Chapter One — The Birth of the Heir
The night sky was torn between flame and shadow.
On the horizon of Ignivar Draconis, volcanoes pulsed with molten hymns, their rivers of fire answering the heartbeat of the Dragon Emperor. Over the spires of Nocturnis Valemira, eclipsed moons hovered like silent sentinels, pouring silver into the deep. Both continents leaned toward a single moment — a convergence written into destiny itself.
Within the floating citadel of Aeternalis Crownspire, silence reigned. It was the kind of silence that trembled, too full of power to remain still.
Seliora lay upon a bed woven of lunar silk, her beauty undiminished even in labor, her breath slow and deliberate. Around her, priestesses of moon and flame chanted in unison, their voices entwined in a lattice of power. Beside her stood Azryon, not as the Emperor who crushed empires with a glance, but as husband, sovereign, protector. His starfire eyes softened as he bent to her side, his gauntleted hand clasping hers.
"Seliora," he murmured, voice like molten gravity, "even fate trembles at what you bring forth."
Her lips curved faintly, a smile both weary and eternal. "Then let fate kneel."
Lightning of gold and silver surged across the chamber. Arrays carved into the citadel's heart activated: reality-weaving sigils, time-suspension circles, gravity stabilizers. All of Aeternalis braced itself as the Heir's soul pressed against the fabric of existence, demanding entrance.
The moment came with neither scream nor cry, but with a resonant chord.
A sound like worlds aligning, like galaxies acknowledging a new axis.
The child was lifted forth in shimmering swaddles of auric shadow. His skin bore the warmth of porcelain, faintly glowing with buried runes. His hair shimmered black with indigo glints, tousled as though the stars had already claimed him. Then his eyes opened — and the chamber froze.
One eye blazed with molten gold, the inheritance of dragonfire.
The other glowed with amaranth-crimson, the legacy of immortal night.
In that instant, the arrays faltered. Not from failure, but from reverence.
Time itself bowed.
The priestesses gasped prayers; some wept, others fell to their knees. Azryon's mantle of sovereignty pulsed once, involuntarily acknowledging what even he could not deny. Seliora, with tears crystalline as starlight, pressed the child to her chest.
"Atticus," she whispered, the name already etched in the Codex of Fates.
And across the Wheel of Eternity, the twenty continents shuddered — empires feeling a presence that had not yet spoken, not yet walked, but already commanded.
The Heir had been born.
The world would never again be the same.
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