Sylvaria, the Kingdom of Vaelthorne, did not wake gently.
It stirred before dawn, before the sun had fully crested the jagged mountain ridges that surrounded it like a natural fortress.
The first sounds came from the lower barracks, with the boots against stone, armor being fastened, and the low murmur of men preparing for drills. Then came the sharper noises: the scrape of blades drawn from sheaths, and the hollow knock of wooden practice swords striking shields.
By the time the sun rose, the kingdom was already alive. The castle itself loomed high above it all, built from heavy gray stone cut from the mountains decades ago. Its towers were thick, defensive, and built to endure siege and storm alike.
Midnight blue banners trimmed in molten gold hung from iron brackets, snapping sharply in the wind that never seemed to rest at this altitude. Even the air smelled like iron and smoke. The steel and pine resin woven together in a way that had come to define the kingdom of Vaelthorne itself.
Strength was not simply admired here. It was already expected.
Princess Solthea Vaelthorne stood on the eastern balcony overlooking the training grounds, her hands wrapped around the stone railing worn smooth by generations before her. The morning air bit lightly at her cheeks, and loose strands of dark hair brushed against her face each time the wind shifted direction.
She did not brush them away though, because her focus remained below.
The training grounds were already in motion. Rows of soldiers moved in formation, shields lifting and lowering with precise timing. Their footwork was synchronized, boots striking the packed earth in rhythmic patterns. Commands were shouted and answered without hesitation. There was no wasted movement. No laziness or uncertainty either.
At the center of it all stood her older brother. The upcoming heir to the throne.
Prince Octavior Vaelthorne did not need to shout to be obeyed. His presence alone commanded attention, just like their father. Even from this height, Solthea could recognize the way he carried himself ever since they were young. His shoulders were squared, stance always grounded, and movements controlled but fluid. When he sparred with one of the captains, his blade cut through the air in clean arcs that reflected the morning light. He did not fight with brute force alone; there was calculation in every strike, an awareness of balance and timing that made it seem effortless.
It was of course no surprise the soldiers respected him and the people in the kingdom admired him. And their father admired him completely.
Solthea felt something tighten in her chest as she watched him disarm an opponent with practiced ease. The blade flew from the captain's hand and landed several feet away, and even from above she could see the reluctant grin that crossed the man's face. Octavior offered him a hand to help him up, laughing at something she could not hear.
He looked as though he belonged there. As though he had been born exactly for this purpose.
"Admiring your older brother again?" The voice came, warm and familiar. She did not turn immediately. She knew it was her servant. Instead, she inhaled slowly and straightened her posture.
"I am not admiring," she replied, her tone carefully neutral. "I am observing."
As she walks downstairs and outside the grounds, Octavior stepped beside her a moment later, the faint scent of leather and steel following him. Up close, the image of the untouchable warrior faded slightly. There was a faint scratch along his jaw from training, and sweat darkened the collar of his tunic where he had removed his armor. His dark hair, usually tied neatly back, had come loose in places.
"You observe me every morning," he said lightly. "If I did not know better, I would assume you were searching for my weaknesses."
"Perhaps I am," she answered, finally glancing at him.
He smiled in that infuriatingly confident way older brothers perfected. "Then I fear you will waste your time."
She rolled her eyes, and the movement felt small but necessary. "That is precisely the issue."
His expression shifted at that, amusement fading into something more attentive. He leaned his forearms against the railing, following her gaze down to the training grounds.
"You were meant to attend drills this morning," he said. "I noticed your absence."
"I was summoned elsewhere."
The silence that followed did not need clarification.
"Father," he guessed quietly.
"Yes."
A breeze swept between them, tugging at her sleeves. Below, a whistle blew sharply, signaling a shift in formation.
"Sol," Octavior said after a moment, his tone softer now, "he pushes you because he sees potential in you. Remember that."
She tightened her grip on the railing, her knuckles paling beneath her gloves. "He pushes me," she said carefully, "because he fears I will not live up to this kingdom."
