beneath the light, fractured and prismatic, glinting with every sharp turn of their angular pauldrons and salt-carved blade. Their helm—still in place—reflected the room's muted awe, polished to a near obsidian sheen and striped with luminescent sigils. Though Silent Salt made no sound, their presence alone filled the hall with something that words could never manage: an unshakable, holy stillness.

And then you stepped forward beside them.

Where Silent Salt was storm and still sea, you were warmth—an ember nestled in a hearth long-forgotten, now crackling quietly back to life. Your expression held no grand declaration, only the kind of calm that needed no explanation. The silver lining of your garments caught the light like moonlight on water, flowing effortlessly with your every breath. Where your partner's silence was weighty and sovereign, yours was gentle and patient—a silence that invited, not commanded.

Gasps and widened eyes met the two of you. There were no words needed to explain. Not at first. They all knew. It was in the way Prune Juice's shoulders straightened with pride, in the way he stood a little taller beside his friends. The child of legends. The child of myth. And now, the child of truth.

Silent Salt raised their hand in slow, deliberate motion—their fingers forming an elegant, ancient sign. A gesture not of greeting, but of remembrance. Of shared burdens. Of family. It was a sign they had taught Prune Juice long ago, hidden behind closed doors, disguised in the most mundane of lessons. Now it stood revealed before all.

Then, their voice—rare, low, and tectonic—stirred from behind the mask. "We have been shadows long enough," they said, each syllable unspooling like smoke from the mouth of the abyss. "But for our son, we return to the light."

A soft hush fell again. The kind of silence that carried reverence. No one dared interrupt it.

Silent Salt's head turned toward you—not to command, not to defer, but to invite. Their gloved hand reached for yours, slow and certain, offering a single gesture of solidarity, of mutual truth. Not for the crowd, not for spectacle, but for you.

The time to remain hidden was over. The masks had fallen. The light had found you again.