The Hall of Pacts had never known silence like this.
It was not the reverent quiet of prayer nor the disciplined stillness of ceremony, but something tighter—an absence of sound so deliberate it felt enforced, as though the world itself had drawn a breath and refused to release it.
Seven banners hung from the high arches of the hall, each bearing the sigil of a Great Clan, their threads woven with Pact magic older than the kingdoms they represented. In ages past, those banners had moved even without wind, responding to the presence of their bearers, resonating faintly with living power.
Tonight, they did not stir.
They hung stiff and lifeless, as though the air feared what would be spoken beneath them.
High Chronicler Edris stood alone at the center of the marble floor. His age-bent hands clenched his staff so tightly that his knuckles had gone white, yet his voice—when he spoke—remained steady.
"Let this gathering be recorded," he said, the words echoing up into the vaulted ceiling, "as a council convened in peace."
A murmur followed. Low. Skeptical. Restrained.
Peace was a fragile word in Aetherra—used often, trusted rarely.
The first to step forward wore robes of white and gold, their fabric faintly luminous, as if light itself had chosen to linger there. His presence softened the edges of the hall, easing tension without effort. Whether it was magic or belief that calmed the air, no one could say.
"Aurelion remains devoted to balance," he said. His voice carried the practiced weight of judgment, honed over generations of law and oath. "We are Radiance-bound—keepers of truth and enforcers of the Pact. We do not seek war."
He paused, eyes sweeping the hall with painful clarity.
"We prevent it."
Several representatives lowered their gazes. In Aurelion's presence, lies felt heavier.
Soft fabric whispered against stone as the next speaker stepped forward.
The representative of Velmire smiled—warmly, reassuringly—but her eyes missed nothing. "Peace," she said, "is most effective when it is unnoticed." Her voice flowed like water, smooth and unhurried. "Velmire governs the tides—of sea and of memory. We shape thought, preserve history, and guide kingdoms without forcing their hand."
She folded her hands gently. "Wars end. Minds remember. We prefer victories that leave no scars."
A heavy footstep interrupted her.
Then another.
The Dornfall emissary did not bow, nor did he soften his stance. He stood broad and immovable, as if the marble beneath him had risen to take human form.
"We are stone," he said simply. "Body and earth. Dornfall holds when others retreat. We shield borders. We endure sieges."
His jaw tightened, eyes dark. "We do not hunger for glory. Only that what we defend is worth the cost."
Lightning cracked—sharp, sudden, almost playful.
The Skyrend delegate lounged against a pillar, boots barely touching the floor, energy thrumming visibly beneath his skin. "You all speak as though tomorrow is guaranteed," he said with a grin. "Skyrend lives in the now."
Sparks danced between his fingers.
"Speed. Storm. Freedom. We strike before danger settles in, and we vanish before it understands what happened. We burn fast, yes." His grin softened, just a little. "But we live more in one decade than most do in a lifetime."
The candles flickered.
Not extinguished—subdued.
Shadows deepened along the edges of the hall, stretching unnaturally long.
"Noctyrr listens," came a voice smooth as velvet and cold as steel, "while others announce themselves."
A figure emerged from the darkness, features indistinct, as though light refused to remember them. "We command shadow, fear, and silence. We gather truths not meant to survive daylight."
The voice dipped, almost amused. "Loyalty is possible—but only where honesty exists."
The shadows withdrew, leaving unease behind like a lingering chill.
Then the heat arrived.
It rolled through the hall, thick and suffocating, torches flaring brighter in response as a man clad in ember-red armor strode forward. His presence pressed down on the gathering—dominant, unapologetic, impossible to ignore.
"Pyrrh does not hide behind pretty words," he said. "We are fire. Destruction. The strength that ends conflict rather than prolongs it."
His gaze swept across the hall, daring anyone to challenge him.
"Peace is not maintained by restraint," he continued. "It is enforced by power."
Silence followed—dense, heavy, and dangerous.
At last, a soft rustle of green broke it.
Queen Elowen of Ashvale rose.
She did not radiate power. She did not bend the room to her will. Yet when she spoke, the hall leaned closer, compelled by something quieter and deeper than fear.
"Ashvale heals," she said. Her voice was calm, steady, unadorned. "We mend flesh and spirit. We cleanse corruption when Pact energy turns against its bearer."
