BOOM

BOOM

BOOM

The sharp, thunderous detonations echoed through the cold mountain air as Plitterback

flowers burst open in brilliant, riotous explosions of color. Each blast scattered clouds of powdered pigment, painting the world in vibrant hues of crimson, sapphire, and gold. The children of Seafth Village no older than six dashed and danced through the vast fields of Plitterback, their laughter ringing like bells against the jagged peaks that loomed above. With every eruption, the youngsters' skin and clothes became dusted with the bright pigments, transforming them into living mosaics of joy and chaos. "Aneria!" came the call, sharp and clear, cutting through the cacophony. The voice belonged to a woman standing at the edge of the flower beds, far from the riotous play. She watched with a measured calm, her bright golden-brown eyes narrowed against the harsh glare of the winter sun. Her black hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, strands catching the faint glimmer of the cold light. She wore a gown that seemed to capture the very essence of the mountain sky,long and flowing, layered in shimmering pale blue fabric that glittered faintly, like frost caught in moonlight. The fabric darkened gradually at the hem, edged with a delicate band of gold trim that caught the sun with every subtle movement. Draped across her shoulder was a sash of rich teal, embroidered with swirling, vine-like patterns in gold thread, the edges scalloped with a golden border that spoke of quiet, refined tradition. A wide golden belt cinched her slender waist, from which long, thin cords dangled, tipped with small, glistening green gemstones that tinkled faintly with each shift of her stance. On one side, a sheer white overskirt floated lightly to the ground, transparent as morning mist and bordered with gold.These garments soft, rich, and timeless marked her as one of the people of Seafth Village, nestled high upon the eastern mountains. The village itself was a harsh and unyielding place, perched where the cold gnawed at the earth and only the stubborn Plitterback flower dared bloom. No magic stones lay beneath this frozen ground to spark desire or conquest. No crops could be coaxed from the soil, except for the wild Plitterback, bitter and useless as food to any but the frost-born. It was a place shunned by many a land deemed too cold, too barren for prosperity or war. But for the frost-born humans known as the Dialas, it was home. A Race looked down upon by the warmer world, capable of thriving in frostbite's embrace, and the only ones who could taste the bitter blooms of the Plitterback. For centuries, Seafth Village had remained quiet, untouched by the turmoil of the wider world beyond the mountains. The frost-born lived their secluded lives, bound to the cold and the flowers, their peace unbroken. The woman placed one hand on her hip and sighed, the sound almost lost beneath the distant booms. "Aneria!" she called once more, voice sharper this time. "Your father's coming back from the hunt." At those words, a small figure emerged from the riot of color a girl, wild with dust and bright pigment, her ginger hair a fierce flame against the snow-white pallor of her frostbitten skin. Her eyes mirrored her mother's, warm golden brown, shining with a mix of awe and hope. Aneria's gaze lifted toward the woman, bright with quiet excitement beneath the mottled hues that clung to her hair and face."Father's back," she whispered to herself, the words trembling on her lips like a fragile promise.Her father had been gone for six long months for the hunt. Her father was not a hunter in the traditional sense, for the frost-born abhorred bloodshed peace was their sacred creed. The "hunt" was a ritual of duty rather than predation: the men of the village descending the mountain to pay their taxes to the Dealopin Empire, and to bring back news of the wider world, wrapped in shadow and mystery beyond the frost. "Edward," Aneria said, turning to the boy beside her. His curly blond hair was a bright contrast to the winter's bleakness, his eyes sharp and blue as the mountain sky. He was a couple of years older than her but shared her impatience. "Our fathers are coming back from the hunt." Finally!" Edward shouted, throwing his hands up as another Plitterback exploded at his feet, showering him with dazzling powder."Aneria!" her mother's voice rose again, edged with frustration. "I've got to go before your mother actually kills me." Aneria smiled, mischievous but obedient, and snatched up a basket beside her, already brimming with Plitterback blooms that had erupted. Barefoot, she ran through the flower beds, nimble and swift, weaving past other children who scrambled for the precious flowers. Her feet sank into the cold snow beneath, the chill biting but familiar.Reaching her mother, Aneria placed the basket gently in the woman's left hand, while her right was taken in a firm, steady grasp. Together, they stood on the threshold between the wild, bursting life of the Plitterback fields and the cold, waiting silence of the village,where the mountain's harsh breath held its secrets close, and the return of the hunt promised change. They trudged deeper into the forest, the world around them swallowed beneath a thick blanket of snow. The trees stood tall and silent, their bare branches dusted white, like sentinels guarding secrets older than the village itself. The only sound was the soft crunch of their footsteps, muffled by the frost-laden earth. "Mommy," Aneria said, her voice a bright thread in the quiet cold, tugging at her mother's hand as she skipped eagerly through the snow. "Can we please go to the lake? I want to find a gift for Daddy."Anitta shook her head, a gentle but firm disapproval in her eyes. "The lake is far, bean. And we still have to get home before dark. There's Plitterback to cook. I'm making stew tonight."Aneria's small hand slipped from her mother's grasp, and with a dramatic huff, she collapsed onto the snow, her pale cheeks flushed with stubbornness. She lay flat, staring up at the dull gray sky. "I'm not going anywhere. If I can't get that flower for Daddy," she said, voice tight with childish defiance, "then I'm staying right here."Anitta stopped, baffled by the sudden rebellion, hands settling on her hips as she regarded the girl sprawled on the frozen ground. "Gosh," she muttered, shaking her head with a mixture of amusement and exasperation, "I've truly raised a brat." Aneria's lips curled into a mischievous smile as she closed her eyes. "And I'm one persistent brat," she whispered, daring her mother to argue. Anitta laughed, the sound bright and warm against the cold, and without hesitation, she sank down beside her daughter, settling into the snow. "Don't forget, bean," she said softly, "I raised you. The first brat in this village. And believe me, I could go on for hours."Aneria shot her a mock glare, her pout deepening. "Mommy, you're so childish. Everyone calls me the baby."Anitta just smiled, breathing in the crisp mountain air, the cold biting at her cheeks but never dulling her warmth. "Aneria," she said after a moment, voice dropping to a softer, almost secretive tone, "do you want to hear a story?"Aneria's eyes flickered open, curious despite herself, and she nodded eagerly. Anitta drew a slow breath, her gaze distant as if seeing beyond the snow-laden trees to a place lost in time. "This is a tale like no other," she began, her voice low and steady. "A tale that no one can say if it's true... or just a myth born of hope. But sometimes, hope is all we have."Anitta's breath lingered in the frigid air as she settled beside Aneria, the girl's wide eyes reflecting the bleak white of the winter woods. "Let me tell you a story," she said softly, her voice threading through the stillness like a whispered incantation."It is the story of a Promised Vael'Isari, an ancient figure, said to be destined to return and bind this fractured world back into one, to cleanse the corruption and bring peace once more." Anitta's eyes drifted toward the snow-veiled horizon, as if the very trees themselves bore witness to the tale. "Long ago, in an age swallowed by time, there lived two rulers of unparalleled power, a Vael'Isari and a Zhal'Morak. They governed the world with a steady hand, a balance struck between light and shadow. The people flourished, united beneath one empire, and the drums of war fell silent. Peace was no mere dream; it was the breath of their days." "But such harmony breeds envy," Anitta continued, her voice dropping to a hushed warning. "There came creatures greedy for power, creatures whose hearts were black with hunger for the rulers' strength. They sought to seize what was not theirs. Their desire was madness, for the Vael'Isari and the Zhal'Morak were beings of divine might, beyond any mortal's grasp." "Yet, fate turned against them, for the Vael'Isari carried a child, one born with the mingled power of both Vael'Isari and Zhal'Morak, a child conceived in the womb of destiny itself. This child was said to hold the key to the world's salvation, a power vast beyond imagining, but the child was vulnerable, too young to wield it." "On the day the child was born, a pair of winged beasts descended, Firon, the cursed sky-riders, fierce and cunning. They stole the infant from its cradle, taking it to forge a weapon of terrible magic. With dark sorcery, they bound the child's essence into a crystal and called it Lumina, a vessel of unimaginable power. And something unexpected, some of the child's essence spread across the world transfering magic to random people around the world, no matter the race, suddenly became able to do extraordinary things. People thought only the rulers could. The Vael'Isari, mortal by choice, fell in the brutal assault. Once immortal, now shattered, torn down by those desperate to seize the child's precious gift. And in that final, shattering moment, the infant's life was extinguished. But before her last breath faded, she unleashed a final curse: she stole their wings. From that day forward, no Firon bore wings again, none could keep what had once defined them, and none were ever born with such grace anew." Aneria's breath caught, her small hands clenched tight against the cold. Anitta's voice grew heavier still, weaving the tale with threads of sorrow and fire."The Firons' theft unleashed chaos. News of their terrible deed spread like wildfire. Other creatures, monsters, men, and things that crawl in shadows rushed to claim the Lumina, to seize its power for themselves. The world shattered into war, a thousand years of blood and fire. From the Zhal'Morak's grief and wrath, the Kroths were born, monstrous beings thriving in darkness, relentless and merciless. The Zhal'Morak unleashed them upon the land, each horror multiplied a hundredfold, his fury made flesh to sweep away all who dared defy him." "But then," Anitta's voice fell to a whisper, "as suddenly as he came, the Zhal'Morak vanished, swallowed by the same darkness he conjured. The war faded, leaving only scars." "In the aftermath, the world was cleaved into Eight great Empires, each holding a fragment of the shattered Lumina, unequal in size and power. The Empires turned their gaze inward, thriving upon their pieces, while distrust and hatred festered among them. The strongest among these was Dealopin,the eastern realm where our village lies, home to Elves, Shifters, and the frost-born like us, whose numbers dwindle with each passing year. The Sakaris Empire, hated and feared, because of their dragons. Then came the Rowe Empire, the Waterlands, Sasharis, Firon and Bingseosa, all locked in endless struggle, coveting magic crystals and precious stones that fuel their wars." "Through it all, the people only have one hope: that the Vael'Isari will return. A divine figure, the Vael'Isari promised to us through prophecy, who alone can mend the broken world, cleanse the sins of greed and bloodshed, and end the nightmare of the Kroths. Until then, all we can do is wait."Anitta's voice fell silent, the last words hanging in the frosty air.A faint sniffle broke the stillness. Anitta glanced down and saw tears tracing bright paths through the powdery colors on Aneria's cheeks."Bean" she said softly, brushing the girl's tears away. "Are you crying?"Aneria wiped hurriedly at her eyes, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "Why did the child have to die?" she murmured. "And the Zhal'Morak,why was he left alone in this world? I pity him."Anitta's brow furrowed with surprise. "Most do not pity the Zhal'Morak. They mourn the Vael'Isari and her child, but not him. He is a monster"Aneria stood, brushing snow from her clothes. "Mommy, do you truly believe the Vael'Isari will come back one day? That she will set the world on a just path?" Anitta nodded, rising beside her. "I do. From all the stories I've heard, she was just and kind,her heart full of mercy."Aneria sighed, pressing her forehead to her palm. "You're far too kind for this world. Why would the Vael'Isari save a world that killed her and her child? If I were her, I'd burn it to ash. I'd make sure the Firon Empire was wiped clean from the face of the earth." Her mother bent down, concern softening her features as she grasped Aneria's hands gently. "Remember what I've taught you, bean. Always be kind. Never bring harm, no matter the darkness you face. Work to make this world better, even when it seems impossible." Aneria nodded half-heartedly. "Yes, mother. Kindness is key. Mercy is what we must show."Anitta shook her head with a small smile. "We'll see how well you remember that when you start helping around the village."Before Aneria could protest, her mother's mind was already made up, a sudden, piercing scream shattered the winter's calm, the scream of terror, raw and desperate, rising from the direction of the village. "Daddy..." Aneria whispered to herself, a fragile thread of hope tangled with dread in her voice. The word barely escaped her lips before her mother acted. Anitta's hands moved swiftly, tearing the veil from her own head and pressing it over Aneria's. The soft fabric slid down to shield the girl's face, cloaking her in shadow. "Stay here, Aneria," her mother commanded with a quiet urgency. "Don't move. Don't come out. I'll come for you."Before Aneria could answer, before she could ask where she was going, Anitta was gone, vanishing like a wraith into the trees, swallowed by the dark woods that encircled the village. A cold silence fell. Minutes stretched thin as Aneria crouched behind the rough bark of an ancient pine, heart hammering beneath the veil's weight. The world held its breath. Then the sky began to change. Where once the sky was bright with nothing but cold mist, it was now dark. The moon had risen and the sun had long set. A deep, unnatural crimson spilled across the horizon. At its center, a blood-red moon hovered, casting its eerie glow over the snow and trees alike. Aneria's wide, frightened eyes traced its ominous light as if it were a herald of doom itself.From the village, carried on the icy wind, came screams. Sharp, desperate, broken by anguish. Aneria twisted, her gaze snapping to where smoke now curled into the darkened sky. The smoke bled upward like black poison, blotting out the stars, blotting out hope. Beneath her trembling feet, the earth thrummed. A low, ominous vibration pulsed through the snow. Two possibilities twisted through her mind like knives: an army advancing upon them, or the Kroths, those creatures of shadow and hunger, swarming their homes. The fear clawed at her throat, squeezing tighter with every passing second. Her parents... where were they? Were they safe? Or were they caught in the chaos? The veil felt stifling now, a shroud she could no longer bear. "I must be brave," she whispered, voice barely a breath. "I cannot hide while my home burns."With trembling hands, she pulled the veil from her face and tied it around her waist. The cold bit at her bare feet as she launched herself into the snowy woods, running blindly toward the smoke and screams. The acrid scent of burning wood and flesh hit her long before she saw the village. It was thick and choking, curling like a serpent through the trees.Fifteen agonizing minutes passed as she pressed forward, branches clawing at her arms, snow dragging at her feet, but she would not stop.When Aneria finally crested the ridge and looked down, the village she had known all her life lay broken and burning beneath her. Once, this place had been a sanctuary, a jewel nestled in the valley between towering, snow-covered peaks. She remembered it clearly. Wooden houses huddled close against the cold, their steep roofs heavy with snow. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and warm golden light spilled softly from windows, spreading like a balm onto the frozen ground. Narrow dirt paths wound through the village, lined with fences, barrels, and stacks of firewood. Torches and lanterns flickered at every doorstep, their flames dancing in the chill night air. Bridges arched over frozen streams, and wooden fences enclosed yards where animals once grazed. But now, the valley was a graveyard.