Octavior frowned. "You are a Vaelthorne."
"Exactly."
She turned toward him fully now, her eyes sharper than before. "You were born to lead armies. To command loyalty with a glance. The court speaks your name with admiration. When Father looks at you, he sees strength. When he looks at me..." Her voice faltered slightly. "He sees an opportunity to trade me for connections with other kingdoms."
Octavior's jaw tightened. "He does not see you as a tool."
"Does he not?" she asked quietly. "Every time he speaks of neighboring houses, of treaties, of stability... his gaze rests on me as though I am a piece to be moved."
Her brother did not respond immediately, and that silence was answer enough.
Inside the palace, the throne room always felt colder than the balcony.
Perhaps it was the marble floors, polished to a mirror sheen, or the vaulted ceilings that swallowed sound and returned it thinner than before. Stained glass windows and paintings towered along the walls, each one capturing a victory from Vaelthorne's history: kneeling enemies, dragons felled by spears, kings crowned beneath golden light.
Solthea had grown up beneath those images. They once filled her with pride.
Now they made her feel small.
King Aldric Vaelthorne sat at the far end of the chamber upon a throne carved from dark oak and banded in iron. He wore no crown, yet none was needed. Authority rested easily on him. and everybody knew.
Silver threaded through his dark hair, and the years had sharpened his gaze rather than softened it.
When Solthea approached and knelt, the whisper of her gown against marble echoed louder than she liked.
"You sent for me, Father."
He studied her for several quiet seconds, as though measuring something invisible.
"I am told," he said at last, "that you have neglected your courtly studies."
"I have not neglected them," she replied evenly. "I have prioritized my training."
"You are not a knight."
The words were not harsh, but they were final.
She rose slowly after, lifting her chin just enough to meet his eyes.
"I am still your daughter."
"And that is precisely why you must understand your place. You have known your duty since childhood, Solthea."
"My duty," she repeated, steady despite the tightening in her chest, "is not yours to define alone."
At that, he abruptly stood. The movement alone was enough to make the guards along the walls straighten quickly.
"You are not your brother," he said, descending the steps toward her. "Octavior was born to command armies. The men follow him because they trust his strength."
"And what was I born for?" The question escaped before she could temper it. "To be traded for stability?!"
His gaze did not soften, but neither was it cruel.
"You were born to secure our future."
Her stomach dropped.
"The House of Evermere has expressed interest in strengthening ties," he continued. "A union would stabilize the eastern border for generations."
"I see. You have arranged a betrothal for me."
"It is under negotiation."
"Without my consent!"
"This is not about affection, Solthea," he replied sternly. "It is about survival for our kingdom. For our people."
"I do not love him, father!"
"Love does not defend kingdoms!"
Silence stretched between them.
"I am not a treaty to be signed," she said, her voice tightening despite herself.
"You are a princess of Vaelthorne," he answered firmly. "And you will serve this kingdom as it requires. Do you understand?"
Her hands curled at her sides as she hears her father's words.
"I can serve with a blade better."
His gaze sharpened.
"Really? Then show me."
The training grounds carried a different weight that afternoon, now that she knew her own father, the king, was watching.
The sun stood high and unrelenting, pressing warmth into the stone until heat shimmered faintly above the courtyard floor. Dust rose beneath boots and drifted through the air in thin golden threads. The usual clang of practice rang from the far end of the yard, yet the noise felt restrained, as though the courtyard itself understood something unusual was about to unfold.
When Solthea stepped forward, conversations thinned. A few soldiers straightened where they stood. Others paused mid-drill.
Word had traveled quickly, as it always did within castle walls. The princess intended to prove herself.
Leather bracers hugged her wrists. The sword felt familiar in her palm, heavier today, perhaps, because she knew who was watching. She rolled her shoulders once, loosening them, and entered the ring.
Octavior waited opposite her.
There was no teasing glint in his eyes today like earlier. No indulgent smile meant to soften the outcome before it began. His posture was measured an grounded. He looked at her the way he would any other opponent. He was assessing and calculating her.
