Third Person's POV
Evening had fallen by the time Talia returned to her private chambers. The soft amber glow of lanterns bathed the room, mingling with the faint scent of jasmine drifting through the open balcony.
Rhenessa was already there — waiting. She stood by the window, the night air stirring her green hair, a faint smirk playing at her lips as she swirled wine in a crystal goblet.
"I was wondering when you'd come," she said, her voice low and amused. "I was beginning to think the council had locked you away to crown you all over again."
Talia's laugh was quiet, honey-smooth. "They wouldn't dare. Not after today."
Rhenessa turned, her gaze warm and teasing. "You were magnificent, Tali. I think half the council forgot to breathe. And as for your husband…" Her smirk widened. "He looked like a man watching the sun rise on the ruins of his own arrogance."
Talia crossed the room, taking the goblet from her hand. "I wasn't sure whether to pity him or thank him."
"Thank him?"
"Yes," Talia said softly. "For reminding me who I am."
Rhenessa's eyes softened, her tone quieter now. "You've always known. You just needed to stop dimming your light for others."
Talia looked up at her — the sunlight and shadow reflected in her eyes. "And you," she murmured, "you've made it impossible to hide again."
They stood close, the air between them humming with something that was no longer just desire — it was understanding, partnership, destiny.
Rhenessa brushed her fingers against Talia's chin. "You know," she said, her voice softening into something tender, "if you keep flirting with me like this, I might forget I'm supposed to be diplomatic."
Talia smiled, her tone silk and gold. "Forget diplomacy. You can afford a little rebellion."
Rhenessa leaned in until their foreheads touched. "I already have."
They stayed like that for a long moment, basking in the quiet. Outside, the night wind carried the faint sounds of the city below — laughter, music, life.
But here, in this room, there was only them — the pulse of their bond still warm from the night before, the victory of the day lingering like wine on their tongues.
Finally, Talia stepped back, reclaiming the goblet and lifting it in a toast. "To today."
Rhenessa's smile deepened. "To victory."
Talia clinked her glass gently against hers. "And to the fools who think we've reached our peak."
Rhenessa tilted her head, violet eyes gleaming. "Oh, my queen," she whispered. "We've only just begun to rise."
Their laughter filled the room, soft and rich — two hearts in sync, two powers entwined.
But as the candles burned lower, a shadow crossed Talia's expression. "We need to continue our search," she said quietly. "Seraphina's diary led us to The Song of Divided Flame for a reason. I think the key to ending this centuries-old hatred lies in that book."
Rhenessa nodded, her playfulness fading into resolve. "Then tomorrow night, we return to the archives."
Talia's gaze lingered on her, her voice dipping into something deeper. "And after that…"
Rhenessa smiled knowingly. "After that, we make history."
The council chamber had long since emptied, but the echo of its laughter still haunted Caelen's ears.
He sat alone at the long marble table, the late sun bleeding through the tall windows, setting the gold trim of his tunic ablaze. The silence pressed in around him — mocking, heavy, absolute.
On the table before him lay the crushed remnants of a quill. He hadn't even realized he'd snapped it until ink had bled across his hand, a dark smear staining his palm like spilled shadow.
How did it come to this?
He had been a king. The king. Her husband, her equal — once the man she'd adored. Now, he was little more than a ghost haunting the edges of her throne room.
He saw her face in his mind, radiant and unreadable, seated beside Rhenessa as if she'd been carved of sunlight and serenity. The sound of her laughter — not directed at him — twisted the knife deeper.
Maris's laughter had been too loud, too sweet in contrast. A poor imitation of what he had lost.
He slammed his fist against the table. The sound cracked through the chamber like thunder, but the emptiness swallowed it whole.
"Damn her," he muttered, breath ragged. "Damn her for making me feel small."
He stood, pacing, running a hand through his hair. Rage burned at first — hot and consuming — but underneath it was something colder. Loneliness.
And beneath that… something he didn't want to name.
Because the truth was, when he looked at Talia today, he hadn't just seen defiance. He had seen freedom — and the cruelest part was that she had never looked more beautiful.
⸻
A soft knock broke his spiral.
Maris slipped inside, her expression cautious. "Caelen?"
He didn't answer at first. His back was to her, his gaze fixed on the blazing horizon beyond the window.
"She humiliated you," Maris said gently, her voice a careful blend of sympathy and provocation.
His shoulders tensed.
"She didn't raise her voice. She didn't argue. She just dismissed you. That's worse than rage — she doesn't even think you're worth fighting."