Bodies lay scattered like broken dolls across the snow, piled one atop another in grotesque mounds. Aneria's breath caught as her eyes took in the horrors. Heads severed from their bodies. Crimson rivers of blood pooling and freezing beneath them. Faces she once knew stared blankly up at the burning sky. Friends, neighbors, children she had played with and laughed beside now lay silent and still. The scent of death was thick in the air, a bitter, coppery stench that turned her stomach. She pressed a trembling hand to her mouth, fighting the rising tide of nausea. "Don't look," she croaked, voice hoarse and cracked. "Don't look..."Tears slipped down her cheeks, carving clean trails through the grime and powdery colors that stained her skin.Her heart shattered, piece by piece, beneath the burning sky. "KILL THEM ALL!"

The shout tore through the night like a savage blade, sharp and merciless. "Leave no one alive!" Aneria's heart slammed against her ribs like a war drum. Panic surged through her veins as she darted toward the nearest cabin, a desperate refuge among the chaos. Her breath came in ragged gasps, cold and harsh against the icy air. Without a second thought, she slipped inside the wooden shelter, the door creaking shut behind her like a whispered prayer.She curled into a trembling ball in the darkest corner, pressing her hands over her ears to shut out the horrific sounds. Screams. Cries. The clash of steel. And above it all, the terrible orders bellowed by bloodied men. Her small frame shook uncontrollably, the cold seeping into her bones, but still she fought to steady herself. "B-breathe, Aneria... You have to be b-r-ave," she whispered through chattering teeth, repeating the mantra to herself like a spell. Her mind clawed for courage, for strength, for hope.Summoning what little composure she could muster, Aneria crawled toward the window, her fingers numb against the rough wooden floor. Slowly, carefully, she raised her head to peer out through the cracked glass.Outside, the nightmare took shape. There knelt a man, bare-headed now, his armor soaked with blood and grime. His broad shoulders trembled beneath the flickering torchlight. Though Aneria could not see his face clearly, she recognized the patterns on his skin and remembered her fathers words, long ago about how the Firon race had patterns on their skin. Her breath hitched. The realization crashed over her like a tidal wave. The Firon army had descended upon Seath Village.But why? Why would they attack this frozen wasteland? This forsaken place?Where no crops grew, where nothing of value thrived.

