The empire burned that night — the flames rising like blood-colored towers against a moonless sky. Screams carried through the marble streets of Solmora, the capital once called the Heart of Dawn. Now, it was only the heart of ruin.

From the balcony of the imperial hall, Empress Seraphine watched the citadel fall. The scent of smoke and iron filled her lungs; the cries of loyal guards echoed down the corridor. Somewhere below, her husband — the emperor — lay slain by his own brother’s blade.

The man who killed him now sat upon the throne.

Kaelith — her husband’s blood brother — had seized the empire with the cruelty of a god unbound. And as the empire bled, his wrath turned toward her.

“She carries the emperor’s heir,” Kaelith had said, his voice a whisper that carried through every shadow. “End her. End the line.”

So the hunt began.

The empress ran through the silent corridors, her silken gown torn and blood-marked. Every step echoed like thunder in the emptiness. At her side moved Captain Tharen, one of the emperor’s last loyal men — his armor dented, his breath ragged.

“This way, my lady,” he said. “The secret passage beneath the Sun Chapel. It leads beyond the eastern cliffs.”

“Tharen… what of the others?”

He hesitated. “All fallen.”

Her heart stuttered, but she pressed forward. Somewhere deep inside her, beneath the terror, she felt the child stir. Maun. The last light of Solmora.

---

The tunnel smelled of dust and salt — carved long ago for a war no one remembered. They moved in silence, save for the steady rhythm of Seraphine’s breath and the faint pulse of light from Tharen’s rune-lantern.

Above them, the empire died.

For a brief moment, Seraphine stopped. The tunnel opened into a chamber where murals of ancient kings and forgotten gods lined the walls — their painted eyes watching her as though judging her sorrow.

She touched the mural of the Dawn King — her husband’s ancestor — and whispered, “Let your light guard him.”

Tharen knelt beside her, sword trembling in his hand. “Your Majesty… even if we reach the edge of the empire, there will be no return.”

“I know,” she said. “But he must live. If one spark remains, the dawn will rise again.”

---

They reached the edge of the cliffs before dawn. Wind howled over the sea; storm clouds gathered like mourning banners. Below, the tide broke against jagged rocks — the border between Solmora and the untamed Wildlands beyond.

Waiting there was Lyra, the spirit-seer, cloaked in gray mist. Her eyes shimmered faintly with otherworldly fire.

“You are late,” she said, her voice soft but ageless. “The empire has already fallen.”

“Then we are the ashes,” Seraphine replied.

Lyra’s gaze drifted to her stomach. “The child… he bears the mark.”

Seraphine’s hands tightened protectively around her belly. “He bears the blood of kings.”

“No,” Lyra whispered. “He bears the burden of dawn. When the old world crumbles, his path will begin — in exile, in silence, in pain. But from that pain, a new flame will rise.”

A faint cry of pursuit echoed through the cliffs. Kaelith’s soldiers.

Tharen drew his sword. “Go! I’ll hold them!”

“Tharen—”

He turned to her, smiling through his exhaustion. “For the emperor. For Solmora. For the dawn.”

And before she could stop him, he ran back into the darkness. The clash of steel followed — sharp, desperate, brief.

Lyra’s spell carried the empress across the cliffs, through mist and memory, until the empire vanished behind her like a dream collapsing into smoke.

---

When the spell faded, Seraphine found herself at the edge of a quiet forest — far beyond Solmora’s reach. The pain came swiftly then, like fire tearing through her body. The storm broke above her, rain washing over her face as she screamed.

Under the shadow of ancient trees, her son was born.

She named him Maun, after the last word her husband ever spoke — “my dawn.”

For hours she held him close, her tears mingling with the rain. In that moment, there was no empire, no prophecy, no gods — only a mother and her child, and the faint hope that somewhere, somehow, light would return to the world.

When dawn came, the forest glowed gold. The storm had passed.

Seraphine, weak but resolute, whispered a final prayer:

“Live, my son. Even if the world forgets your name — live.”

Then the light swallowed her, and the wind carried her last breath into legend.

---

And thus began the exile of Maun — the orphan of Solmora, the child of ashes, and the dawn that would one day burn again.

---

The storm tore across the cliffs, shrieking through jagged stones and tossing rain like shards of glass. Seraphine lay sprawled on the wet rocks, her blood mixing with the mud, her arms cradling the newborn. Maun’s cries were sharp, raw — the desperate sound of life clinging to a world that had already abandoned him.

The wind carried his cries into the forest beyond. And there, among twisted trunks and shadows, eyes glimmered. Pale silver, alert, intelligent. Figures moved — humanoid, lithe, their markings faint streaks of silver and ash along arms and faces, muscles coiled and ready.

Seryth, leader of the Lunaris pack, stepped forward. She was taller than any human, her movements precise and fluid, her presence commanding even in the storm. Rain plastered her silver-streaked hair to her face. Her eyes narrowed, analyzing the sound that had pulled her from the forest’s safety.

“What… is that sound?” she asked softly, more to herself than anyone.

One of her younger pack members, shifting behind her, hissed. “It’s human. Leave it. Humans die in storms, or predators find them first. We should leave it.”

Seryth’s gaze never left the crying infant. The wind tugged at her cloak, the rain drenched her to the bone, and yet she felt a strange… pull. A fragility, yes, but also a spark — a tiny flare of life that demanded attention.

She knelt, letting her hands hover above the child. Every instinct screamed caution: he was human, weak, defenseless. One misstep and the cliffs would claim him, the storm would sweep him away, or some predator could snatch him before she could act.

Do I dare? she thought, heart hammering. Do I interfere with what the world seems to have discarded?

