A year had clawed its ruin into the Kingdom of Solara on Eryndralis, its golden plains withered to brittle brown under a sky choked with gray, its rivers reduced to sluggish threads winding through cracked earth. Auroralis, once a radiant beacon of the Middle Realm, slumped beneath neglect—cobblestone streets strewn with fallen leaves, splintered crates, and the husks of abandoned stalls, their colors leached away since Azerion's banishment in Year 4500. The Solara Palace loomed over the city, its marble facade streaked with moss and grime, its spires thrusting into a dawn that offered no warmth, their tips dulled by the fading spiritual energy of the Sunlit Throne—a relic whose golden light had once rivaled the Upper Realm's glow.

  The dome of the Grand Temple, once gleaming with gold leaf that caught the morning light, now stood tarnished and dull. The temple's mosaics of the seven celestial guardians—the ancient protectors said to have gifted the Solara bloodline with their power—were cracked and fading, chips of colored glass scattered across the temple steps like forgotten prayers. Worshippers still came, but fewer each day, their offerings meager—withered flowers and small copper coins that barely kept the temple fires burning.

  One year had passed, and Solara teetered on collapse, its people whispering of famine, lost harvests, and a royal family fractured by ambition, their blades turned inward as the Middle Realm's balance frayed under distant threats like the Khavar Empire's encroaching shadow.

  In the lower city, markets that once bustled with traders from across Eryndralis now stood half-empty, vendors calling their wares with hollow desperation. Children with hollow cheeks played in gutters filled with brackish water, their laughter rare as gemstones. The Merchant Quarter, once resplendent with silks from the Eastern Isles and spices from the Saffron Coast, now harbored only the hardiest of traders, those willing to risk the treacherous roads where bandits—many former soldiers fallen on hard times—preyed on any caravan brave enough to venture forth.

  In the palace's western wing, King Alaric lay entombed in a canopied bed, its velvet curtains drawn tight against a chill seeping through stone walls veined with fissures. His chest heaved in shallow, rasping gasps, each breath a fragile thread trembling in the stillness, sweat beading his gray brow and trickling into hollowed cheeks. His once-lush chestnut hair had thinned to brittle wisps across a pillow stained yellow with age and sickness, his robust frame shriveled beneath sweat-soaked sheets—a king diminished by a wasting fever no healer could name.

  Three royal physicians stood in the shadowed corner of the chamber, their hushed voices barely disturbing the heavy air. The eldest, Master Caelon, stroked his silver beard with gnarled fingers, the emerald of his Healer's Guild ring glinting dully in the low light.

  "The fever defies conventional remedies," he murmured to his colleagues. "I've tried infusions of frost lotus from the northern peaks, tinctures of sunbane root steeped in spring water from the sacred wells of Eryn's Grove. Nothing breaks its hold."

  The youngest physician, Elyra, her apprentice robes still crisp with the newness of her station, clutched a leather-bound tome to her chest. "Could it be... unnatural? A curse perhaps?" Her voice faltered under the sharp glance of the third healer, a stern woman with iron-gray hair pulled tight in a severe bun.

  "Mind your tongue, girl," the woman hissed. "Speak not of curses within these walls. Too many ears, too many whispers already plague this palace."

  A brazier glowed faintly in the corner, its amber light flickering across tapestries—Solara's founding heroes astride radiant steeds, their forms faded to ghosts of thread and dust, their swords dulled by time's neglect, a mournful echo of a kingdom unmoored. The tapestry nearest the king's bed depicted the Binding of the World Tree Seed, the ancient ritual where the first king of Solara had harnessed the primordial energy that now flowed through the spiritual veins of every noble house—House Veyne's golden Radiant Sun Refinement, House Kaelith's silver-blue Tidal Flow Stride, and the other noble lineages, each with their unique manifestation of the World Tree's essence.

  Lady Rina sat at his side, her slender hands folded in her lap, her gray gown pooling like spilled ink on the cold stone floor. Her dark hair, streaked with silver, framed a face etched with quiet resolve, her sky-blue eyes—mirrors of Azerion's silver-blue spirit—fixed on Alaric's pallid features with a tenderness sharpened by grief. She dipped a cloth into a basin of tepid water, wringing it with a soft twist, and pressed it to his forehead, her touch steady, infused with a faint shimmer of Tidal Flow Stride spiritual energy—a silver-blue pulse of calm that rippled from her fingertips, a mother's desperate bid to ease his torment.