The man knelt before someone whose figure was shrouded in shadow, but the voice, cold and commanding, carried over the crackling flames. "Hunt down those who escaped. Leave none alive."Aneria shifted slightly, trying to get a better view, but before she could move more, the cabin door exploded inward with a violent crash. A towering figure filled the doorway, a mountain of a man at least ten times her size. His eyes were cold and unblinking, slitted like a serpent's, and his scarred face burned with the heat of old wounds.Before she could cry out, he seized her by the tangled curls of her fiery hair and dragged her from the cabin like a ragdoll. Her screams shattered the night, louder and more desperate than any she had heard before, as she clawed at the snow and the soldiers who passed, her hands grasping for anything to hold onto.Her tears mixed with the biting cold as she was hauled through the ranks of armored men. They stopped before a pair of gleaming iron boots. Aneria dared not lift her gaze, too afraid to face whatever horror waited above. "Your Majesty," the giant growled, releasing her hair and bowing low. "Found this one hiding in one of the cabins."The words pierced Aneria's mind like shards of ice. The man towering above her must be the one the Firon bowed to, the leader of this nightmare. Slowly, trembling, Aneria dared to lift her eyes.What she saw froze her blood. There, in the cruel light of the fire, was the unmistakable face of her mother. Or rather, her mother's severed head, held by the hair in the iron grip of the man before her.Blood dripped from her mother's pale throat, pooling like a dark stain at the feet of the Firon emperor. Kaida Keres Vuskasin, the merciless ruler of the Firon Empire. His cruel gaze, bloodshot and hungry for power, met hers. The fiery blood moon above seemed to pale beside the fury burning in those eyes.And then, something shattered inside Aneria. A mad, bitter laughter burst from her lips, cutting through the chaos like a blade. The soldiers whirled, searching for the source of the eerie sound, and Kaida's cold eyes narrowed with sudden interest.Aneria stared at him with a fierce, unyielding hatred, the kind only born of unbearable loss and unquenchable rage, before darkness claimed her.Silence fell, heavy and oppressive. "Should I kill the child, Your Majesty?" the giant with the scar asked quietly, bowing his head. Kaida considered for a long moment, his gaze lingering on the unconscious girl. Then, with a cruel smile, he shook his head. "No. She's a beauty. She will join my harem as a slave concubine,Neketis. We shall see what use she has."The scarred giant nodded, hoisting Aneria over his shoulder like a prize. Suddenly, a breathless soldier burst from the woods, shouting, "The Royal Dealopin army is coming up the mountain! The General leads them!"Kaida's eyes flickered with calculation. "We will take the mountain tunnels. Mount your steeds. We ride for home." With that, the Firon emperor mounted his black stallion, his soldiers following in a grim procession. The flames consumed Seath Village behind them, its wooden homes reduced to ash, its fields soaked with blood and strewn with bodies.Twenty-five minutes. That was all it took. A village that had stood for a thousand years, destroyed in less time than it took to light a fire. No one survived that night. The reason for the Firon attack remains a mystery whispered in shadowed halls and taverns, spoken only in hushed rumors. Some say it was the curse of a prophecy, one that foretells the end of empires and the rise of a new power

ANERIA

ELEVEN-YEARS-LATER

Once, in a time long buried beneath ash and blood, the world had been gentler, at least for her.It was the morning of Aneria's fourth name day, and the garden behind their home in Seath Village lay swaddled in a fresh quilt of snow. White as crushed pearl, it stretched beneath a pale sky, the air so crisp it stung the lungs. A child stood barefoot upon it, her toes wriggling into the cold powder, grinning with the delight only the young and unburdened can know.Her father lifted her high into the sky, spinning her with ease, his arms strong from years of working timber and carrying dreams too heavy for any one man.

"Happy birthday, my beautiful Beanie," he said, his voice as warm as the hearth fire in deep winter. His eyes, those deep sapphire pools, shimmered with love as he placed her gently down onto the snow-laced earth.

Aneria gave a small shiver, more from excitement than the cold. She rarely wore shoes, especially not on days like this. She loved the way the snow kissed her feet, how it reminded her she was alive.

That morning, her mother, Anitta, had prepared a Plitterback cake. It was dark, spongy, and rich with the bitter-sweetness of the fruit that grew only in their region. It was rare to have sweets for breakfast, but rarer still was the light in her father's eyes when he reached within his heavy coat and pulled free a slender box of carved birch. Inside lay a gift, a hairpin of such craftsmanship that it could have adorned a queen.It was silver, forged into the shape of a sword, long and slender with a tapered tip like a needle's kiss.

The crossguard was ornate, etched with curling lines like ivy, and the pommel bore a small rounded gem that shimmered faintly in the morning light. A silver loop at its base gave way to a string of tiny obsidian beads that descended to a polished medallion, circular and floral in design, each petal etched with care.

Beneath it swayed a long black tassel, soft as raven feathers, trembling in the breeze. Aneria's eyes lit up with awe. She took it into her tiny hands with the reverence a priest might give a holy relic."This is for you," her father said, his voice soft with pride. Behind him, Anitta gasped, her face paling.

"You gave our four-year-old child a knife?" she said, half in disbelief, half in fury. Her voice was sharper than the wind howling through the pines. She stepped forward, brows drawn tight. "She's a child, Kael." "It's not a knife, love," he replied quickly, glancing aside. "It's a hairpin. I found it in the market last year, during the hunt."Anitta didn't look convinced. Her arms were folded tight across her chest, her mouth drawn in a line as thin as a blade. She was the kind of woman who could silence a room with a look, and she often did.

Even the chief of Seath Village, the stern old elf with scars down his neck, tread lightly around her tongue. Weapons, even symbolic ones, were not welcomed in Frost-born culture. They were a people of peace, of stillness.

They did not kill, not animals, not even plants if it could be helped. They survived on the lifeless Plitterback, a fruit said to be born of frost and moonlight, a gift from the Vael'Isari to her people. And above all things, they could not lie. It was not merely forbidden. It was impossible. Frost-born humans were rare in the world now, rumored to be the last keepers of innocence and honor, purest of all things. That was their legacy.

As the argument brewed between her parents, Aneria, clever even then, slipped away. She darted past neighbors eager to wrap her in their arms, dodging birthday blessings like arrows. Her curls, unruly as ever, bounced wildly behind her. She didn't want hugs. She wanted Edward.Edward, son of the village chief and her closest friend, would be in the Plitterback fields. She knew it in her bones.

She ran for what felt like hours, her breath frosting in the air, her small heart beating a rhythm of joy and mischief. The wind tugged at her dress, and her feet left tiny prints in the snow. When she arrived, the fields were empty. That was the first sign something was wrong. The Plitterback fields were never empty. Children played there in every season. Snowball fights, berry-picking, and hide-and-seek. But now, not a soul stirred. No laughter echoed across the white hills. Not even birds sang.She frowned. Perhaps it was a surprise. The village had done it before, gathered in secret, waiting to pounce with smiles and songs. That had to be it. She turned back toward home, running faster now, her tiny legs aching with effort. The smell hit her first. Smoke. Burning wood.

Then came the light, orange and hellish, licking the pale sky. And then she saw it.The village, her home, was aflame. Houses reduced to ash and skeleton beams. Smoke billowed in monstrous clouds. And bodies.

So many bodies.They were strewn across the snow like broken dolls. Limbs twisted. Heads gone. Blood soaked the white ground, turning it to slush the color of rust. Eyes stared blankly at nothing. Mouths frozen in screams that had already died. She stepped forward, numbly, clutching her hairpin in her trembling fingers. Her foot struck something hard beneath the snow. She looked down. A hand.

A severed, frozen hand, the fingers curled as if still clinging to life.She fell, her knees giving out beneath her. Her scream split the sky. Her hands, flailing, landed in a pool of blood, warm still. She scrambled backward, her cries ragged, when her hand brushed something else. Something solid.Slowly, against her will, she turned to look.It was her mother.

Or rather, what remained of her. The head stared back, eyes open wide. Flies buzzed around her parted lips. Her once-beautiful face, so full of warmth, so full of stories, was now nothing but a feast for vultures.Aneria did not scream again. Instead, she laughed.

A hollow sound. A sound without soul.Soldiers turned. The Emperor himself, Kaida Keres Vuskasin, tyrant of the Firon Empire, looked down at her with eyes like the blood moon. And still she laughed. Until she collapsed.

Aneria's eyes snapped open and she gasped for air drenched in sweat. Her chambers were dark but warm. Silk sheets tangled around her legs, soaked with sweat. Her breath came fast. Eyes wide. Heart pounding. It was the dream again, the memory. It came to her every night, unchanged. She stared at the ceiling. Alive. Older. But never free.