A second voice broke through her hesitation — a comrade, his features tense under the silver moonlight. “Leader… it’s human. We cannot take him. This is not our way. Our strength is survival, not mercy.”

Seryth inhaled sharply, letting the cold wind sting her lungs. Her mind raced. Every beat of the infant’s cry resonated with her own memory of loss, of struggle. She had seen death take the helpless before. She had sworn never to waste a spark of life… yet this spark was human. Vulnerable. Different.

Another roar echoed in the distance — not of the storm, but of some unseen predator. The pack tensed, glancing toward the forest. Every instinct urged her to retreat, to abandon the child, to survive.

And yet… she could not.

Seryth extended her hand slowly, each movement deliberate, muscles taut, eyes flicking to the infant and back to her hesitant pack. The boy’s cries pierced the wind like fire, raw and demanding.

The comrade stepped forward again, voice trembling. “Leader, think. If we take him… he will bind us. He is human! Fragile! Dangerous!”

Seryth’s jaw tightened. She looked down at the small, wet body trembling in the rain, eyes wide, hands reaching for warmth, life — and she saw not weakness, but a spark of something unclaimed, unextinguishable.

Her hand hovered over him. Time stretched. The storm raged. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the cliff, the child, the pack — every choice hanging in balance.

I cannot… leave him.

Her voice was soft, but firm, carrying over the wind. “No. He is life. And life… is sacred, no matter the shape it wears.”

The pack held its breath. The storm raged. Maun’s cries continued, urgent and piercing.

Seryth bent lower, letting her hands close gently around him. His tiny body pressed to hers, shivering, wet, alive. Every instinct in her screamed caution, fear, responsibility. Yet another thought arose, sharp and undeniable: this child would shape the world, even if she could not yet understand how.

She rose slightly, holding him against her chest. Rain poured down her face, mixing with mud and determination. Her eyes met her pack’s.

“We will raise him,” she said, voice unwavering. “He is one of us now. The child of the fallen empire… the child who cries for dawn.”

The comrade hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. Others shifted, uncertain, but the decision was made. Seryth held the child tight, the silver glow of her eyes reflecting the storm, reflecting the tiny pulse of life she had chosen to protect.

Above, lightning streaked the sky again, and Maun’s cries mingled with the storm. Seryth tightened her grip, feeling the warmth of the spark she had claimed from the abyss of loss. The world was dangerous. The child was fragile. Yet she had chosen. And that choice would ripple through time in ways none of them could yet imagine.

---

The cliffs were quiet now, the storm reduced to the occasional gust of wind that swept the wet stones. Maun’s cries had softened, the newborn’s small body trembling against Seryth’s strong chest. Around them, the humanoid Lunaris pack watched with a mixture of curiosity and caution. Their pale silver eyes reflected the last flashes of lightning, alert to every sound and movement.

Seryth moved carefully, her long legs and precise steps navigating the slippery cliffs. Each footfall was deliberate; the rocks slicked with rain and blood demanded respect. She could feel the child’s life, fragile yet stubborn, pressed against her heart. Behind her, the pack murmured uneasily.

“He is human,” one of the younger Lunaris whispered, stepping closer. “We should leave him. Humans cannot survive here.”

Seryth’s silver eyes narrowed. “He cries for life,” she said softly, letting the words carry across the wind. “And life… is sacred.”

She knelt at the edge of a narrow path, her hand hovering above Maun. Every instinct told her to hesitate — the cliffs dropped sharply, predators could be anywhere, the storm could return at any moment. Yet, the child’s tiny whimpers drew her forward, step by careful step.

The pack followed silently, their humanoid forms moving with an uncanny grace. Muscles coiled like springs under rain-soaked skin, each member alert to every shadow, every sound. A sudden snap of a branch made the younger members freeze. Seryth’s hand went up, stopping them. “Observe first. React later.”

From the underbrush, a faint movement caught their eyes — a small humanoid scout, its silver markings glinting in the wet light. It watched them silently, tilting its head as if questioning the child’s place in this world. Maun stirred against Seryth’s chest, his cries rising, small and insistent.

> “He is fragile,” one whispered.

“He is alive,” Seryth corrected, her voice low but firm. “That is enough.”

They continued along the cliffside, the forest ahead dark and heavy with shadows. Rain had soaked the ground, and the air smelled of moss, wet stone, and iron. Maun squirmed in Seryth’s arms, fascinated by the scents and sounds, unaware that every gust, every rustle, carried danger.

After hours that felt like days, they reached a small clearing where the light filtered weakly through the canopy. Seryth set Maun down gently on the soft moss. He toppled immediately, small hands grasping at the damp earth, but his eyes widened in wonder at the forest around him.

Rhaen crouched beside him, his expression unreadable. “He must learn,” he murmured. “The forest is his teacher now.”

Maun crawled forward, touching leaves, roots, and wet stones. Each sensation was new: the rough bark, the cold moss, the slick touch of rain on his skin. His curiosity grew, overriding the instinctive fear that pulsed within him.

Then he saw it — a small collection of bones, half-buried in moss and mud. Animal remains, long stripped of flesh, yet still stark and unforgiving. Maun froze, tiny fingers brushing the edge of a skull. His eyes widened, the weight of the forest’s lesson pressing on him before he even understood it: life was fragile, and death was close.

Seryth watched silently, her hand ready to guide him, yet letting him discover this truth for himself. This was the first step — not just into the wildlands, but into survival itself.

Maun touched the remains again, more confidently now, the fear turning into understanding. The world was dangerous. The forest demanded respect. And for the first time, the newborn felt a glimmer of the strength that would one day define him.

Author's note: if you find this chapter interesting, do forget to like and comment below. If you have any ideas for the novel, please express yourself.🥹🥹😊😊😊