Her hand rested unconsciously on her abdomen, where life stirred unseen.
"We are not warriors," she continued. "We are not rulers. We exist so the world may survive the cost of power."
A sharp laugh cut through her words.
"Survive?" the Pyrrh lord scoffed. "You survive because others bleed." He took a step forward. "Bind Ashvale to Pyrrh, Healer Queen. Stand with fire, and your clan will never be threatened again."
It was not an offer.
Queen Elowen lifted her chin. "Ashvale will not trade life for dominance."
The heat flared—angry now, volatile.
"So be it," the Pyrrh lord said softly.
Thunder rolled beyond the hall's walls.
That night, as storm clouds devoured the moon, Queen Elowen screamed—not in terror, but in labor.
The child came as lightning split the sky.
A baby girl.
Her cry was thin but fierce, slicing through wind and rain alike. The midwives wept with relief. The King laughed once, breathless and disbelieving, pressing his forehead to his wife's.
Then the ground shook.
A horn sounded in the distance.
Then another.
A guard burst into the chamber, blood already soaking his armor. "Your Majesty," he gasped, "Pyrrh banners at the borders. Skyrend scouts are missing. The shadows—Noctyrr moves with them."
The King's expression hardened.
"So it begins," he said.
Outside, fire painted the horizon.
Queen Elowen gathered her daughter close, shielding the infant as if her own body could defy what was coming. She pressed her lips to the child's forehead.
"They will call us weak," she whispered. "They will say we deserved this."
The walls trembled as the first blow struck Ashvale's gates.
"But remember," she murmured, her voice breaking yet unyielding, "we were never powerless."
The baby's tiny hand curled around her finger.
And as Ashvale burned, the weakest clan gave the world something it would one day fear—
A survivor.
Steel rang against stone.
"Hold the eastern gate!" the King roared, his voice cutting through smoke and screams. "Dornfall shields—now!"
"They're breaking through!" a soldier shouted. "Fire on the ramparts—Pyrrh fire!"
A scream followed. Then another.
"Your Majesty," a captain gasped, blood streaking his brow, "Skyrend has breached the upper walls. They're too fast—we can't—"
"Then slow them," the King snapped, driving his blade into a Pyrrh warrior, the heat singing his skin. "Even if it costs us everything."
A healer cried out nearby. "We're running out of hands—too many wounded!"
"Then heal who you can," the King said hoarsely. "Ashvale does not abandon its own."
The castle shook.
Inside the inner chamber, Queen Elowen clutched the infant tightly as another explosion rattled the walls.
"She won't stop crying," a trembling midwife whispered. "The noise—it frightens her."
"No," the Queen murmured, rocking the baby. "She cries because she feels it. The fire. The pain."
A servant burst in, face pale. "Your Majesty—Noctyrr shadows are inside the lower halls. They're—" His voice broke. "They're killing the healers first."
The Queen's breath caught.
"They know," she whispered. "They know what we are."
Another crash. Stone crumbled from the ceiling.
"Elowen!"
The King stumbled into the chamber, armor cracked, blood—not all his own—dripping onto the floor.
"The gates won't hold," he said, voice raw. "I can buy time. Not victory."
She met his eyes. No panic. Only grief.
"How long?" she asked.
"Minutes," he answered. "Maybe less."
The baby whimpered, small fists curling.
The Queen looked down at her daughter, then back at her husband.
"She can't stay," Elowen said.
The King's jaw tightened. "No."
"She must," she insisted. "If she stays, she dies."
A horn sounded closer now. Too close.
A servant stood frozen near the door, clutching a basket meant for herbs.
"You," the Queen said sharply. "Come here."
"M-Me, Your Majesty?" the servant stammered.
Elowen gently laid the baby into the basket, wrapping her in green cloth stitched with Ashvale sigils.
"Listen to me," the Queen said, gripping the servant's shoulders. "You will take her through the root tunnels. You will not stop. You will not look back."
"I— I'm only a servant," they cried.
"And tonight," the King said, placing his bloodied hand over the basket, "you are her shield."
The baby began to cry louder, sensing the separation.
"I'm sorry," Elowen whispered to her daughter, tears finally falling. "I wanted a gentler world for you."