  As she ministered to the king, memories washed over her like tide pools—their first meeting at the Spring Festival in Year 4470, when she had been a young noble from House Kaelith visiting the capital. Alaric, then the crown prince, had bypassed the formal court dances to speak with her beneath the white-flowered arches of the palace garden. His laughter had been full and rich then, his eyes alight with a vision for Solara that had made her heart stir. How different he looked now, a husk of the man who had once lifted her into his arms and spun her beneath a canopy of stars, vowing they would rule together with wisdom and grace.

  "The healers say your condition worsens," she whispered, her voice low enough that only he might hear, though she doubted even that. "But I know your strength, Alaric. I've seen it tested through decades of rule. This kingdom needs you still... our children need their father, though they seem to have forgotten it in their scramble for power."

  Beneath his closed eyelids, Alaric's eyes moved rapidly, trapped in dreams or memories. His lips parted, words forming like bubbles in water, too fragile to reach the surface whole.

  "Azerion... my son..." The name escaped as a rasp, a ghost of sound that tore at Rina's heart. "Return... the tides... balance..."

  Rina's hand trembled as she smoothed sweat-dampened hair from his brow. A year ago, their eldest son Azerion—blessed with the strongest manifestation of House Kaelith's Tidal Flow Stride in generations—had been banished after a confrontation with his brother Darius that had shaken the very foundations of the palace. The official declaration spoke of treason, of plots against the crown, but Rina knew the truth was tangled in jealousy and the ancient rivalry between House Veyne and House Kaelith.

  A distant memory surfaced—Azerion as a boy of seven, standing by the palace fountains, his small hands extended as he channeled his nascent spiritual energy to make the water dance in spirals. Darius, two years older, watching with thinly veiled envy, his own golden energy flaring hot and bright, melting the ice sculptures crafted for that evening's festivities. Even then, the seeds of rivalry had been planted.

  "He is safe, my love," she murmured, though she couldn't know if this was true. "The Eden Empire shelters him. Emperor Cassian III honors the ancient pacts between our realms. When you are stronger, perhaps we can—"

  A shadow rippled near the window, a subtle disturbance in the dimness, like a ripple across still water. Rina's head tilted, her breath catching as a figure emerged—a woman cloaked in black, her hood low, a dagger at her hip pulsing with silver spiritual energy, its hilt etched with the spiraling runes of House Kaelith. Her movements were silent, a whisper of Shadowstep Void Dance weaving through the air, her boots leaving no echo on the stone as she glided forward. Her flint-sharp eyes met Rina's without fear, piercing the gloom with a warrior's certainty.

  The three physicians stiffened, hands moving instinctively toward concealed daggers—for in these troubled times, even healers went armed. But Rina raised a hand, a subtle gesture commanding silence. The physicians exchanged glances but obeyed, retreating deeper into the shadows.

  "Lady Rina," the newcomer said, her voice a low hum laced with the west's gravelly cadence, "the west is secured. Duke Thalion sends his regards—House Kaelith stands firm as the Nightstone itself."

  Rina recognized the woman as Selene, one of her father's most trusted scouts. The scar that bisected her left cheek had been earned in the Crimson Pavilion uprising five years past, when agents of that southern faction had attempted to infiltrate Kaelith strongholds. Selene had personally dispatched three assassins before taking a poisoned blade to the face. That she had survived spoke volumes of her resilience.

  Rina's fingers tightened around the cloth, water dripping onto her skirt in soft patters, her silver-blue energy flaring briefly in her veins—a spark of hope amid the dark. "The Kaelith Clan moves swiftly," she replied, her tone hushed but resolute, carrying the weight of her lineage. "My father's strength endures, then? The western lords still heed him?"

