The dawn rode pale and cold across the plains of Thareth.
Mist clung low to the grass, curling around the hooves of the Lycan mounts as they cut their way southeast toward the sea. The air smelled of iron and salt — the promise of the black, still waters of the Silent Sea glimmering faintly on the horizon.
The royal entourage rode in formation: twenty riders, half armored in blackened steel, half clad in the traditional garb of the tribes — furs, leather, and chain threaded together like history itself. Their cloaks billowed in the wind, blending with the mane of the Queen's horse as it carried her beside her mate.
Queen Vaelora and King Thalric rode at the front, side by side. Their pace was measured, the rhythm of the horses a steady thunder rolling through the morning stillness.
Behind them, the guards rode in two fanned lines, each warrior keeping formation with the discipline of a pack — not rigid like soldiers, but fluid, alive, as though the wind itself took orders from their lungs.
They had left the forests of Var Dareth behind at dawn and now crossed the last stretch of open land before the coast. Soon, they would descend to the docks, where ships awaited to carry them to Vathar Isle — where blood and diplomacy would share a table for the first time in centuries.
The truce demanded presence. Yet even as the salt wind reached them, Vaelora's thoughts were far away — south, past the mountains, past the storm gathering above another palace.
Something had changed in the pulse of the world.
She felt it first as a hum beneath her ribs — faint, like the brush of unseen wings.
Then it deepened. A pull. A tremor not of the earth, but of lineage.
Vaelora slowed her horse.
The riders behind her adjusted without command, the formation rippling like water, instinctive. Thalric's mount matched her pace instantly. He turned toward her, the motion smooth but sharp with attention.
"Vaelora."
Her hand was on her chest before she realized it — fingers pressed just above her heart. Beneath them, light bloomed faintly, gold flickering through the veins of her wrist like embers beneath skin.
Thalric's instincts flared before his thoughts could form. His reins tightened, his body shifted subtly between her and the horizon. His voice, when it came, was half growl.
"Danger?"
She met his gaze — and in her eyes burned the same gold, steady and unearthly.
"No," she said softly. "Not danger."
He didn't relax. "Then what?"
Her pulse quickened beneath her palm. The glow was stronger now, threads of molten light moving through her veins. The horses grew restless, stamping at the dirt, ears twitching toward her heartbeat as if hearing it aloud.
"It's her," Vaelora whispered. Her voice carried not fear, but something heavier — awe, threaded with longing.
Thalric frowned. "Your daughter?"
"Yes." The word came with breathless certainty. "It's begun."
The wind shifted, sharp and electric. Vaelora closed her eyes as if listening to something beyond sound — a resonance traveling through the marrow, ancient and familiar.
She had felt this before, long ago, when her own blood had changed — when her body had burned and the world had bent to her senses. But this tremor wasn't hers alone. It was her daughter's.
"She's awakening," she murmured, her voice barely audible over the gathering wind.
Her lips curved into a sorrowful smile. "And I'm not there to guide her."
Thalric's jaw clenched. He reached across, gloved fingers brushing her arm — a silent offer of steadiness against whatever force now moved through her.
The golden light beneath her skin began to fade, dimming back into the quiet pulse of mortal flesh, though the air still hummed faintly with power.
She opened her eyes again, the gold now only a ghost behind her pupils.
"I'll explain when we make camp," she said.
He studied her for a long moment before nodding once.
The formation ahead had halted, riders waiting for the unspoken command. Vaelora straightened in the saddle, a subtle shift of her ankle sent the horse forward once more. The Lycan guards followed as one.
The wind carried her hair across her face, and for a heartbeat, her expression softened — fierce and mournful all at once.
She turned her gaze eastward, toward the horizon, where the sun rose over the sea.
"Hold fast, little flame," she whispered beneath her breath, too low for even Thalric to hear. "You're not alone."
The Queen rode on — her heartbeat still faintly echoing in gold.
—
Far beneath ancient mountains, where no sound of wind or prayer could reach, two figures sat across from one another in a chamber carved from living stone.
The room was vast, circular, lit only by the reflection of fire on water. A black pool stretched between them — motionless, its surface glass-smooth, breaking only to breathe faint curls of steam. The walls were veined with gold and obsidian, their gleam muted beneath the low light of floating candles. Shadows moved like thought along the ceiling, heavy and deliberate, as if they too were alive.
A woman reclined against the carved edge of the pool, the water lapping at her shoulders. She was beautiful in a way that made beauty itself seem mortal — every line and motion deliberate, effortless, eternal. Her hair spread behind her like threads of silver flame, her skin glimmering faintly as though the light beneath the water came from her, not the candles. Her eyes were closed, her posture one of impossible stillness.
Across from her sat a man — broad-shouldered, motionless, power drawn in tight around him like a storm contained. He leaned back slightly, one arm resting on the carved stone, the other submerged. His skin was the color of cooled bronze, his hair black with a deep red sheen that caught the firelight. A line of runes crossed his chest from shoulder to shoulder, faintly illuminated as though the embers beneath the skin refused to die. There was nothing peaceful about him — he was chaos on a leash.
For a long time, neither spoke.
Then it came — a shift in the air, subtle but vast. The stone itself seemed to hum. The flames shuddered. The water rippled once, twice, and then stilled again.
The woman's eyes opened.
Light flared within them — molten gold that caught on the steam and gilded the chamber in reflected glow. She inhaled softly, as though the world above had exhaled through her. For a heartbeat, the water around her pulsed with that same gold, faint veins of radiance threading through the pool before fading.
Across from her, the man stirred. His gaze rose to meet hers — and though no word passed between them, his eyes gleamed, dark and knowing. He understood.
A smile ghosted over his mouth — sharp, faintly amused, a creature of war recognizing the rhythm of fate when it returned.
The woman's answering smile was quieter — touched with wonder, and something perilously close to tenderness.
"She's waking," she murmured, her voice smooth as the surface between them. It was unclear whether she was speaking to him or to the world itself.
His gaze dropped briefly to the water, where faint light still coiled like veins of fire beneath the surface. "It took longer than I expected."
"She wasn't ready before." Her tone was serene, though her fingers traced the water's edge with idle reverence. "But now she is."
He tilted his head, watching her, a slow grin curving like a blade being drawn. "Then it begins."
The candles flickered, their reflections fracturing across the black water. The mountain seemed to exhale — a low, resonant sound, too deep to be wind.
The woman's golden eyes met his once more. "Our time draws near."
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, and for the first time, the faintest shimmer of light glowed beneath his skin, tracing the runes across his chest — not gold, but a deep, burning red. The hue of embers before the fire reignites.
"Then let them wake the storm," he said softly. "We have waited long enough."
The woman smiled again — not cruelly, but with the calm certainty of one who had already seen the ending written.
Above them, unseen, thunder rolled.
The pool stilled once more. The light dimmed.
And deep beneath the mountain, the world turned in its sleep.