She pressed her forehead to the child's.
"Live," she begged softly. "Live enough to choose."
A scream echoed down the hall.
"They're here!" a guard shouted.
The King turned, sword blazing faintly with borrowed fire. "Go," he ordered the servant. "Now."
"What about you?" the servant sobbed.
The King smiled grimly. "I will remind them what it costs to take everything."
The servant fled.
Footsteps thundered closer.
Elowen straightened, wiping her tears.
"They will call us weak," she said quietly.
"They will," the King agreed.
He kissed her once—quick, desperate.
"But they will remember this night," he said, turning toward the door. "Because Ashvale did not beg."
Outside, the fire roared.
Inside, a basket disappeared into darkness.
And somewhere beyond the flames, a child carried the last breath of a fallen kingdom.
Steel screamed against steel. Sparks flew. Ash and smoke filled the night air.
"Hold the line! Do not falter!" the King roared, sword barely glowing with the last of his waning Aether.
A soldier stumbled, blood slicking the stone. "Your Majesty… we can't—"
"I said hold!" the King bellowed, cleaving through a Pyrrh warrior. The heat singed his hair; his hands trembled from exhaustion.
A scream carried across the battlefield. The Queen's voice.
"Elowen!" he shouted, heart twisting.
"They've broken through—Noctyrr, Skyrend, Pyrrh—they're everywhere," a soldier gasped, coughing on smoke. "We can't…"
The King roared again, charging forward. "Then die trying!"
A distant, triumphant laugh slithered across the battlefield.
"He cannot hold," the Pyrrh lord muttered, watching from a hill ablaze. "Neither of them can."
The Queen's voice trembled, shouting over the roar of fire. "I… I won't let them take us!"
"You must," the King gasped, swinging at enemies that moved faster than he could track. "Elowen… we… we should run… take the child—"
"Stop," the Queen said firmly, though her strength was fading. Her mana flickered like dying embers. She struck a final, desperate blow at a Pyrrh warrior and staggered back. "The baby is already safe. Don't… waste your worry on her. Focus on living—focus on me."
The King's chest heaved. His eyes darted to the smoke, the fire, the enemy advancing from every side. "But—"
"No," she snapped, her hand glowing faintly as her last energy left her. "Don't. You cannot save all of us. But she… she will survive. That is enough."
Another crash. Stone splintered. Soldiers fell around them, their screams muffled by the roar of fire and steel.
"They're everywhere…," the Queen whispered, voice trembling. Her robes were stained with blood, her body trembling from exhaustion and mana depletion.
"Elowen!" the King screamed, swinging his sword in a wide arc, burning his last reserves of power. "Hold on! Don't leave me here!"
A Pyrrh warrior lunged, and the Queen went down before his eyes. Blood blossomed across her chest, her eyes wide, lips trembling.
"No…" he rasped, stumbling through the chaos, dragging himself toward her.
"Reach for me," she whispered, her hand barely moving. "Do… not… stop."
"I… I won't," he gasped, coughing through smoke and pain. "I'll… I—"
"Together," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Together… no matter what."
He squeezed her hand, gripping it as tightly as his last strength allowed. The world around them burned and screamed. Soldiers fell. Walls crumbled. Fire consumed all in its path.
"Together…" he echoed, closing his eyes.
And the battlefield swallowed them.
From atop a hill, the Pyrrh lord laughed—long, triumphant, cruel. "So falls Ashvale," he said, voice echoing over the flames. "The healer king and queen… weak, yet remembered for the spectacle of their end."
The wind carried the stench of smoke, blood, and scorched stone.
The servant moved cautiously through the twisted ruins of Ashvale, every step crunching ash and shattered stone beneath her boots.
The baby slept in her arms, wrapped tightly in the green cloth, chest rising and falling so gently it was almost impossible to believe the world outside was burning.
A shiver ran down the servant's spine.
"I… I have a bad feeling," she muttered under her breath, voice barely audible over the distant roar of collapsing walls.
The wind whispered through the broken towers, carrying with it the stench of smoke, blood, and something darker—an almost… deliberate menace.
But she didn't stop.
"No. No. Keep moving," she whispered to herself, rocking the baby slightly. "It's fine. It's fine… just a feeling."