  The agent nodded, stepping closer, her cloak brushing the floor with a faint rustle, her silver energy a steady pulse that hummed like a distant storm. "The western lords bend to his will—the Nightstone's echo binds their oaths, its shadow rooting their loyalty. Thalion crushed a Crimson Pavilion incursion near the Verdant Pass two moons ago—their assassins lie buried under our hills. He bids you patience, my lady; the path to west will open when the Silent Blade's eyes turn elsewhere."

  Selene reached into her cloak and withdrew a tiny scroll, no larger than her smallest finger, sealed with dark blue wax impressed with the crescent moon sigil of House Kaelith's innermost circle.

  "Your father's words," she murmured, passing the scroll with practiced stealth. "For your eyes alone."

  Rina slipped the message into the hidden pocket sewn into her sleeve, her heart quickening. Duke Thalion of House Kaelith, her father, had been a formidable presence at court before Azerion's banishment. He had withdrawn to the western territories afterward, ostensibly in protest, but Rina knew better. The west was where the Kaelith strongholds stood strongest, where the ancient wellsprings of spiritual energy ran deep and pure, untainted by the corruption that seemed to seep through Auroralis. From there, he could marshal forces, secure allies, and prepare for whatever storm approached.

  Rina's gaze drifted to Alaric, her heart twisting as his hand twitched feebly, then back to the shadow, her voice steady despite the ache. "We wait for the right moment to flee Auroralis. Everything hinges on it—too many eyes watch me here, Silent Blade daggers in the dark, Crimson Pavilion spies in the halls. The Khavar Empire's whispers reach even Solara now—chaos brews beyond our borders."

  Selene's expression hardened at the mention of the Khavar Empire—that looming threat beyond the Shattered Realm, a growing power whose emissaries had been spotted with increasing frequency in the border towns. Whispers spoke of strange spiritual techniques, of weapons forged with arts unknown to Eryndralis, and of an emperor whose ambition stretched far beyond his current holdings.

  "Understood," the Kaelith agent said, her hand resting lightly on her dagger, its silver glow dimming as she cloaked her presence, her energy retracting like a tide. "We'll guard the path—our blades are yours, sworn to the Nightstone and your blood. When you call, we'll carve the way."

  Selene hesitated, then added in a voice so low it barely disturbed the air, "And there is word of your son. Azerion's silver-blue spirit grows stronger in exile, tempered by Eden's harsh lessons. The emperor keeps him close—whether as guest or hostage remains unclear, but he lives, my lady. He lives."

  A flutter of emotion crossed Rina's composed features—hope, fear, pride—before she mastered herself once more. She gave a barely perceptible nod, acknowledging this precious information.

  Selene melted back into the shadows, the window creaking faintly as she slipped out, her form dissolving into the dawn's gray veil, leaving only the echo of her words and the distant hum of the Nightstone—a relic of shadow and resilience Rina knew her father wielded in the west, its power a beacon for their cause.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The three physicians emerged from the shadows once more, their expressions carefully neutral, though Master Caelon's eyes lingered on the window with clear suspicion. None would speak of what they had witnessed—the king's chambers had long been a nexus of secrets, and to serve the royal family was to learn the value of selective blindness.

  "My lady," Caelon said, his voice respectfully subdued, "we've prepared a new elixir. Distilled from rare crystal flowers that bloom only at the midnight hour in the caverns beneath Mount Eryn. If you would permit us to administer it..."

  Rina nodded her assent, watching as the elder physician uncorked a vial of luminescent blue liquid. The faintest scent of winter frost and night-blooming jasmine filled the air as he carefully tipped three drops between Alaric's parched lips. For a moment, the king's breathing seemed to ease, the harsh rattle softening to something almost peaceful.

  Rina exhaled, a shuddering breath that betrayed the storm beneath her calm, and pressed the cloth to Alaric's brow once more, her silver-blue energy threading through the gesture—a lifeline to the man she'd loved through decades of light and ruin. Her mind raced—west to House Kaelith, a refuge to rally for Azerion's return from Eden's gilded cage in Alisia, where the Eden Empire's Emperor Cassian III sheltered him under a fragile truce. But here, in Solara's fractured heart, she was a bird in a gilded cage, every step shadowed by suspicion, every whisper a thread in Darius and Cassian's webs of betrayal.

