chapter 1 — The Night of Ashes

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.

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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.”

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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.

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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.

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

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