She stumbled over a fallen beam and cursed under her breath. "Ashvale… I can't look back. Not now."
Finally, after what felt like hours, she stepped out of the ruined castle, leaving the charred gates behind. The fire flared far behind her, painting the horizon in angry orange.
She paused, adjusting the bundle in her arms. The baby stirred, opening her tiny eyes for the first time in hours.
The servant noticed something glinting against the baby's tiny chest—a delicate chain, a necklace, dangling slightly from the folds of cloth.
"Oh… oh," she breathed, recognition hitting her. She carefully lifted it, brushing ash from the pendant.
It was a small, intricate sunburst. A gift… from the King.
"My little one," the servant whispered softly, feeling tears prick her eyes. "The Queen said she's safe… yes… you're safe… and yet…"
She pressed the baby gently to her chest. "You don't have a name yet, do you?"
The baby yawned, tiny hands curling around the necklace as if sensing its importance.
The servant ran a trembling finger along the sunburst. "No… not a name. But you… you need one. Something strong. Something that will make them remember you—not as weak… not as helpless… but as someone who survived everything."
She paused, staring at the horizon, the burning kingdom behind her. The wind carried distant cries, the echoes of her masters' last stand.
"Lyra," she said softly, testing the word. "Yes… Lyra Ashenvale. A spark in the ashes… a light that survived the fire."
The baby squirmed against her chest, cooing faintly.
"Lyra," the servant whispered again, pressing the necklace gently against her heart. "Lyra… you will grow strong. And one day… one day, they'll know your name."
The servant tightened her arms, moving forward, keeping her steps light but purposeful. The ruined kingdom faded behind them, swallowed by fire and shadow.
But in her arms, Lyra Ashenvale slept peacefully, carrying the first hope of a world that had tried to destroy her.
The forest outside Ashvale's ruins stretched dark and silent. The smell of smoke still lingered faintly in the air, mixed with damp earth and ash.
The servant moved carefully, cradling Lyra in her arms. The baby's tiny fingers curled around the folds of green cloth, her eyes blinking sleepily at the dim light filtering through the trees.
The servant's heart tightened. She had named the child—Lyra Ashenvale.
But the thought made her shiver.
"No," she whispered under her breath. "No, she can't… not Ashvale."
Her hands tightened around Lyra's small frame. "If anyone—Pyrrh, Skyrend, Noctyrr—ever hears that name… they'll know who she is. They'll know she's the last of the healers. They'll…" Her voice faltered, thick with fear.
She pressed a finger to the baby's tiny lips. "Shh… I won't let them. Not you. Not ever."
The baby stirred, cooing softly, and the servant felt a sharp pang of responsibility. Every step from here would determine whether Lyra lived… whether she could grow up far from the ruins and blood-stained walls of Ashvale.
The servant swallowed hard. "No one will know who you really are. Not yet. Not until it's safe."
Her gaze fell to herself—the one who had carried the child through fire, through ruin.
"You…" she whispered, voice almost trembling, "you will carry my name instead. They will know nothing of your past… of your parents… of Ashvale. Only that you survived."
She adjusted the green cloth carefully, brushing a strand of hair from Lyra's forehead. "Lyra… Lyra Thalorin. That's who you are now. Not a healer… not yet. Just a child who survived."
The baby's tiny hand brushed against the necklace, the last gift of a kingdom burned to ash. The servant smiled faintly through tears.
"Yes," she murmured, stroking Lyra's back. "We'll survive… together."
The forest loomed around them, shadows deepening with each step. The servant's stomach twisted with fear. She had no idea what awaited in the towns beyond the border, no idea if anyone would welcome them. But she had no choice.
"We have to keep moving," she said aloud, voice firm, almost to convince herself as much as the child. "We head to the next town. We find safety. And we stay hidden. No one must know who you are… not for a long, long time."
Lyra yawned, nestling against her chest.
The servant swallowed again, heart heavy but resolute. "Yes… we'll make it. Somehow… we'll survive. You and I… just the two of us."
And so, she stepped forward, deeper into the forest, carrying the last spark of Ashvale's legacy—silent, hidden, and yet burning brighter than the flames behind them.
And so, the last spark of Ashvale walked forward into a world that had already tried to destroy her. Will she survive? Only time would tell.