  As the physicians withdrew to confer in hushed tones, Rina unfurled the tiny scroll from her sleeve. Her father's handwriting, angular and precise as the man himself, covered the scrap of parchment in letters so small they would be illegible to anyone without House Kaelith's keen sight—an inherited trait along with their silver-blue spiritual energy.

  Daughter—The Nightstone resonates with strange harmonics. Khavar's agents probe our borders with increasing boldness. Prepare to move when the twin moons align. The Children of the Tide remember their true prince. Burn this.

  Rina's fingers trembled as she returned the message to her sleeve. The Children of the Tide—those who had pledged themselves to Azerion before his fall, who believed in his vision of a Solara balanced between light and shadow, drawing strength from all spiritual paths rather than the rigid dominance House Veyne sought to impose. They had gone underground after his banishment, their symbols and songs forbidden in Auroralis, but it seemed they endured still, waiting for his return.

  The twin moons would align in seventeen days. Seventeen days to prepare, to secure what meager possessions she could transport, to ensure her younger children understood the risks of flight. Seventeen days before she would either find freedom or a traitor's grave.

  She leaned forward and pressed her lips to Alaric's fevered brow. "Hold fast, my love," she whispered. "The tides will turn."

  In the southern tower's shadowed depths, Third Prince Cassian lounged in a high-backed chair, its arms carved with snarling wolves—a gift from Lady Mara's Ironfang Clans, forged in the south's brutal forges. His lean frame slouched beneath a cloak of dark furs, their edges matted with the dust of southern roads, his black hair falling in a careless wave over eyes that glinted with Mara's predatory cunning—sharp, calculating, and cold. His shadowed spiritual energy coiled around him like a serpent, a faint shimmer of Voidshadow Tempering that pulsed with the promise of treachery.

  The southern tower had been his sanctuary since childhood, its winding stairs too narrow for the palace guards' patrols, its windows positioned to capture both sunrise and sunset—though Cassian typically drew the heavy curtains, preferring the intimacy of shadow. The walls bore the marks of his temperament—knife gouges from moments of frustration, scorch marks from when his spiritual energy had flared beyond control during adolescence, and a collection of maps dominated by the territories south of Auroralis.

  A goblet of wine dangled in his hand, crimson liquid sloshing as he tilted it lazily, his lips curled in a faint, mocking smile that revealed a glimpse of teeth stained faintly red. The vintage was from Lady Mara's personal vineyards, a rare southern blend that commanded exorbitant prices in the capital's finer establishments. Its flavor was rich and complex, with an underlying bitterness that most found unpleasant but which Cassian savored. Like ambition, he thought, the initial sweetness giving way to something darker, more potent.

  Before him stood two men—Lord Torin of House Drayce, Captain of the Guard, his scarred hands flexing in dented armor that bore the marks of countless skirmishes, and Lord Varyn of House Sareth, a wiry southerner with a ledger tucked under his arm, his shadowed energy as sharp as the quill he wielded like a blade—Cassian's most loyal ministers, bound to him by ambition, blood, and the promise of a throne drenched in chaos.

  Torin shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his armor creaking with the movement. The man was a fortress in human form—broad-shouldered and immovable, with a face that seemed carved from the same granite as the southern mountains. A jagged scar ran from his left temple to his jaw, a souvenir from the Border Wars ten years past, when Khavar raiders had tested Solara's defenses. He had killed seventeen men that day, so the stories went, continuing to fight even after taking a poisoned blade to the face.

  Varyn, by contrast, stood perfectly still, his narrow face a mask of patience. Where Torin was a hammer, Varyn was a needle—precise, methodical, and capable of slipping through the smallest openings in an enemy's defenses. His ledger contained not just financial records but a complex web of debts and favors, blackmail and leverage, the true currency of power in Solara's fractured court.

  The room was a den of intrigue, its walls draped with maps of Eryndralis pinned by daggers—Solara's borders fraying in curling parchment, the Shattered Realm's black scar looming to the west, a silent threat tied to Khavar's rising power. A single lantern flickered on the table, its flame casting jagged light across Cassian's angular features as he leaned forward, his shadowed energy pulsing with intent.

