The boy had never forgotten the light.
Though he was just four when it happened, the memory lived in him like a second heartbeat. The glow of the crown, the way it hummed without sound, the warmth that wrapped around the chamber like a story waiting to be told—he had clung to it all. While his brothers returned to swordplay and studies, he came back to the sealed chamber every year on the same night, hoping for even a flicker of that light.
But it never returned.
Not visibly.
Instead, it lived inside him.
Now eighteen years old, Prince Kael stood by the window of his tower chamber, watching the stars. The same stars from that night. The same sky. The same longing.
Prince Kael was the middle of three brothers. Prince Garran, the eldest at twenty-one, was destined for war—a stern strategist with a soldier's heart. The youngest, Prince Leor, sixteen, was a bright and charming spirit with a diplomat's tongue and a curious mind.
The royal family of Velmaria traced its bloodline back over a thousand years to the age of the First Flame—when the gods were said to have walked among mortals and gifted the land its first true king. The Flamebearers, as they were once called, were chosen not by blood alone, but by a divine spark seen only in rare moments of destiny. The crown itself was forged in that era—infused with light that awakened only for the Chosen Protector, one destined to rise when the kingdom faced its greatest trials.
Through wars, plagues, golden ages, and betrayals, the royal line endured. It was said the crown only glowed when the rightful heir or Chosen Protector stood before it. In the past two centuries, it had remained dim. The kings ruled not with magic, but with memory, carrying legends like armor.
King Maeron, Kael's father, is a wise and measured man—respected more for his discipline than his warmth. He believes in tradition, in control, and in the slow strength of diplomacy. By his side rules Queen Elira, a quiet force of grace and insight. Where the king holds the realm in strategy, she holds it in spirit. Beloved by the people for her compassion and known in court for her deep intuition, Queen Elira has raised her sons not just to rule, but to understand.
Even King Maeron had paused eighteen years ago when the sealed chamber lit up and his young sons stood wide-eyed before the glow of the ancient crown—a crown not of kingship, but of the Chosen Protector, a divine relic said to awaken only for one who would defend the realm in its greatest hour of need.
The three princes had grown up close, their bond forged in the grand halls of the palace and the shared pressure of legacy. Though each followed different paths, they shared laughter, sparring matches, and midnight conversations no court could overhear. Kael, the middle child, was often the bridge between his brothers—grounding Garran's stern nature and softening Leor's restlessness. They teased one another, challenged one another, but beneath it all, there was a love none could break. Kael, they believed, would one day surprise them all.
Behind him, the capital buzzed with preparations—the Festival of Choosing was approaching. Noble houses across the kingdom were already parading their daughters through the city, each hoping to charm the prince. Banners fluttered, music filled the air, and still, Kael felt nothing.
Nothing stirred him.
Not until the dream.
He saw her.
Not clearly—just a silhouette. A girl standing in the middle of a misty field. A crown hovered above her, its glow bleeding into the fog. And as she turned her face, Kael felt something pierce through his chest. Not pain. Something else.
Recognition.
He didn't know who she was. But she mattered.
When he woke up, gasping, the dream's remnants clung to him like dew. He sat for hours, replaying the image of her face, or what little of it he could recall. There was something in her bearing, the tilt of her chin, the steady way she stood beneath the floating crown. A servant? A noble? Someone hidden in plain sight?
He tried to sketch her, but the image dissolved. He searched old records, portraits, anything that might match her shadow. Nothing did. And still, the question throbbed beneath his skin:
Who is she?
He brought the dream to Queen Elira. She listened with the stillness she was known for, her eyes moving with quiet intensity.
"Dreams like this don't come without reason," she said. "Especially not to sons of flame."
Kael hesitated. "What if it's a warning?"
She touched his arm. "Or a calling."
That night, he returned to the sealed vault and stood before the crown. It remained as it had always been—silent, dark, waiting. And yet, looking at it, he felt that same warmth in his chest. That same stir of destiny.
The dream would not let him rest.
He could not name her.
But he had to find her.
He turned to his guard. "Send word. I want to visit the countryside. The old houses."
The guard frowned. "But, Your Highness, the Festival—"
Kael didn't wait. "Send word. I'm leaving at dawn."
And so it began.
The prince drawn not just by memory, but by a question that refused to fade. The girl unknown, yet unmistakably vital. Two flames hidden in plain sight, their fates already entwined.
And above them, high in the stars, the ancient light stirred again.
Not yet bursting.
But soon.
Very soon.