They say power is inherited.
But I've come to learn that understanding power… that must be earned.
The days passed like drifting feathers, and years quietly followed.
By the time I turned seventeen, my name had already spread beyond the temples. Not just as a prodigy—but as a living heirloom of the celestial bloodline. A promise to a world that feared the return of silence.
And yet, in the eyes of my mentors, I was still a child not yet worthy of her name.
"You're asking me to train your magical abilities?"Perephone raised a brow, lazily sipping from a silver goblet that reeked of aged wine and herbs.
"Yes," I replied, hands folded behind my back. "If you're willing to help me make use of Solviel's abilities in battle."
She scoffed, placing the goblet down with a clink.
"A spirit's skillset isn't like spellcasting. You don't just recite a chant and wait for fireworks. Spirit abilities draw from your core. And a Third Circle spirit—well, that'll gut your mana reserves if you're not careful."
"Maybe Raksha could help," I murmured, not looking at her directly.
"Hah. That lion probably would."
A crack of static echoed in the chamber as Raksha manifested.The blue lion spirit towered behind me, his fur bristling like scaled armor, triple tails flicking with slow, deliberate rhythm. Lightning simmered in the air.
"Wouldn't it be better for Solviel to teach her?" Raksha said, tilting his head toward Perephone."After all, it's her domain Luna's channeling, not mine."
"That's…" I hesitated. "That's the problem."
Perephone leaned forward, grinning like she already knew what I meant.
"That what?"
I took a breath. Then, I opened the bond.
And Solviel appeared.
But not in the form I saw within her domain.
No quiet woman of golden eyes.No soft robes and human sorrow.
Instead—
She descended like a fragment of stained light made solid.Wings of glass extended behind her—radiating with unbearable luminescence. Her body was genderless, androgynous, robed in shifting threads of gold and white.
And over her face—
A mask.
White as ancient bone, etched with golden markings that danced and changed like a clockwork language alive.Her voice, when it came, was neither male nor female—but a perfect tone that rang in the bones and not the ears.
This was the Solviel the world saw.
The Solviel of ceremonies.The Solviel I first met at eight years old when I was chosen.The spirit who never wept. Never wavered. Never spoke unless prophecy demanded it.
"I see," Raksha muttered, stepping back slightly, as if giving reverence… or caution.
Solviel remained still, mask angled downward in my direction—but never directly meeting my gaze.
"She won't teach me directly," I said at last. "Not like how Raksha would teach his awakener."
"Because she doesn't see you as an equal, does she?" Perephone said, crossing her arms. "She sees you as a vessel. A symbol. Something inherited."
"I think…" I paused. "I think she's afraid."
The room fell quiet. Even Raksha gave pause.
"Well, it's not like she can't…" Raksha finally muttered."It's just… not really possible."
His voice rumbled like a storm retreating into distant mountains.
"Even if you went into her domain, she wouldn't be able to teach you. Spirits don't work that way. They just… exist. And you can't cast magic there—not truly."
"Oh?" Perephone raised a brow.
Raksha nodded, tail flicking once.
"Solviel's case is a bit complicated. She has two forms—the guiding one… and the combat vessel. Until she ascends to Second Circle, she can't shift freely between them. It's like trying to teach swordplay through a reflection."
A pause followed.
"...Right," Solviel murmured from her masked form, the voice low and restrained.
Then, she bowed slightly toward me.
"Then I'll dismiss myself. I hope… you can teach my vessel what I cannot."
And with a hum of light, she vanished, like gold dust dissolving into silence.
"Ha…" Raksha exhaled. "I'll try to handle her magic then. Specifically the constructs—Solviel's signature techniques. But Perephone..."
He turned to the veteran warrior, his eyes narrowing like twin bolts behind scaled lids.
"You'll have to open her more."
"Open her more?" Perephone repeated.
"The more this child trains, the more her core expands—not just mana reserves, but its resilience. Spirit-linked cores are strange beasts. Push them right, and they bloom."
Perephone cracked her knuckles, an eager grin stretching across her face.
"That… will be my pleasure."
Six months later
Sparks crackled across the dusk-colored field.
The training arena atop the temple plateau was built over cloud-laced cliffs, high above any city. Here, the air was thinner. Wind howled through the jagged flags marking the edge. It was a place meant to forge steel from suffering.
"Again!" Raksha's voice boomed.
A glyph pulsed beneath my feet.
The runes burned golden, threading into my veins—and I raised my hand as light shimmered around my palm.
"Construct: Radiant Veil!"
A dome of fractured light formed mid-air—hexagonal shards spinning rapidly like overlapping shields of holy glass. Just in time—
Lightning crashed down from Raksha's paw, striking the barrier with a roar.
The dome held—but my knees buckled, the mana ripping through my core like molten wine.
"You're bleeding magic," Raksha growled. "Focus the intent, not the effect."
I gritted my teeth.
"I am—!"
"No, you're mimicking Solviel's memory of it. That's not enough. Find your own pulse, Luna. Make her magic yours."
Then came Perephone's turn.
She stood barefoot on the opposite end of the stone courtyard, dressed in faded combat robes, her long braid whipping behind her like a lash.
"Ready your lance."
I inhaled, the silver-gold lance warm in my grip. The crescent top reflected the sun's dying light.