  "Darius thinks he rules Solara," he said, his voice smooth as oil, sliding through the gloom like a blade through silk, "but he's a bull charging blind—brute strength, no vision. We'll slit his throat with his own arrogance, and the south will rise from his ashes."

  Cassian rose, setting his goblet aside with deliberate care, and crossed to the largest map—a detailed rendering of Solara's southern territories, the Ironfang Clans' holdings marked in red ink. His slender fingers traced the jagged mountain range that separated the civilized south from the untamed borderlands, lands rumored to harbor strange creatures and forbidden spiritual techniques.

  "Lady Mara's riders bring interesting news," he continued, tapping a region near the mountains. "The earthquake last month revealed something in the depths—a chamber sealed since the Calamity of Shattered Light, or so her shamans claim. Inside, they found artifacts... remnants of the Lower Realm's touch upon our world."

  Torin grunted, his armor clinking faintly as he crossed his arms, his red-tinged spiritual energy—a remnant of Crimson Pavilion training—flaring briefly in his scarred fists. "The First Prince tightens his grip—marries Alina to that eastern lord, Eryndor, bolsters his alliances with grain and steel. He's no fool, Cassian, whatever you say."

  Cassian's smile widened, a glint of teeth flashing in the lantern's glow, his shadowed energy coiling tighter. "No, but he's predictable—a puppet dancing to Lysandra's tune. House Veyne's gold buys loyalty, not love. Eryndor's a greedy cur; he'll turn when the treasury's dust settles—or when my Ironfang blades offer him a better deal."

  He returned to his chair, sinking into its embrace with fluid grace, and poured more wine, the liquid gurgling softly in the chamber's stillness.

  "Tell me of the Crimson Pavilion's movements," he said, fixing his gaze on Torin. "Do they still answer to your whispers?"

  Torin's expression darkened, his massive hands clenching into fists. "They grow... unpredictable. The new Grandmaster, Rylen, is young and ambitious. He speaks of restoring the Pavilion's ancient glory, of the days when emperors trembled at their name. Some whisper that he courts Khavar's envoys, seeking forbidden techniques to enhance their red spiritual energy."

  Cassian's eyes narrowed, the lantern light catching the flecks of amber in their depths. "Dangerous. The Crimson Pavilion serves us, not foreign powers. Remind Rylen of his predecessors' fate—how Grandmaster Vale's head adorned the southern gate for a month after his... indiscretion."

  He turned to Varyn, who had been silently observing the exchange, his thin fingers tapping a rhythm on his ledger. "And the treasury? How fares our economic assault on my brother's ambitions?"

  Varyn tapped the ledger with a bony finger, his voice a rasp honed by years of scheming, his shadowed energy weaving through his words like threads of a noose. "And it will settle soon. The treasury's a hollow shell—Darius pours it into his northern garrisons, blind to the south's unrest. My spies stir the Ironfang warlords—quietly, of course, with whispers of the Verdant Chalice's promise. When the time comes, they'll march for us, their Aether forged in southern blood."

  The Verdant Chalice—an ancient artifact rumored to enhance spiritual energy, lost during the Calamity centuries ago. That Varyn spoke of it so openly suggested he had more than rumors to share.

  "You've found it?" Cassian asked, leaning forward, his shadowed energy rippling with anticipation.

  Varyn's lips curled in a thin smile. "Not yet. But Lady Mara's shamans have narrowed its location to three possible sites in the Black Spine Mountains. Her excavations proceed with... discretion."

  Cassian sipped his wine, the liquid staining his lips a deeper red as he set the goblet down with a deliberate clink, his shadowed energy flaring with a cold, calculated menace. "Good. Let Darius play king while I weave the noose—thread by thread, shadow by shadow. Father's fading fast—the throne's ripe for the taking. Azerion's a ghost haunting Eden's halls, and Darius... he'll be a corpse before he wears the crown, his radiant light snuffed out."

  From a shadowed alcove came a soft sound—a footstep, perhaps, or the rustle of cloth against stone. Cassian's hand moved to the dagger at his belt, its blade pulsing with shadowed energy, but he relaxed as a slender figure emerged.