"Focus," he murmured.
The word settled between them.
Suddenly, their blades met with a sharp crack that rang across the courtyard. The force shuddered through her arms, settling deep into bone. She adjusted her stance instinctively, boots sliding against the stone as she absorbed the impact.
She then narrowed her attention.
The throne room faded from her thoughts. There was only the present moment. Only the way Octavior's shoulders shifted before a strike, the tightening of his jaw, and the rhythm of his breathing.
He tested her guard first. A measured push like he always did.
She then angled her blade, redirecting rather than resisting. The impact jarred her wrists, but she held her ground.
He came again, sharper this time.
She dipped beneath a high swing and pivoted, braid slipping over her shoulder as she aimed for his side. He deflected smoothly, forcing her back a half step, but she moved before he could press the advantage. Her feet carried her in a tight arc around him, light and quick.
Her speed was her strength. And she made sure to let him feel it.
A few soldiers had drawn closer now, their attention fixed. Their father watched carefully as the scene unfolded in front of him.
Octavior's next strike came hard and deliberate. Steel collided with enough force to sting her palms. He drove forward, knocking her blade wide. The shock forced her back a step before she caught herself.
"You hesitate," he said, watching her closely.
"I am choosing," she replied, circling again.
"In battle, there is no time to choose."
"There is always time to see."
Their swords clashed again, faster now. The rhythm shifted and sharpened. Sparks flickered briefly where steel scraped steel. Her breathing grew heavier. Heat gathered beneath her collar and along her spine. The muscles in her arms began to protest, trembling under the repeated impact.
Still, she pressed forward.
She watched for his patterns. The habits he always did when she watched him train every morning in the fighting grounds.
And then she saw it.
A narrow opening. Nearly invisible, but Octavior extended a fraction too far, expecting her to guard high once more.
She pivoted inward instead.
Her wrist twisted as her blade struck from an angle he had not anticipated, guided by leverage rather than strength.
The sound rang clear loudly and sudden, his sword slipping from his grasp and struck the stone with a sharp, echoing clang.
The courtyard fell still. Even the distant drills had quieted, watching them.
Solthea stood motionless for a breath, chest rising and falling rapidly. Sweat clung to her temples. Her arms trembled from effort, but her grip remained steady.
Octavior then looked at her for a long moment. There was no surprise in his expression. Only pride, steady and unguarded.
"You see?" he said quietly, a smile forming. "You are capable."
The words settled heavily in her chest.
She lowered her sword, though the tremor in her arms had not yet faded.
Capable? Yes. Capable of learning. Of adapting. Of disarming even him, her own brother.
She smiled, only for it to quickly disappear as her gaze drifted beyond the courtyard walls, toward the seats where her father had suddenly stood up and abruptly left after the match. She saw his headshake of disapproval as he walked off with the guards.
The courtyard had begun to stir again, soldiers returning to drills, the scrape of steel resuming in cautious bursts. But the space between them remained still, suspended.
"Will father ever see my potential?"
"He is not blind," Octavior said at last.
"That is not what I asked."
She sheathed her blade, though her fingers lingered on the hilt. The tremor in her arms had faded, replaced now by something tighter in her chest.
Octavior bent to retrieve his fallen sword. Though he did not look at her as he spoke.
"Father was raised to value strength."
"And does he know what it looks like?" she pressed. "Or does he only recognize it when it stands broader and louder than him, like you?"
Now he looked at her.
There it was again — that flicker of frustration he rarely allowed himself to show.
"You think too little of him, Solthea."
"I think too little of the arrangement he has put me with," she replied.
The word arrangement felt sharp in her mouth.
Octavior exhaled slowly and stepped closer, lowering his voice so it would not carry beyond them.
"This alliance is not a whim, you know. Evermere's armies guard our eastern border. Their fleets control the Silver Passage. If Vaelthorne stands alone—"
"I know what we stand to lose," she cut in quietly. "I have listened outside council doors my entire life."
