A secret chamber beneath the Veil Temple, where seers once whispered of the gods' exile. Only one voice remains the Chronicler, an ancient figure bound to record fate as it unfolds.
"We warned them once: When a star forgets itself, the sky forgets how to hold it.
And now?
The sky has torn."
He dips his pen in ink made from starlight and ash.
"She was only a girl. Until she wasn't."
"Until a mirror cracked. Until a name surfaced in the flame. Until a god's kiss broke a seal not even time dared touch."
He turns a brittle scroll. The next prophecy unwritten. Waiting.
"They see her now as power. Some as hope. Some as war. But none of them see the whole."
"Not her sister. Not the king. Not even the flame-born who loved her first."
He looks up.
"And the boy the one with war in his blood and a crown hidden in his bones? He has not remembered yet."
"But he will."
"And when he does... the Veil will no longer hold."
The Oathspire's border gates, under a fractured moon. A battalion of secret spellguard soldiers prepares to transfer a powerful relic meant to delay Maria's divine awakening.
The wind doesn't howl. It obeys.
That's the first sign the commander notices just before the torches go out.
The guards scramble to relight them. One whispers a charm. The spark stutters, flickers... and dies.
The second sign is the smell.
Not smoke.
Ash. Old. Sacred. Wrong.
A shadow steps through the gate.
Not fast.
Not afraid.
Just... inevitable.
"Who approaches Oathspire in silence?" the commander demands, voice straining.
The figure raises no weapon. But every soldier draws theirs.
Cloaked in voidcloth, no crest. Only a symbol sewn at his collar:
A blade embedded in a circle.
The sigil of the Broken Oath.
One soldier swears. Another drops his sword.
"No no, it can't be. That's"
The figure lifts his hand.
The world screams.
A blade of obsidian flame slices the air not light, not steel memory sharpened into ruin.
The first line of guards burns where they stand.
Others scatter, weeping, begging.
The commander does not get the chance.
His body folds like parchment. Silent. Dust.
The figure steps over him.
Calm.
Controlled.
Maldric.
His eyes, silver-black, scan the burning gate.
"Too late," he says softly. "She's already remembered."
From behind a ruined tower, a witch in white rises her face veiled, her voice twisted with song.
"You failed. She awoke."
Maldric turns his head, just slightly.
"I delayed her. You're the one who relied on children and crows."
The witch hisses. "She's too strong now. I couldn't kill her."
Maldric's blade reappears in his hand.
"Then you are no longer useful."
The witch snarls, raising a spell wind howls, vines twist, her mouth blooms fire.
Maldric slices once.
The magic doesn't counter him.
It flees.
The witch's body shatters into pieces of bone and music and black salt.
He watches them scatter into the dust.
Then whispers:
"Seraphina will do what you could not."
He turns to the sky.
Stars churn, clouds part the Veil trembles.
"And Kaelen," he says quietly, "you're running out of time."
Then he vanishes.
Not in smoke.
Not in sound.
Just gone.
The gate burns behind him.
The world doesn't breathe.
Not yet.
The Queen's private wing was made not for healing but for reverence.
Moonstone tiles. Veils of star-silk. Gilded roses blooming with emotion, not season.
Maria sat by the fire, silent. A blanket around her shoulders. Her teacup untouched.
Across from her, Queen Eleanor wore no jewels. No crown. Just a robe, and the ache of fifteen years stitched into every line of her face.
"You screamed," Eleanor said softly.
Maria didn't answer.
"I used to, too. After I lost you."
Still nothing.
"I stopped dreaming of the stars... when I stopped believing they were mine."
Maria's voice cracked. "You lost me. And now you think you've found me."
"I know I haven't," the Queen said. "But I'd like to try."
That paused her.
Maria looked up, hollow-eyed.
"You're the Queen. Not my mother."
Eleanor didn't flinch.
"I've been both. Just... never at the same time."
That landed.
Maria's eyes flickered not soft, not angry. Just... uncertain. Tired.
The Queen reached out, slowly.
"May I?"
Maria didn't move.
She didn't stop her either.
Eleanor brushed a strand of golden hair from her daughter's brow. Her hand trembled but lingered.
The air between them stilled.
Maria exhaled.
And her sigil for the first time dimmed.
Not gone. Not silent. But soothed.
The Queen saw it.
Her breath caught.
"One day," she said, voice shaking, "I want you to choose to stay. Not because of duty. Or blood. Or crowns.
But because you believe I love you."
Maria blinked.
The weight of that hope cracked through her chest.
"I haven't even chosen myself yet," she whispered.