  Lady Mara herself stepped into the lantern light, her features sharp and predatory beneath a mane of flame-red hair bound in elaborate braids interwoven with bone fragments—trophies from fallen enemies, as was the custom among the Ironfang matriarchs. Her leathers were the deep burgundy of dried blood, adorned with small metal plates inscribed with runes that glowed faintly with an unsettling amber light.

  "Your guards grow lax, Prince Cassian," she said, her voice carrying the harsh accent of the southern highlands. "I crossed your threshold unchallenged. Had I carried ill intent..." She let the implication hang in the air, her hand resting casually on the hilt of a curved blade at her hip.

  Cassian's lips twitched with amusement rather than alarm. "Had you carried ill intent, Lady Mara, I suspect Torin and Varyn would be cleaning your blood from my floor. Besides, we both know you prefer to see your enemies' eyes when you kill them." He gestured to an empty chair. "Join us. Your timing is fortuitous—we were just discussing your excavations."

  Mara claimed the offered seat, her movements fluid and controlled, like a predator settling into a crouch before the spring. "The earthquakes revealed more than ancient chambers. The very fabric between realms thins in the south. My shamans speak of whispers from beyond, of shadows that move against the currents of light." Her amber eyes gleamed with something like reverence. "The Lower Realm stirs, Cassian. Its power calls to those with ears to hear."

  Torin's brow furrowed, his voice a low rumble that echoed off the stone. "And Lyra? She holds the north—her Frostfang Blade Intent cuts deeper than frostbite. She won't kneel to you, not while Frosthold stands."

  Mara's laugh was sharp as breaking glass. "The warrior princess plays at honor and duty, blind to the currents of power shifting beneath her feet. Let her swing her frost-touched blade while the real game unfolds elsewhere."

  Cassian waved a hand, dismissive, his shadowed energy tightening like a vice. "Lyra's a warrior, not a queen—honor drives her, not power. Leave her to her frost and steel; she'll bleed herself dry against Darius before she turns south. The Khavar Empire's shadow creeps closer—let it distract her."

  Varyn nodded, his thin lips twitching into a faint smirk, his shadowed energy pulsing faintly. "The younger ones, though—Prince Kael and Princess Saria—linger in the capital. They whisper in corners, gather their own courts, their Aether untested but stirring like embers in dry grass."

  "Let them play," Cassian said, his tone cold as Lower Realm ice, his shadowed energy flaring briefly in his eyes. "Children with dreams—they'll bend or break when I'm done. The Nightstone's echo won't shield them, nor will Azerion's memory."

  Lady Mara leaned forward, her braids clinking softly with their bone ornaments. "Don't dismiss them so readily. The young ones carry Kaelith blood—their spiritual energy may be untested, but it runs deep. I've seen Saria in the gardens, practicing when she thinks no one watches. Her Tidal Flow Stride progresses... impressively for one so young."

  Cassian's eyes narrowed, calculation evident in his gaze. "Perhaps they need closer watching, then. A governor for their education, someone to direct their... development."

  "Or an accident," Torin suggested bluntly. "Children are fragile. A fall from the eastern tower, a riding mishap..."

  Mara's hand shot out, gripping Torin's wrist with surprising strength, her amber eyes flashing. "Harm those children, and you'll find the Ironfang Clans less accommodating to your cause. The southern lords have no stomach for kinslayers, whatever your ambitions."

  Cassian observed this exchange with interest, noting how Torin's massive frame tensed under the woman's grip, how his red spiritual energy flared in instinctive response. Interesting, this protectiveness from the savage Lady of the South. Perhaps there was more to explore there—later.

  "Peace," Cassian said, raising his goblet in a conciliatory gesture. "The children will remain... intact. For now, they serve better as potential pieces on the board than as martyrs to rally sentiment against us."

  The lantern sputtered, its flame dancing as shadows stretched across the room, the four figures leaning closer, their voices dropping to a conspiratorial hum—plotting Solara's fall behind a brother who saw only conquest, their shadowed Aether weaving a tapestry of treachery that stretched from the Ironfang Clans to the palace's heart.