Perephone charged first—no hesitation.
She struck like a lightning bolt disguised as a woman—each movement honed from centuries of blood, war, and endless discipline.
I blocked once. Parried. Then—
Crack!
Her lance met mine with enough force to shatter air. I was thrown back, boots dragging grooves in the stone floor.
"Too stiff!" she shouted. "You don't control the weapon—it's guiding you!"
"It's too long—!" I tried to say.
"Then shorten your stance! Use the weight, not the reach!"
The battle became a blur.
Strike. Step. Thrust. Fall.
She made me spin under strikes that cracked the floor. She forced me into defensive corners until instinct—not memory—took over.
And finally—
I moved.
Not as Luna, the chosen vessel.
But Luna, the one who had survived six winters of dawn training, hundreds of bruises, and lightning-burned muscles.
I struck back.
A low sweep, feinting left—her lance pivoted. I ducked under and channeled Solviel's Radiant Split—a horizontal burst of light from my weapon's crescent edge.
The blast struck her square in the stomach. She grunted, skidding back, smoke rising from her robes.
A beat of silence.
Then Perephone laughed.
"Now that—was a proper hit."
The evening passed in panting breaths and bruised limbs.
Raksha watched with his tails coiled, quietly pleased.Perephone slung a cloak over my shoulders once we collapsed by the edge.
"She's waking up," she whispered.
"Who?" I asked.
"You."
The Temple of Threads breathed in silence.
Nestled between two silver cliffs and built atop the skeletal remains of an ancient spirit, the temple shimmered like woven silk under moonlight. Its walls were made of stitched runes—soft to the touch yet indestructible—threads of memory and blood tied together by generations of celestial seers.
And tonight, it glowed golden.
The air was heavy with incense. Music hummed from crystal flutes suspended in air. Priests in white and violet gathered in concentric circles around the central loom, where woven constellations drifted like snow.
At the center—me.
Seventeen.
They sang not in voices, but in threads—ribbons of light stretching from their fingers into the sky, each string bearing a memory of my name. I stood beneath them in ceremonial robes, barefoot against the glowing threads of fate that shimmered beneath my feet.
Perephone stood at my right, arms crossed, trying not to look amused in formal wear.
Raksha lay curled at the foot of the altar, his tails brushing lightly against the runic floor.
Solviel hovered behind me in radiant silence—still masked.
"Do you, Luna Gadriel, acknowledge the thread passed down from your ancestors to your name?" the Head Weaver intoned, her voice ancient but steady.
"I do," I answered.
"Do you carry the burden of the promise stitched in your blood?"
"I do."
"And do you accept that what is woven can be unwoven… and rewoven by your hands, should fate falter?"
"...I do."
A tremor passed through the threads.
The loom responded—casting out one ribbon of golden light. It wrapped around my wrist, binding softly like warm silk.
"Then you are no longer child nor heir."
"You are now Weaver of Her Own Line."
Gasps and murmurs spread among the circle.
This was rare. Few heirs were named as such at seventeen. Most only inherited the title of Threadbearer or Prophecy's Echo. But this—
This meant I was no longer bound to follow the path.
It meant I could shape it.
Perephone looked down at me, and for once, her face softened.
"Congratulations," she whispered.
Raksha simply rumbled with satisfaction, his head bowed.
But from behind me, Solviel's voice rang, low and uncertain.
"Luna… you are weaving too close to something that was never meant to be touched again."
Her words passed quietly. Not loud enough for anyone else to hear.
But I did.
And I understood.
The temple's echo still lingered in my ears even after the light ceremony had dimmed. Offerings of woven sweets and folded letters were passed quietly among the gathered. But soon, one by one, the priests and celebrants began to drift away into candlelit corridors.
Only a few remained beneath the starlit loom—myself, Perephone at my side, and then—
"Happy seventeenth, Lady Luna."
The voice was calm, dry, and weather-worn.High Seer Vareon emerged from behind one of the rune-carved pillars, robes layered with ceremonial frost, his hands clasped gently behind his back.
His eyes, sharp and opaline, held neither threat nor warmth.
Just... recognition.
I bowed politely, as tradition dictated.
"Thank you, High Seer."
Perephone, leaning on her lance like a walking stick, exhaled.
"So… the prophecy-believer shows up bearing polite smiles."
Her tone carried the same mockery she always wore like armor around him.
Vareon merely smiled.
"I follow the order of fate," he said, unbothered. "Nothing more. I have no intention of stopping Lady Luna from making her own path."
He turned to me with a slight incline of his head.
"The Celestial Tribunal will always walk behind you, Luna. Not to bind your ankles—but to carry the burdens you choose to place down."
"That's poetic for someone who used to speak of her as a tool," Perephone muttered, stepping forward. "You don't get to take credit for her freedom after everything."
"I do not expect your forgiveness," Vareon answered softly. "Nor your trust."
He looked up at the fading constellation woven across the ceiling.
"But know this: I am powerless against her now. And truly… it is not within my right to silence a young girl's dream."
He paused, for the first time letting something more fragile pass across his voice.
"I have daughters of my own, Perephone. I know what it means to… watch someone become something beyond your grasp."
That silenced even her—if only for a breath.