Not truly.

Not ever.

Closing her eyes, Aneria had flashes of that same dream, bitter, brutal, and unrelenting, like a ghost clawing at the walls of her mind.Aneria bolted upright in her bed, a sheen of sweat glistening on her brow despite the cool breeze that often swept through the high windows of the Pearl Palace. Her breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, and the sting of tears clung to her lashes. Her hands trembled in her lap. For a moment, she simply sat there, staring at the celestial patterns painted upon the domed ceiling, as if they could offer some comfort or clarity.

They didn't.

The Pearl Palace, built with ivory stone and silver-veined marble, had been designed for ten. Ten girls bound by chains of silk and law, trained to bow when summoned and smile when broken. Yet now, there was only here. Aneria.

The last remaining slave concubine, Neketis. The others had risen in rank, one by one, until they were promoted and sent to the Crystal Palace or beyond, into the gilded cages reserved for favored consorts and highborn Ladies. They had maids, perfumes imported from Miravet, and invitations to dances that turned politics into performance. Aneria had none of that.

No servant girl to brush her curls.

No handmaiden to polish her skin with rose oil or whisper the latest court secrets into her ear. No one.

Only the silence of her vast chamber, heavy with memories and solitude.But truth be told, she didn't mind. Not entirely. The room was still hers, grand and hollow and quiet. Its high, vaulted ceiling was painted the color of twilight, deep indigo flecked with constellations in burnished gold. At its center, a domed skylight let in the sun by day and the moon by night, illuminating the great chamber in a soft, celestial glow.

Chandeliers of wrought gold hung like frozen comets, their crystals catching light and scattering it in a thousand glints across the dark wood floor. Ten beds, each draped in navy velvet canopies, stood like sentinels in a line, but only one had been slept in for years.A long rug stretched across the center, rich with symbols of the heavens, moons, stars, and swirling galaxies woven in silver thread.

Along the walls stood carved desks and bookshelves filled with dusty volumes, relics from slave concubines long gone, their secrets and dreams folded between pages Aneria had not yet dared to read. She rose from the bed, her limbs reluctant but her will firm. She smoothed the sheets with careful hands, as she always did, taking a moment to admire how neatly the fabric tucked beneath her fingers. Habit gave her a sense of control, a fragile armor against the chaos that once shattered her world. Crossing the room, she pushed open the tall arched windows, and the morning air swept in, crisp, bright, and indifferent. Aneria breathed it in deeply, letting it fill her lungs, letting it cool the sweat on her skin.

She had blossomed into a beautiful fifteen-year-old.

And then it hit her. "Watchers be damned, I'm late," she muttered under her breath, the tranquility of the moment shattering like brittle glass. Today was the day of Inara's banquet. Panic rushed in. She was supposed to be at the Duskwood Palace, celebrating the pregnancy of her oldest and only friend in this treacherous place. Inara, the Emperor's new favorite and third queen, daughter of one of his most loyal generals. Seven years ago, Inara had entered the harem as a noble concubine like all the rest, but it had not taken long for her beauty, wit, and ambition to lift her to a crown. Now, she lived in luxury, waited on hand and foot, her palace gleaming with tapestries and servants trained in etiquette and deception. Aneria had no such entourage. Preparing alone took hours.

She rushed through the Pearl Palace like a whirlwind, her feet echoing against polished marble floors, her breath ragged, her hair half-braided and half-loose, until finally, after what felt like a small war against fabric, pins, and jewelry, she stood before the mirror. For the first time in what felt like years, she allowed herself a moment to admire her reflection.

She wore the finest dress she owned, an ensemble more illusion than cloth. The fabric was soft ivory layered with muted gold, light as air and shimmering in the sun that poured through the open windows.

The bodice, corseted with delicate gold embossing, hugged her waist and torso in structured elegance. One shoulder was wrapped in a crisscross of silken straps while the other remained bare, the skin kissed by morning light.Long, draping sleeves flowed with every movement, embroidered with geometric sigils in thread of gold. Chains like molten sunlight cascaded from her shoulders, framing her arms with metallic grace.

Her waist was cinched by an elaborate golden belt, its medallion centerpiece glittering with inlaid stones the color of dusk. The skirt fell in layers, sheer and rippling, catching light like water, every movement a glimmer of grace. But it was her hair that turned her reflection into a vision of fire and strength. Woven in a complex arrangement of braids and curls, her vibrant orange-red tresses had been transformed. Gold chains criss crossed over her crown, linking beads of crystal and coins that shimmered like starlight. Loose strands curled softly at her temples and trailed down her back, finishing in delicate chains that swayed when she moved.

A net of gold framed her head, like a circlet without a crown.

She smiled faintly at her reflection, not out of pride but out of disbelief. She barely recognized the woman staring back at her. For a moment, she looked less like a slave and more like someone who belonged here. That moment passed quickly. She slipped on her shoes, composed herself, and stepped out of the quiet sanctuary she had claimed as her own.And the second she passed through the towering front doors of the Pearl Palace, the Firon sun smacked her across the face like a hot slap.It was always like that in the capital. Heat bloomed from the sandstone walkways and shimmered in the air like a fever dream. The skies above were cloudless, vast, and cruel.

Towers of stone and steel gleamed with authority. Banners of the Firon Empire, a three-headed golden beast with crimson eyes, fluttered proudly. Aneria stood at the threshold of two worlds. One of silence and memory behind her, and one of fire, ambition, and danger ahead. And she walked forward. The Firon Empire was a land of extremes. No softness in its sky, no mercy in its seasons. When it rained, it poured in torrents, furious and unrelenting, as though the Watchers themselves wept for some ancient sorrow. But such storms were rare. The empire knew little of tears. Most days were claimed by the sun, an endless, blazing sentinel that perched high above, scorching the stone and baking the sand to glass.To the Firon people, such heat was life, woven into their blood and breath.

They walked beneath the burning skies with ease, their skin kissed by sun, their bodies shaped by fire and wind. But to Aneria, a child of frost and stillness, born beneath skies that danced with snowflakes and whispered silence, the heat was torment. It wrapped around her like molten cloth, soaked her skin, made her bones ache, and her breath come shallow. She often wondered if this land sought to melt her into nothingness. She raised a hand to shield her eyes as she stepped into the sun's punishing glare, squinting against the white-hot sky. The polished stones of the palace courtyard gleamed like mirrors, their gold-veined surfaces reflecting light in sharp, searing flashes.The same sun that shone over the Firon capital pulsed with opulence. The architecture of the empire rose like something carved from the dreams of Watchers. Vast domes of hammered bronze and gold. Towers of sandstone carved with sacred scripts. Minarets with spiraling peaks that reached hungrily toward the sky. Intricate mosaics adorned the facades of buildings, each tile set by hand, each pattern a story of conquest, glory, and power.The scent of spiced incense clung to the air, carried on the breeze with the clang of distant bells and the murmur of markets.

Sunlight danced off rooftops gilded in copper and lapis. Narrow alleys twisted between palatial courtyards and shaded gardens bursting with date palms, jasmine, and silken water fountains that gave the illusion of coolness but not its comfort.And then there were the stables. Set behind the Pearl Palace, the stables were an afterthought, an awkward wooden structure leaning with wear. Its supports were weathered and crooked like the legs of an old man too proud to sit. The walls were warped from sun and time, and the roof sagged where tiles had slipped or broken. Aneria had often considered repairing the place herself. She had even drawn up plans in her mind, imagined how she might brace the beams and replace the rotten wood. But there was always something else, something louder, hungrier, more urgent, to steal her time. She approached her horse, who stood in the shadow of the stable, pawing idly at the dirt. Its coat was a deep, unbroken black that shimmered like obsidian in the sunlight. Its mane, long and tangled, fell like a dark curtain over one eye. The beast snorted when it saw her and flicked its tail in obvious disapproval. Thunderbolt.

That was his name, though it was more irony than truth. The animal rarely lived up to it. He hated her. She could feel it in the way he tossed his head, the way his ears flattened at her approach. Perhaps he sensed the cold that clung to her even in the heat. Perhaps it was something deeper, something older, the way animals could smell the difference in blood, the way they recoiled from things not meant to be in this world.Frost-born humans were not welcome here. Not truly.