"And yet you still fight it. Why?"
"Because I am not land to be exchanged."
The words hung between them, being heavy and unflinching. Octavior's shoulders stiffened, though not in anger.
"You are more than land," he said. "You know that."
"Then let me be treated as such. Father does not understand that!"
Silence stretched again. A breeze swept across the courtyard, stirring dust at their feet and lifting the edge of her sleeve. Somewhere beyond the walls, a bell tolled the late hour.
Octavior's voice softened. "You think I want this for you?"
She searched his face, and for once she saw past the prince, past the heir, and saw only her older brother, the boy who had once let her follow him into the stables, who had pressed a wooden practice sword into her hands and told her to swing harder.
"I think," she said carefully, "that you believe this is the safest path."
"It is the strongest path."
"For the kingdom," she said.
"Yes."
"And for me?"
That question lingered longer than the others.
Octavior stepped closer still, lowering his voice until it was barely more than breath.
"For you," he said, "strength will not come from whether father, or Evermere, sees your skill. It will come from whether you allow yourself to forget it."
Her brow furrowed slightly.
"You disarmed me today," he continued. "Not because you were stronger. Because you watched, like you always have. Because you adapted. Because you chose your moment. That is power, Solthea. No marriage can strip that from you."
"And if my husband expects obedience from me?" she asked. "Silence? Compliance? Is that what I should do like father expects?"
"Then you will remind him," Octavior said, a faint edge entering his tone, "that Vaelthorne does not raise daughters who bow easily."
Something in her chest loosened at that. He studied her for another long moment.
"Have you met him and found him lacking?" he asked quietly.
"No," she admitted. "I have met him and found him... uncertain."
"That is not the same."
"It may be worse."
A corner of Octavior's mouth lifted despite himself.
"You are impossible."
"And you are infuriating. Always have, brother."
They stood there, the tension thinning into something more familiar. Finally, Octavior rested a hand briefly against her shoulder.
"When he arrives for the summit next month," he said, "do not try to prove yourself with steel."
Her chin lifted slightly. "What would you have me use?"
"Your mind," he replied smiling. "It is sharper. Even father knows that."
She held his gaze, measuring him the way she had measured his stance moments earlier.
"And if he still does not see?" she asked.
Octavior's expression held steady. "Then he will learn."
The certainty in his voice lingered between them, but Solthea's gaze had already drifted beyond him. Past the courtyard walls, past the towers, toward the highest balcony of the western wing.
The Queen's balcony. It had remained closed for years.
"You remember her," Solthea said quietly.
It was not a question. But Octavior went still.
"I was six," he answered after a moment. "Of course I remember her."
Solthea's fingers tightened slightly against the hilt at her hip.
"I do not," she said.
The admission never grew easier. The courtyard noises seemed to fade again, though perhaps that was only in her mind.
"I know her from portraits," she continued. "From tapestries. From the way servants lower their voices when they speak her name. I know her from the way Father cannot look at me too long without seeing something else."
Octavior's jaw tightened faintly.
"He does not blame you."
"Though he never had to say it." She swallowed.
"They say she was strong," Solthea went on. "That she rode in armor before she wore a crown. That she spoke during council sessions even before she was queen."
"She did," Octavior said softly.
His voice had shifted. It was not princely now, but boyish in memory.
"She used to take me to the eastern cliffs at sunrise," he said smiling. "She would say 'a ruler must learn how small the kingdom looks from above before deciding its fate'." A faint breath left him. "She never let anyone speak over her."
Solthea's chest tightened, then she looks down to the ground.
"And she died bringing me into it."
The words hung heavy and unpolished.
Octavior stepped forward immediately.
"She died because childbirth is merciless," he said firmly. "Not because of you. Do you understand?"
"She would have lived," Solthea pressed, her voice trembling despite her effort to steady it, "if I had not—"
"No." The sharpness in his tone cut cleanly through her. Several soldiers glanced over before quickly returning to their drills.
