Far beyond the thorn-wrapped gates of the Black Rose Palace, where whispers of magic and strength coiled in shadowed corners, a secret meeting of nobles convened.
Held within one of the towering houses of Laencris, the Capital of the Cristiane Empire, the chamber was a place of velvet masks and poisoned words. Beneath its glimmering chandeliers, noble blood bled dry from the tongue before the sword.
Today, they had gathered for a singular reason.
The Prophecy.
And the unsettling rumors pouring like floodwater from the west.
The Duke of Aurenhall, a graying man with hawk-like eyes, slammed a parchment onto the polished obsidian table.
Duke Aurenhall: "What? A person who possesses the power to protect and destroy at the same time? Just how powerful is this being supposed to be? How are we meant to understand anything from this scrap of prophecy?"
Murmurs rippled across the silver-gilded table like insects across water. The Marchioness of Eltridge, veiled in lavender, sipped her wine with a languid grace, her eyes unreadable.
Marchioness Eltridge: "Who's to say whether this being will become our destiny… or our demise."
The Duke of Varentine, pale and sharp, laced his fingers, voice smooth as cold steel.
Duke Varentine: "The High Priest called her 'the one who casts two shadows.' What does that mean? Is she of dual origin? Dual allegiance? Or something else entirely?"
A heavy silence followed.
Then, the Head of the Meeting—Grand Duke Rochester—lifted his gaze.
Cold. Majestic. Absolute.
Duke Rochester: "Enough. Whether she is a blessing or a curse… if we want answers, we must find her first. What's the point of all this chattering if we don't act?"
Another beat of silence fell. No one dared question the Grand Duke.
At the far end of the table, the Baron of Viremore scoffed.
Baron Viremore: "Hmph. So what if she's powerful? If she dares stand against us, we'll eliminate her. Completely."
Duke Aurenhall leaned forward, fingers steepled together, voice cool and deliberate.
Duke Aurenhall: "If you have the power to. But you are right. If she becomes a threat—we cannot afford to wait."
His tone darkened, gaze sharp as a blade's edge.
Duke Aurenhall: "After all… beings like that don't grow old. They become legends. Or graves."
A chill swept the room, despite the fire crackling in the hearth.
And far beyond the city walls, beyond the murmurs of nobles and shadows of crowns, a storm was rising quietly.
And at its center… a girl.
Unaware the world had already started to choose a side.
———
Far East of Laencris,
Far beyond the silver-burnished spires and velvet-lined corridors of Laencris—the heart of the Cristiane Empire—there lay a land untouched by its polished grandeur. Past the border towns where fire no longer burned. Past rivers that whispered of lost saints. Familiar maps curled at the edges and burned away, as if the wind itself refused to remember what once lay here.
Past the river Eldrith, now dry as bone. Past the Vale of Crowned Crows, where no birds flew anymore. Past silence.
There, buried in the forgotten marrow of the Cristiane Empire, stood the husk of what had once been sacred—the Monastery of Virelay.
Its stones were scorched.
Its towers, shattered.
Its bells, rusted silent.
Once a bastion of divine magic, it had stood tall against the tides of war and winter, its bells tolling blessings over a thousand kneeling pilgrims. But now, only ruins remained. The carved saints in the courtyard had lost their faces to moss and rain. The fountain ran dry. Ivy had broken every seal. The stones bore scorch marks from a fire long extinguished—and still, the air carried the scent of burned incense and something older… something bitter.
Once, it had been a temple of miracles, where the sick came to be healed and the seers to be heard. The faithful believed the god spoke through its stained glass, and once, perhaps they had.
But now, it was a ruin of smoke and broken hymns.
Beneath the collapsed arches, in a sanctum carved into the belly of the monastery, an old woman sat curled near a guttering fire. Her frame was thin, half-swallowed by her voluminous robes, once crimson, now stained with soot and time. Ash clung to her sleeves like snow, and her hair, the color of old bone, was bound in braids stiff with dried herbs.
Ink clung to her knuckles like soot, and her breath rasped through thin lips as though she coughed up ghosts.
The Saintess of Virelay, they once called her. The last of the seers who saw too much—and spoke too little.
Before her, spread across an altar of cracked obsidian, were fragments: torn parchment, yellowed scrolls, shattered scrying stones, faded maps burned at the edges as if the world itself tried to erase them. A dozen ink-blotted names, scrawled in desperation by those long dead.
At the center of it all, laid reverently like a holy relic, was a small, tattered scrap. Ink had nearly faded from its surface, but one name remained, etched deep into the very weave of the parchment. She reached forward and traced it with trembling fingers, her voice rising from cracked lips like the rustle of dead leaves.
Her right eye—milky with cataract—remained still.
But the left burned.
Gold.
lit from within, as though it remembered what the stars forgot.
A long silence stretched. Then she spoke, her voice dry as charred parchment, cracked from too many truths swallowed over too many years.
Old Seer: "So… you walk the thorned road, child."
Her voice echoed—once, twice—then was devoured by the stone.
Her finger hovered, then pressed gently against the parchment.
The name burned under her touch, though the fire near her was dying.
She paused.
The wind began to rise. Not just outside—but through the monastery itself. It hissed through shattered murals, carrying with it the dust of ruined faiths and long-dead prayers. It slithered over the floor, curling past her like a serpent of forgotten time.
The wind moaned as it passed through.
And with it, came the voices.
Dry. Timeless. Ancient.
"The Hollow Gate will open…"
"And only the noble one shall stand against it."
They came not as whispers, but as truths buried in the marrow of the world.
The fire guttered.
The flames curled into shapes—towers crumbling, swords broken, wings torn from heaven.
The scent of iron and roses filled the room, and the shadows leaned closer, eager.
The old woman did not flinch.
Old Seer: "The Gate stirs again and the veil grows thin."
She lifted a cracked hourglass from beside the flame. The sand within was black and it had begun to fall—grain by cursed grain.
Her gold eye narrowed.
Old Seer: "You were never meant to survive, little thorn. Only to bleed. Only to choose."
Another gust of wind tore through the chamber, scattering scrolls like feathers.
And then—somewhere in the monastery's bones—a bell tolled.
It rang once.
Twice.
Thrice.
But no hand had rung it.
The old woman turned her head slowly toward the dark, as if seeing something none alive could see.
Old Seer:"…The Hollow Gate will open."
"And when it does—either the world will kneel…"
"…or it will burn."
The fire died.
And with it, the last warmth in that place.
———
Back within the Black Rose Palace, the training field lay quiet under a pale morning sky.
Cassy rubbed at her wrist absently, the runes beneath her feet faintly glowing from last night's failed attempt. Lora limped slightly from a misstep in sparring. Lily sat alone, palms scorched from testing her fire resistance too long.
They were battered. Fraying. But not breaking.
Evelyn walked among them without comment. She didn't need to.
The bruises told her everything.
And so did the light in their eyes—harder now, focused.
Behind her, Gerald approached, eyes narrowed toward the clouds.
Gerald: "Everyone's doing well."
Evelyn didn't look up.
Evelyn: "Hum. They have resilience and strong will."
Gerald: "They're really very talenred. At first i also questioned if i or we can really live up to your expectations. But turns out we actually never knew ourselves. I have also taken your advice into consideration and made improvement in my speed."
She nodded once.
Evelyn: "Good."
She turned back toward her six girls. Her shadows.
Each one rising from pain like flame from flint.
Evelyn (quietly): "You all were already capable…"
"…I just gave a push."