Though no one said it aloud, she could see it in their eyes, hear it in their laughter when they thought she was out of earshot. She had never been given a reason for the hatred. None of her tutors had explained why her people were feared and scorned. But she felt it all the same, like a second skin. She mounted the horse with practiced ease, her dress bunched in her hands, the delicate gold chains at her shoulders clinking gently with the movement. Thunderbolt grunted and stamped the earth but did not resist. He was proud, not wild. With a small tug of the reins and a murmured word, she turned him toward the gates. Dust kicked up behind them as they moved, a trail of grit and light in their wake. The path ahead wound between tall marble pillars and beneath arched gates adorned with banners bearing the golden three-headed lion sigil of House Vuskasin.

Each step carried her closer to the Duskwood Palace. And behind her, the Pearl Palace faded into the shimmering heat, its silence echoing like a ghost across the stones. Duskwood Palace. The crown jewel of the imperial harem and by far the most envied among the residences of the queens. Though the Crystal Palace boasted elegance and the Ruby Palace flaunted opulence, it was Duskwood that held majesty. It rose along the banks of a tranquil, silver-blue lake, cradled by the arms of a lush, terraced garden that spilled like a dream down to the water's edge.The palace itself was a colossus of carved stone and domed wonder. Its shape was organic, almost as if it had grown from the earth rather than been built atop it. Walls of sun-kissed limestone towered high, their surfaces smooth yet alive with etched patterns. Vines wound in eternal spirals. Celestial beasts locked in dance. Old symbols whispered of love, power, and divine right. Each carving was set by hand, their edges darkened by time but unweathered, preserved as if the stone itself refused to forget.

The central dome loomed like the belly of the moon, inlaid with interlocking mosaics of cobalt and gold that shimmered beneath the sun. Slender minarets flanked it on all sides, their spiraling peaks crowned with crescents of hammered bronze.

Smaller domes, rounded, soft, yet intricate, bloomed across the roofline like a field of golden mushrooms. The windows were tall and narrow, their tops arched and latticed with geometric filigree that cast honeycomb shadows across the stone floors.

Balconies with scalloped balustrades overlooked the gardens below, their railings wrapped in flowering vines and fluttering silks. The gardens were no less divine. Paved footpaths twisted through groves of citrus trees and oleander, under flowering archways heavy with jasmine and wisteria. Fountains burbled like hidden laughter, their waters sweet and cold, while white herons stalked among lotus-strewn ponds. The lake itself was vast and still, its surface a mirror of the sky, broken only by swans and the occasional drifting lantern lit during feasts or prayers.

Aneria walked through the corridors with measured steps, her sandals silent on the cool stone. As she moved deeper into the heart of the palace, the sound of drums reached her ears. Slow at first, like a heartbeat, but growing louder and steadier as she approached the grand hall.

There were ankle bells too, soft metallic jingles that rose and fell in rhythm with unseen dancers. The air grew warm with incense, sandalwood, rose, and myrrh.

When she stepped onto the polished threshold of the banquet hall, a woman stood waiting to announce her. The announcer was a slender creature, cloaked in gold-threaded silk and veiled beneath a half-mask of beads. Her voice trembled slightly when she spoke. "Entering Neketis Aneria, of the Pearl Palace." The words echoed through the vaulted chamber like a spell. For a heartbeat, perhaps two, everything stopped. The drummers missed their beat.

The dancers faltered mid-step. The laughter turned to whispers, hushed and urgent. Dozens of eyes found her at once. Curious, astonished, some even admiring. Aneria stood straight beneath their gaze, her head high, her dress aglow in the lantern light. It shimmered like starlight, casting soft reflections across the polished floor. She wore elegance like a second skin, and for once, she let herself feel it.Then a familiar voice shattered the silence."Continue the music. Drummers, play. Dancers, dance!"The spell broke. The drums resumed their rhythm, hurried at first, then steady. Dancers spun and leapt once more, their chains clinking in time.

Conversation trickled back like water from a broken dam. Aneria turned toward the voice and found her. Inara, the fourth queen, the Emperor's favourite, and her oldest, perhaps only, friend in the palace. She moved through the crowd like a flame in midnight, cloaked in a dress of deepest blue, embroidered in gold and silver so fine it seemed stitched by stars. Her skin, soft and warm, was the color of sun-kissed almonds. Her hazel eyes, lined in black kohl, blazed with restrained fury as she approached, and her long golden-brown hair flowed beneath her veil. "You are late," Inara said, voice sharp though not cruel.

Aneria bowed low, bending at the knees and tipping her head just enough to show respect but not submission. "You look radiant, my queen." "Oh, stop that," Inara snapped, rolling her eyes, and took her hand, dragging her with practiced familiarity toward the dais where she had been seated.

Her cloak trailed behind her like a river of shadows and embroidery. Aneria sank into the plush cushions beside her. The pillows were thick and embroidered with thread of silver and thread of saffron, their stuffing soft enough to cradle the spine without effort. Before them stretched a terrace open to the afternoon light, and beyond it, the lake gleamed in its glassy silence. The terrace itself was a marvel of carved stone and deliberate beauty. Arched walls framed the horizon, each arch scalloped and wrapped with latticework so fine it resembled lace cast in stone.

Tall columns bore the weight of the ceiling, their surfaces alive with engraved tales. Lovers from ancient songs, warriors locked in battle, phoenixes rising from flame. The floor beneath them was laid with warm tiles of clay and sandstone, smoothed by years of bare feet and sacred processions.

Low tables of polished cedar stood between the cushions, bearing trays of figs, pomegranates, and roasted nuts. Golden vessels brimmed with wine and juice, and small jeweled bowls held sauces and spices too exotic to name. Around the terrace, potted palms and flowering shrubs softened the architecture, their leaves rustling in the breeze that drifted off the lake. Far in the distance, the domes of another palace gleamed like moons above the hills.

Aneria leaned back into the cushions, her breath catching in her throat. For a moment, she let herself forget what she was.

Not a slave.

Not frost-born.

Just a girl beneath a golden sun, sitting beside a queen, watching the water shimmer. But moments, like dreams, are not meant to last. "Where? Where were you? Do you have any idea how long I have been waiting for you?" Inara's voice, hushed yet sharp, sliced through the murmuring din of the banquet.

The two women sat apart from the others, nestled on embroidered pillows beneath a canopied alcove, where silken veils shielded them from the eager stares of dancers, nobles, and concubines alike. Aneria shifted, feigning a pout. "I overslept. I am sorry." Inara let out a sigh, long and weary, too heavy for such a youthful face. Her fingers moved to her forehead, massaging the spot above her brow as though to ease away more than a headache. "A part of me wants to believe you are lying.

That you simply do not care about my banquet. But then..." She let her hand drop limply into her lap. "Then I remember what you are. Frost-born. You cannot lie, even if you wanted to." The defeated tone in her voice did not go unnoticed. Aneria's eyes narrowed. "Why do you sound like that? Do not tell me it is because I was late." Inara's silence said more than words. She gave a slow shake of the head, her gaze drifting over the revelers beyond the veil. "Lately, it is as if the walls are pressing in on me," she confessed, her voice low. "Everyone looks at me and sees only one thing. The future Empress Dowager.

Even the priest believes with divine certainty that this child will be a son. They speak of omens. Prophecies. Yet..."Her voice faltered. Her throat moved in a swallow. "You are afraid," Aneria said softly. "Afraid the child will be a girl. That the Emperor's love will vanish the moment she is born. That you will become like the Empress." Inara did not reply, but the hollowness in her expression, the way her lips trembled before she pressed them into a thin line, was answer enough. And who could blame her? Once, she had been nothing more than a general's daughter, another flower brought to bloom in the harem's garden. But the Emperor had chosen her. Kept her. Loved her longer than any other. Years passed, and no new concubine dared threaten her place, for the Emperor's eyes were ever drawn to his beloved Inara. His white moonlight, they called her. But only she and Aneria knew how close she had come to fading. Her beauty had not dulled, but her womb had remained barren. And in the Firon Empire, a woman's favor was as fragile as spun glass. The Watchers, or perhaps chance alone, had granted her a reprieve.

A child now grew within her, and with it, a last desperate hope. Yet the stakes were cruel. The Emperor had boasted to all who would listen. His Twelfth son would soon be born, completing the sacred prophecy he had heard from the high priest. His Twelfth son would have power like no other and return the Firon Empire to its former glory.