Octavior lowered his voice again, but the intensity remained. "You do not carry that," he said. "You do not get to."
She looked away.
"You think I fight this marriage because I fear Evermere?" she asked quietly. "I do not. I fear becoming a shadow. I fear being remembered as the queen who smiled and stood behind a throne. She did not stand behind anything."
"No," Octavior agreed. "She did not."
He hesitated, then added, "You know, Father sees her in you."
Solthea's eyes flicked back to his.
"That is still not comfort."
"It is not blame either," Octavior said. "It is grief. I hope you do at least understand."
The word settled between them like dust after a fall.
"She held you," he continued more gently. "You know that, don't you?"
Solthea stilled.
"The midwife told me once," he said. "Mother asked for you before she lost consciousness. She wanted to see you. She told Father to bring you closer."
Solthea's breath caught.
"She was barely able to speak," Octavior said, his voice roughening at the edges. "But she touched your cheek and said, 'She will not be fragile.'"
The courtyard seemed to tilt.
"She said that?" Solthea whispered.
He nodded.
"She said you would need iron in your spine."
A silence fell between them. Solthea's vision blurred faintly, though she blinked the tears back before they could fall.
"I have spent my life trying to prove I am not the thing that ended hers," she admitted.
Octavior stepped closer and placed a hand over her shoulder firmly.
"You are the thing she left behind," he said. "There is a difference."
Her throat tightened.
"And if this alliance demands I bend?" she asked softly.
"Then bend without breaking," he replied. "She did."
Solthea let out a quiet breath.
The sun had nearly vanished now, leaving the sky painted in deep amber and fading violet. The stone beneath their feet cooled as shadow crept across the courtyard.
"Do you ever resent me?" she asked suddenly.
Octavior did not hesitate.
"No."
The answer came too quickly to doubt.
"I resent the silence that followed her death," he said instead. "I resent that Father stopped laughing. I resent that you grew up believing you owed the kingdom your existence."
His hand squeezed her shoulder once before falling away. "You owe nothing for being born."
The words settled deeper than anything else he had said that day. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Finally, Solthea drew in a steady breath and lifted her chin.
"If she believed I would not be fragile," she said, "then I will not be."
Octavior's expression softened into something almost proud.
"Good," he said. "Because Evermere will not be the greatest test of your strength."
"No?"
He glanced toward the castle.
"Father will."
A small, reluctant smile curved at her lips. "Then I suppose I should keep training."
"You should," he agreed. "And next time, try not to disarm me in front of half the guard."
She let out a quiet laugh, brief, but real.
As they walked from the ring together, the last of the light slipped from the sky. She looked through the horizon.
The castle was quiet at night, but it was never truly silent.
Wind moved softly along the outer walls. Torches hissed and cracked in their iron brackets. And somewhere in the lower halls, a servant's footsteps echoed and faded. Life continued in careful, muted rhythms.
Solthea stood alone in her chambers long after her father's words had stopped ringing in the air.
The marriage will be announced at the summit. And she knew the decision was final.
Though, she had not argued in the end. It was not because she agreed, but because she had seen it in his eyes. Resolve shaped by fear for the kingdom. Fear shaped by memory. By loss. Her brother's certainty of believing this is the strongest path that she could choose for now.
She pressed her palms against the edge of her writing table and drew in a slow breath.
When she was younger — younger than she had any right to remember clearly — the nursemaids had told her stories to quiet her restless questions. Stories of old Vaelthorne. Of the time before the throne room, before the armies, before borders were carved into maps.
And always, in those stories, there had been the Shrine of Lumeris.
They said it did not answer prayers.
But that it answered needs.
It was older than the castle itself. Older than the royal line. Built around a place where something in the earth had once burned bright and unexplainable. Some called it divine, while others called it dangerous.
Her mother had gone there once.
Solthea did not remember the day, but she remembered the story she had heard. The queen had walked to the shrine during a season of drought, when the rivers had thinned and the crops had begun to fail. She had knelt beneath the ancient oak and asked for strength. Though not for herself, but for the kingdom.