If Inara failed to bear him that Twelfth son, it would not matter how dearly he had once loved her. She would lose everything. Her palace, her rank, and possibly her life. "Do not speak of such doom" Aneria said, reaching to clasp her hand. "Go to the temple. Pray to the Watchers. I believe your child is a son. The Watchers will not forsake you now if they are as real as you believe." Inara smiled faintly and touched Aneria's cheek. "Let us speak of other things. I saw the way they looked at you when you entered. Even now, they are stealing glances. How does it feel to be the harem's innocent beauty?"Aneria could only laugh. It was a title she had not sought, yet one that clung to her like a name stitched into silk. The harem's beauty. Her frost-born blood marked her as strange, but her face, so ethereal it made queens stare and warriors stammer, had spared her from worse fates.

Though the Emperor had never once summoned her, never spoken a word in private to her, the rest of the palace watched her like hawks circling prey."It feels... well," she said, smiling faintly. "It feels like the only thing keeping me alive. If I were not beautiful, I would have perished with the rest of the children in Seath."

Inara gave a sly smile and leaned in. "Do you not just love the Emperor for that? For rescuing you from that burnt village? For giving you silk sheets and warm meals, a life of luxury where you no longer need to worry about coin?" Aneria nodded. "I do believe he saved my life. And perhaps I feel something for him, maybe it is love," she added, her voice soft as her cheeks flushed with color. "But... I have never spoken to him. Never even shared a room with him, not since I was brought to this palace."

The pity in Inara's eyes was worse than any scorn. Aneria turned away, casting her gaze to the dancers twirling beyond their veils of gold-threaded silk. The banquet raged on, filled with color and sound. Fifteen concubines laughed and danced, their anklets chiming and veils billowing in the torchlight. Yet none of the queens, except Inara, had come, not even the consorts who are lower in rank bothered to show.

She understood why Queen Seshion had remained in her palace. Her own birth was only four months away. But the absence of the others felt like a quiet slight. Not even a lady-in-waiting sent in their stead. And the Empress, she too had stayed away. Understandable, perhaps. Why should the Empress support the woman most likely to replace her? Inara's child, if a son, could well be named heir. Aneria's gaze darkened.

The Empress had once been promised to the Emperor since childhood, their union carved in blood and oath. But she had borne only daughters, five in total, and rumors whispered the Emperor had not touched her in years.

Even a fool could see her fate unraveling. With a sigh, Aneria rose and joined the circle of dancers. Music swelled, the drummers striking their instruments with renewed vigor. Anklets jingled, voices rose in song, and the air was rich with the scent of rosewater, incense, and roasted fruits. The traditional melodies of the Firon Empire, foreign once but now familiar, wrapped around her like smoke.

Hours passed in a blur of spinning silks and echoed laughter. When she could no longer keep her eyes open, she returned to Inara, leaning close. "I have had little sleep," she murmured. "The dream came again. I would ask your permission to leave." Inara nodded, distracted now by nobles coming to offer her praise and gifts. "Go, then. Rest well, sister." And so Aneria slipped away from the banquet, her departure silent beneath the cacophony of celebration, the lingering hum of music and prophecy echoing behind her.

The palace doors loomed behind her like the mouth of some ancient beast, swallowing up the light and music of the banquet inside.

Aneria stood frozen at its threshold, her breath caught sharp in her throat as the gilded carriage rolled into view. It was impossible to miss, a towering construct of crimson and gold, gleaming under the dusk like a burning star made flesh. The wheels were wrought in lion's heads and sunbursts, the glass windows bordered by filigree patterns so fine they shimmered like fireflies in the dying light. The moment it turned onto the marble path, the other carriages scattered like frightened hounds.

Coachmen snapped their reins and tugged their horses aside, clearing a wide, reverent berth for the imperial arrival. The palace butler, who had once moved with all the tired grace of a man who had seen too many years, now sprinted past Aneria like a boy, his robes flapping behind him. He reached the golden door just as the carriage came to a stop and opened it with a bow so deep it looked as if he meant to kiss the stones.And from within stepped a man out of legend. He wore no crown.

He needed none.

His presence was enough.

Golden hair, thick and combed back from a brow creased by war and weather, gleamed beneath the moonlight.

His shoulders were broad, the sort of broad that spoke not of sculpted vanity but of battlefields and broken shields. A swordsman, a killer, no perfume or pampered silk about him. His skin bore the stories his court did not dare speak aloud. An old scar trailed from the base of his throat toward his collarbone, another across his jaw, that healed badly.

He was Firon through and through, in blood, bone, and breath. Kaida Keres Vuskasin, the Sun-Blooded Emperor of the Firon Empire. Behind him, emerging like a ghost stitched from her nightmares, came the man she had named Scarface.

The brute's presence darkened the air, his leathery skin twisted with the cruel memory of old burns, the jagged mark across his cheek a wound that had never healed, not truly. He had once dragged Aneria by the roots of her hair and tossed her at the feet of this very man like a dog bringing home a kill. They were moving toward her now, closer, closer still, and she could not move. The breath in her lungs turned brittle. Her limbs were as cold as the grave. She knew she should look away, bow, turn her gaze to the ground, but her eyes betrayed her. They locked on his, and for a heartbeat the world vanished.

His gaze was a sword. Not warm, not cruel, but vast. Like the sun itself, blinding, distant, unknowable. It was Scarface who broke the spell.

He cleared his throat, a sharp and performative rasp meant not to announce himself but to remind her. Remember your place, girl. The sound struck her like a whip. Aneria flinched, then bowed so quickly it nearly toppled her. Her knees held, barely. "Greeting, Your Majesty," she whispered, her voice trembling like a leaf in a storm. A hum of acknowledgment. Nothing more. No words, no glance, only a low sound that stirred her spine like thunder in a distant valley. T

hen the Emperor passed her by, his cloak brushing the hem of her gown, his boots heavy upon the marble. She remained there, head bowed, even as their footsteps faded behind her into the gold-veined silence of the palace. A little smirk appeared on her face but for a mere second. Only once the echoes vanished did she straighten. Her heart still pounded like the great temple drums of old, but her feet found themselves.

She turned without another word and walked toward the rear of the palace where the stables lay shrouded in moonshadow.

The barn was way better than hers, seeming to be well maintained, giving a life of luxury and comfort to the horses inside. Yet her horse, her Storm, her black thunderbolt, waited for her with quiet judgment in its eyes. Thunderbolt was no kinder than any other beast in the Firon Empire, but she was loyal, and that would do.Aneria mounted with practiced ease. The wind caught her veil, tugging it gently aside as she turned her gaze upward. The moon hung heavy and gold, swollen like a fruit before the harvest.

She said nothing as she rode. The hooves of her horse beat a lonely rhythm down the stone road, back toward the Pearl Palace, a gilded cage she now returned to with a head full of questions and eyes that still burned from the Emperor's gaze.

ANERIA

PEARL PALACE

The moon hung high above the Pearl Palace like a solemn sentinel, its light silver and cold, untouched by the warmth of stars. Not a single one glittered in the night sky. Only that great pale orb remained, serene and distant, casting its glow down upon the sleeping empire. Aneria sat curled atop the velvet-cushioned daybed nestled into the arched window of her chamber, a book resting half-forgotten on her lap. Its spine was bent open to a tale of love and betrayal, yet the words blurred before her eyes. She could not bring herself to read. Her thoughts were far from the ink on the page. They circled like vultures above a single memory.

Those eyes. The Emperor's eyes, golden and cold, sharp as sunlight on steel. She had seen them only for a moment, but the gaze lingered in her mind like a fever. Even now, as the night deepened and Duskwood Palace filled with music and merriment, she imagined him still there beside Queen Inara, surrounded by dancers and drummers and women eager to stake their claim upon his affections. No doubt the harem was a flurry of silken skirts and painted smiles, concubines casting flirtatious glances like baited hooks.

The consorts, who had once refused to grace Inara's banquet with their presence, were likely scrambling now, powdered and perfumed, desperate to arrive before His Majesty's attention drifted elsewhere. Aneria could almost laugh.

What a spectacle it must be, the petty theatre of power, the false graces, the stinging jealousy hidden behind honeyed words. She almost wished she had stayed, if only to witness them all make fools of themselves.

But only Inara would hold his eye tonight. If her womb delivered him a son, she would hold it forever. Aneria yawned, her body growing heavy beneath the lull of silence. She closed the window and stepped away from the moonlight, returning the book to its shelf before moving through her chamber, extinguishing the amber-glowing lamps one by one. These lights were powered by low-grade magic stones, chips of ancient, crystallized power mined from the veins of the earth.