Rain had fallen three days later.
Coincidence, the council had said. Blessings, the people in the kingdom had whispered.
Solthea had asked her father about it once, years ago. He had grown distant, his gaze drifting toward the western gardens.
"It is an old place," he had said carefully. "It listens more than it speaks."
That memory returned to her now, sharp and insistent.
She did not want a marriage chosen for her.
But she did not want rebellion either. She wanted something that was hers. Something not negotiated across a table.
Before she allowed herself to reconsider, she fastened her cloak around her shoulders and quickly slipped from her chambers.
The corridors stretched long and dim before her. Torches cast wavering shadows across stone walls lined with tapestries of past victories. Her boots made almost no sound against the floor; she had learned long ago how to move without drawing attention.
She passed the last of the evening patrols near the western wing, waiting until their conversation turned toward ale and wagers before stepping into the stairwell that led down to the gardens.
Cool night air met her skin the moment she stepped outside.
The royal gardens were immaculate even in darkness. Hedges trimmed to careful arcs, marble paths pale beneath the moonlight, fountains stilled for the night. The scent of night-blooming jasmine drifted faintly on the breeze.
She moved beyond the cultivated beauty, past the manicured roses and sculpted ivy.
The shrine stood farther back, where the castle grounds gave way to something less controlled.
It had been there long before Vaelthorne's walls were raised.
Its stones were rough and dark, untouched by polish. Roots from the ancient oak wrapped around the structure as though the tree itself refused to let it be forgotten. The branches stretched wide overhead, their leaves whispering softly though no wind stirred the gardens behind her.
The air shifted the moment she crossed into its shadow.
Sound dulled.
The hum of the castle seemed to recede.
For a heartbeat, doubt crept in.
What was she expecting? A voice? A sign? A miracle?
She almost turned back.
But then she remembered the way her father's voice had sounded. She remembered Octavior telling her she must bend without breaking. She was tired of bending.
Solthea stepped inside.
Candles lined the inner walls, though no one tended them at this hour. Their flames flickered gently, steady and golden. At the center of the shrine rested a circular basin carved from stone darker than the rest of the structure. There were symbols spiraled along its rim.
She had seen them once before. In her mother's old journal.
Only for a moment, a sketch pressed into the margin of a page, nearly hidden between notes about council meetings and border disputes.
Strength is not always inherited, her mother had written beneath it. Sometimes it is chosen.
Solthea knelt.
The stone floor was cool through the fabric of her gown. The scent of melted wax and aged earth filled her lungs.
"I do not wish to disappear," she whispered, tears starting to form in her eyes.
Her voice trembled despite her effort to steady it.
"I do not wish to become someone else's strategy." The words felt dangerously honest in the stillness.
She placed her hand against the edge of the basin. The stone was colder than she expected, grounding.
"If there is anything here," she said, her throat tightening, "any power, any path... I ask for something that belongs to me."
Silence answered her.
For a long moment, nothing changed.
Embarrassment began to creep in. Perhaps this was nothing more than stone and superstition as her father had always said.
Perhaps her mother's visit had meant no more than hope given shape.
She exhaled slowly.
Then suddenly, the air shifted.
The candle flames snapped inward as though caught in a sudden breath. The carved symbols beneath her hand began to glow faintly. A thin gold light seeping into the grooves like molten thread.
Her fingers jerked instinctively, but the warmth followed, spreading across her skin.
The shrine began to hum. It was low and resonant.
The vibration traveled through the basin, into her palm, up her arm, and into her chest. The oak above creaked, its branches stirring though the night beyond remained still.
Her breath caught in her throat.
The light brightened extremely, curling around her wrist like living fire.
"Wait—!" she gasped, trying to pull back.
The glow surged.
The candles flared white. The walls dissolved into brilliance. The oak, the gardens, the castle towers. All of it fractured into light.
The world splintered.
The sound vanished.
And then—
Everything went blank.
---