A necessary luxury, found in every noble household across the Five Empires. Without them, the world would halt. No warm baths. No fireless kitchens. No lamplight.But in truth, it was these very stones that fueled endless war. And worse still, they empowered the Sterlings, those rare, cursed few born touched by magic.

Worshipped, feared, and always hunted. His Majesty himself was one such being. A Wilderner, they called him, a man who bent the wind and air to his will. She reached for the final lamp near her dressing table and froze. In the mirror, flickering in the dying light, she caught sight of her own reflection and the thing that marred it. There, at the nape of her neck, half-concealed beneath curls of unruly orange hair, lay the brand. Burnt deep into her skin, black as ash, shaped like a lock. Within it were the stylized initials of the royal family: L.O.A mark of slavery. A seal of ownership. And worse still, a curse. Infused by a Sterling using branding magic, it bound her to the palace grounds. She could not leave without permission. Could not run. Could not flee. Aneria turned the lamp off swiftly, banishing the sight of herself to darkness. She climbed into bed with heavy limbs and an even heavier heart, burying her thoughts in the pillow as fireworks bloomed across the night sky like dying stars. The Firon Empire celebrated. Laughter echoed in the wind. Somewhere, music played. And she, the harem's frost-born beauty, lay alone, wondering what would happen if Inara's child was born a girl. Sleep came at last like a thief, slow and unwelcome. Morning came with thunder. A loud bang echoed through the corridors of the Pearl Palace, jolting Aneria upright. She threw back the sheets and snatched the robe that lay across the chair, hastening barefoot down the marble-floored halls. Her quarters were usually cloaked in silence. She had no visitors, no servants of her own, no bustle like the other women of status.

So the noise could only mean one thing. Trouble. When she opened the great carved doors at the palace's front, the sunlight struck her eyes, but even the glare could not hide the woman standing before her. Tall, lean, and immaculately dressed, with her graying hair twisted into an elegant updo and sharp lines drawn around her mouth from years of disapproval, stood her Madam Sielle. The Keeper of the Harem. She was flanked by two guards in red-plated armor and trailed by no fewer than ten maids, all carrying boxes and bundles of cloth and brass trays. Her eyes, cold and venomous, swept over Aneria with a sneer that might as well have slapped her. That look was familiar. Aneria had seen it the day she arrived, trembling and bloodied at the gates of the Pearl Palace. It said: You are nothing. A frost-born girl. A blemish in His Majesty's garden. Aneria bowed her head low, hiding her face as tradition and survival demanded. "Well?" Madam Sielle drawled, her voice dipped in contempt. "Will you not invite me in, slave girl?" Aneria stepped aside at once, her eyes fixed to the floor. "Of course, Madam Sielle," she murmured, her words tumbling out in haste. "Please... grace me with your presence." The woman swept past her with a rustle of crimson silk, her entourage following like a tide of locusts. Aneria dared a glance upward, just in time to see the older woman inspecting the room like a queen in a stable. "You are to join His Majesty for brunch," she said at last, her tone neutral, but the venom bled through. Bitterness, perhaps. Jealousy. Or simple loathing. For a heartbeat, everything stopped.

The Emperor. He wished to see her. Her? She stood frozen, her thoughts reeling, until Madam Sielle clapped sharply. "Make this beast look slightly presentable," she barked at the maids. The insult stung, but Aneria barely heard it. Her blood rushed with something strange and electric. She could only think of one thing: He wants to see me. Two maids took her gently by the arms, guiding her toward the bath chambers. She followed without resistance, as if in a dream. She had never had maids attend her before, not like the other women of the harem. And as their fingers unfastened her robe and led her into the steaming waters, she felt strangely exposed. They were all women, yes, but the eyes on her felt foreign. Measuring. Still, she endured it. The scalding water. The brushes through her hair. The oils and salts and perfumes. She endured it all because one thought refused to leave her mind, rising above everything else like a sun through the clouds:

The Emperor wants to see me. And whatever fate that held... she would face it. They brought her back to her quarters like a fragile idol being prepared for display, the maids fluttering around her with jars of fragrant creams and vials of perfume that shimmered like molten sunlight. Aneria sat stiffly as warm hands smoothed salves across her arms and shoulders, the foreign oils seeping into her skin with the promise of luxury she did not trust. The scents were floral and thick, blooming in the air like heavy memories, cloying and sweet, meant to mask the scent of fear. Her hair was their next conquest.

Ginger and wild as flame, now tamed into an intricate composition of courtly elegance and veiled power. The top was woven into tight, disciplined braids, bound by a golden ornament shaped like antlers, its central skull motif peering out like a warning. Smaller braids hung freely, adorned with gilded cuffs and beads that caught the morning light like tiny suns. Some were puffed into delicate bubbles, others left slim and sleek, and the remaining strands cascaded in soft waves down her back. The result was haunting, almost holy like a beast dressed as a bride.

The gown was unlike anything she had ever worn, or even dared dream of. It fit her like it had been stitched for her spirit. Deep blue silk clung to her bodice, dipping into a bold V at her chest and cinched at the waist with a belt of hammered gold, set with glittering gemstones that winked like stars under candlelight.

The skirt fanned out in layers of ocean colors midnight, cobalt, and turquoise mimicking the tide in its dance. Over it draped a sheer mantle painted in peacock feathers, the iridescent eyes glinting like a hundred watchful souls. Gold chains traced her collarbone and waist, slithering down her sides, and her sleeves hung like whispers off her shoulders, fastened only by golden cuffs that jingled with every breath. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror, she nearly forgot the brand behind her neck. For a fleeting moment, the frost-born slave was gone. In her place stood someone carved from starlight and ambition, someone too finely adorned to be forgotten. Aneria's breath hitched, her hand rising slowly to touch the antler-shaped crown in her hair. She had looked beautiful before, but now, she looked dangerous. "Why would she dress me like this?" she thought, her amber eyes narrowing as they darted to Madam Sielle, who stood with her back turned, whispering to one of the maids. Surely she means to sabotage me. She loathes me. Always has. Madam Sielle turned, catching Aneria mid-glance. Her eyes scanned the girl from head to toe, not with pride, but with reluctant acknowledgment. "This will have to do," she said, her voice flat as an old blade. "After all, one cannot make a slave into a princess." She walked past Aneria and with a dismissive flick of her fingers, and the maids bowed and scattered as if her shadow burned them. Aneria was guided outside to where the carriage waited beneath the pale morning sun. Unlike Inara's gilded marvels, this one was modest. Purple and gold, dignified but not opulent. A royal carriage, yes, but not a statement. The kind of carriage you send when you want to acknowledge someone, not glorify them. The door opened. Before she could step in, two guards half-lifted her by the arms and deposited her on the cushioned seat as though she were cargo. The door slammed shut behind her, and she barely had time to settle before Madam Sielle climbed in after, seating herself across from Aneria with a silence that echoed louder than words. Sielle's arms folded across her chest, her expression carved from stone. She stared at the girl for a long moment, then turned her head toward the window, the flicker of something unspoken in her eyes. Perhaps disdain. Perhaps something crueler.The wheels creaked, and the carriage began its slow crawl across the palace roads, away from the Pearl Palace and toward the unknown. Aneria sat with her back straight and her hands pressed into her lap, but her heart beat against her ribs like a prisoner desperate for escape.Her fingers began to twitch an old habit from childhood, scraping lightly at the skin near her nails. A sharp voice cut through the stillness. "Stop scratching your fingers," Madam Sielle said without turning. "You cannot greet His Majesty with bloodied hands. You already look enough like an animal. Do not complete the image."

Aneria swallowed hard and tucked her hands under her thighs as if to imprison them. The road ahead stretched on, a golden trail winding through a garden of roses and rumors. She had dreamt of this moment once, long ago when she was still small enough to believe in dreams. But now that it had arrived, it felt like a sentence. Like standing at the mouth of a dragon's cave, robed in silk and expectation. After what felt like an eternity on the road, the carriage finally drew to a slow halt before the forbidding gates of Crown's Castle, the seat of the Emperor and Empress, a fortress unlike any palace Aneria had ever known. Though still part of the same sprawling compound as the Pearl Palace, Crown's Castle stood apart in every way.It was a behemoth of stone and shadow, perched high upon the cliffs that overlooked the Empire's capital city like a silent, jagged crown. The sheer walls loomed tall and imposing, their slate-gray faces darkened by centuries of wind, rain, and the weight of countless seasons. Its towers thrust skyward like sharpened spears, narrow and cruel against the horizon. The tallest spire, cold and austere, seemed to pierce the clouds themselves. Its surface was scarred by narrow slits of windows, dark and watchful, more wounds in stone than openings to the light. Black banners hung limp and faded from iron poles jutting out from the battlements, their edges frayed and torn by the relentless assault of years of storms. The very stones of the castle's walls were a patchwork. Some blocks were coarse and pitted, others smooth and pale, quarried from distant lands and stitched together through the centuries by unknown hands. Massive buttresses thrust outward like ribs, bracing the weight of the keep as if the fortress itself were a living creature. Smaller towers bristled along the outer walls, each crowned with jagged battlements that resembled broken teeth set in a gaping maw. Below, the castle sprawled down jagged slopes where curtain walls wound between ancient trees and outcroppings of stone. Narrow stairways clung precariously to the cliff sides, while arched bridges stretched between bastions as if the very rocks had been woven together by magic. At the base of the cliffs, a mighty waterfall thundered, its white fury crashing into the river far below. Mist curled upward from the spray, drifting like breath from a sleeping beast. The color of the castle was the color of the mountain itself, cold gray stone streaked with veins of black and mossy green, where age and weather had begun to crack and crumble the ancient walls. Here and there, towers of pale stone caught the morning sun, their faces bright and watchful against the gloom. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and pine, and the distant roar of the waterfall carried through the stones like a whispered secret. Aneria stood in awe. The castle was magnificent beyond words. She had only ever seen it from afar, through the narrow window of her chambers at the Pearl Palace or in the tales whispered among the concubines who had served the Emperor before her. They spoke of Crown's Castle as a place of cold splendor and unyielding power. Now, she was here. Closer than ever to the heart of the Empire. Her heart beat faster with a mixture of wonder and fear. As Madam Sielle strode swiftly through the great halls, Aneria struggled to keep pace. The Countess moved with the assured stride of one who knew every shadow and secret of this place. Aneria's eyes darted around, drinking in the details, the carved maps etched into the cold stone walls, depicting the Empire's vast territories, each marked by the sigils of noble houses. The castle maids, dressed uniformly in long blue gowns with veils clipped at their hair, moved silently like ghosts. Blue was their mark. Only the castle maids wore it, setting them apart. Knights stood at intervals throughout the halls, their eyes ever watchful, silent sentinels who seemed to belong more to the shadows than to flesh and blood.

After winding through twisting corridors and sharp turns, they finally arrived at an immense set of brown doors. The surface of the heavy wood was carved with the sigil of a lion crowned with twisted horns, a symbol that spoke of fierce rule and ancient lineage. Two knights stood guard on either side of the doors, rigid and unmoving, their armor gleaming faintly in the dim light. Nearby, a maid bowed her head low, her gaze fixed on the floor in humble submission, a stark contrast to the knights' unyielding vigilance. Madam Sielle leaned close to whisper into the right knight's ear. From the sleeve of her dress, she withdrew a folded letter and handed it over with a grace that betrayed nothing of the tension in her posture. The knight nodded sharply after reading the note. Turning her attention to Aneria, Madam Sielle's voice dropped to a low, biting whisper. "Remember to kneel, slave girl. Keep your head bowed at all times."Aneria's breath caught. She swallowed hard, doing her best to mimic the countess's composed bearing, standing as tall as she could despite the pounding of her heart. Her eyes fixed on the heavy doors ahead, which seemed to swallow the light. Suddenly the silence broke. The knight on the right called out in a booming voice, "Announcing the entrance of Neketis Aneria of the Pearl Palace, escorted by Lady Sielle Sean Arin, Countess of Yorsa and Madam of His Majesty's Harem." The doors swung open with a slow, groaning sound, revealing the vastness within. There, on a terrace overlooking the great hall, stood the man she had glimpsed only yesterday. It was Emperor Kaida Keres Vuskasin. The distance vanished as her eyes met his once again. Beside him stood Scarface, silent and watchful, a grim shadow by the Emperor's side. The moment held its weight. It pressed on her like stone, full of something she could not name, as Aneria stepped forward into the lion's den. The burden of the empire settled across her shoulders. Aneria's mind spun, but she forced herself to break free from the trance that had seized her. She rose slowly and followed Madam Sielle through the heavy doors into the Emperor's chamber. The air inside felt thick with power and ancient secrets. Without hesitation, Madam Sielle knelt on one knee with the practiced grace of a courtier. "Greetings, Your Majesty. I have brought the Neketis as you commanded," she said with measured respect. Aneria dropped to her knees as well, but unlike the countess, she lowered herself fully, both knees pressed against the cold floor. Her gaze fixed firmly on the ground, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her lips remained still. She did not speak unless commanded to do so. A tense silence filled the room. "Greetings to you as well, Countess. You are excused now," came the Emperor's voice. It was low and steady, his authority woven into every syllable. Without a word, Madam Sielle rose with deliberate composure, backing away slowly while never lifting her bow. Then, with a final glance, she slipped from the chamber and the heavy doors closed behind her, muffling the sound of her retreat.Aneria remained kneeling, her face still bowed. The hours crawled by like the slow turning of some dreadful wheel. The Emperor and Scarface continued their council over the affairs of the empire. Men came and went, councilors and courtiers, all casting secret glances her way as if daring to unravel the mystery she represented. Yet none spoke to her. None dared. As the sun lowered, spilling long amber shafts through the windows, Aneria's body began to betray her. Her feet had gone numb from the strain of stillness, and her neck throbbed sharply from hours spent bowing. The agony of her posture crept in. Desperation clawed at her. She needed to move, to stretch, if only for a moment.At last, they were alone. The council had departed, leaving only the Emperor and Scarface on the terrace beyond.

Aneria gathered her courage and slowly lifted her head. Relief swept through her as the tension eased from her neck. She flexed her fingers and stretched her aching arms, savoring the brief reprieve.Careful to remain quiet, she rose to her feet and began to pace gently about the grand chamber. The sanctum stood as a quiet sanctuary, grand yet somehow still warm, despite the weight of its history. Towering bookshelves carved from dark, ancient wood lined the walls like silent watchers.

They groaned under the weight of countless, tomes, their cracked leather spines faded with time. Stone columns framed the shelves, each one etched with curling patterns that resembled frozen ivy. Above, pointed alcoves held deep shadows, their hollows clinging to the walls like eyes that never blinked.

The floor was covered by a vast carpet, its crimson and gold long since softened by the passing of feet and the march of years. The swirling patterns seemed to twist beneath her steps, a living maze that pulled her thoughts inward. At the room's center sat a low, octagonal table, polished dark wood edged in gleaming brass. A heavy brass vessel sat at its heart, squat and worn by time, as if it had gathered the dust of many forgotten stories.Plush seats and cushioned benches had been scattered about the chamber. Their velvets, deep blue and earthy brown, looked both worn and welcoming. Each wooden frame was carved with careful detail, the legs capped in shining copper. Great clay pots cradled wild tangles of green leaves, their branches stretching high toward the vaulted ceiling, adding a breath of life to the stillness.

Golden sunlight poured through tall windows, the crimson curtains drawn just enough to let the beams fall across the floor in streaks. The light softened the shadows that clung to the shelves and crept along the walls, filling the space with a quiet warmth. The air smelled of parchment and old leather, with the faint trace of incense and dried herbs still lingering. Aneria's gaze drifted to the table, where a map lay spread wide. Several locations had been carefully circled in dark ink, places whispered to hide the fabled Magic Stones. Scattered papers surrounded the map, some marked with imperial seals, others filled with hasty scrawl. Her eyes landed on one such document, the faded script calling to her. Before she could reach for it, footsteps sounded behind her. Scarface and the Emperor had returned from the terrace. Their shadows stretched across the floor, long and cold. Their eyes met briefly hers and the Emperor's a sharp, piercing moment that said everything and nothing at once. Her breath caught. She quickly set the document back in its place, her heart pounding so hard it seemed to rattle her bones. A chill settled deep within her. This could be the end.

"You are excused, Sir Jesterion," the Emperor's voice filled the chamber, cutting through her panic like the crack of distant thunder. The name was unfamiliar to her, a new piece in the court's shifting game.

The man known as Scarface gave a slow, deliberate bow. Without a word, he crossed the room and disappeared through the heavy doors. The wood closed behind him with a dull thud. Now only two remained. Aneria knelt once more on the cold floor of the vast chamber. His Majesty stood above her, watching her with eyes as cold and unyielding as the stone that surrounded them. A suffocating thought gripped her mind. This was her reckoning. Whatever fate the Emperor had prepared, there was no path left to escape it.