He turned then, eyes sharp. "You think I don't know that?"
Maris flinched but didn't retreat. "Then stop letting her win."
He frowned, but she stepped closer, her tone lowering, coaxing. "You said it yourself — she's forgetting who she is. Who made her queen. You."
"That crown was hers by blood," he snapped.
"But the throne was yours by strength," she countered. "She was never this bold before you left. Something — someone — is emboldening her."
Caelen's jaw tightened. He didn't answer, but the name that rose unbidden in his mind made his pulse spike: Rhenessa.
Maris saw it in his face and pressed her advantage. "You've let her play you into silence. If you want her back, stop chasing her light. Make her come to you. Remind her of what she's losing — her husband, her king, her image."
Caelen's eyes narrowed, thoughtful. "You think jealousy still works?"
Maris smiled faintly, brushing a hand against his chest. "It always works — especially on women like her. She hides her emotions behind duty, but she still feels them."
He caught her hand before she could move away, his grip tightening. "And what would you have me do?"
She met his gaze evenly. "Don't fight her. Outshine her. Make her remember that she's not the only one who can command a room."
For the first time since the council meeting, Caelen's lips curved into something resembling a smile — small, sharp, dangerous.
"Perhaps you're right," he said quietly. "If she wants to prove she doesn't need me… let her watch what happens when I stop needing her."
Maris smiled, but her eyes were dark with calculation. "That's my king."
He turned back toward the window, watching as the last of the sunlight disappeared behind the distant horizon — the very direction of the Empress's lands.
"She'll come crawling back," he murmured. "The sun always sets… and every dawn needs its shadow."
But as he spoke, something about the words rang hollow — a lie he needed to believe.
Because deep down, Caelen didn't realize that the sun he once owned had already risen beyond his reach.
The moon hung high over Solara, its pale light spilling through the grand windows of the royal archives. Dust motes drifted like soft snow in the air, disturbed only by the quiet footsteps of two queens moving between towering shelves of forgotten tomes.
Rhenessa carried a lantern, its glow painting gold along the deep stone walls. "If Seraphina was right," she murmured, "then what we seek should be here — under The Song of Divided Flame."
Talia brushed her fingers across rows of ancient bindings. "This section hasn't been touched in decades," she whispered. "Maybe centuries."
Her hand stilled. A heavy, crimson-bound volume caught her eye. Embossed upon its spine was a sigil of intertwined light and shadow — two flames curling around one another like lovers and rivals both.
"This is it," she breathed.
They carried the book to a marble reading table, its surface cold even beneath their warm hands. When Talia opened the cover, the parchment exhaled a breath of age and memory. The ink shimmered faintly in the lamplight, as if written in molten gold and soot.
Rhenessa leaned closer, her voice a reverent murmur. "It's older than any Solaran record I've seen."
Talia began to read aloud, her voice soft, each word carrying centuries of weight.
In the dawn before kingdoms, there was one realm — luminous and whole — called Auralis.
Born of fire and starlight, it was ruled by the first sovereigns of Auremera's line, and to them were born two daughters: the first, radiant as the sun, and the second, dark as the void between stars.
They were sisters in blood, but rivals in all else.
Talia's eyes flicked up to Rhenessa, whose expression had turned somber, fascinated.
The elder daughter, Solynna, was golden of hair and light of heart. The people adored her, for her laughter was like dawn, and her beauty like morning's glow. She was chosen to inherit the throne — by birth, not merit.
The younger, Noctyra, watched in silence. Her mind was keen, her will unbending, her soul aflame with ambition. She loved her sister once — until love turned bitter.
For every deed Noctyra mastered, Solynna was praised more for doing less. For every word of wisdom the younger spoke, the elder's folly was met with applause.
Rhenessa exhaled slowly. "It sounds like history written by the victors."
Talia nodded, tracing the faded text. "And it was likely preserved by Solara's earliest scribes. They wanted this version remembered."
But when the man both sisters desired — the heir of the Celestial Guard — chose Solynna's hand, the shadow's heart shattered. She fled the palace that night, vanishing into the wilderness where light could not follow.
None know how she survived, only that years later, across the seas of mist, a new land was born. A kingdom of shadowfire and stone — ruled by one who called herself Queen of the Night Eternal.
Thus Auralis, the realm of unity, was torn in two.
The last line shimmered faintly, as though resisting the passing of time.
Talia closed the book gently, staring at the sigil on its cover — the twin flames now seeming more like a wound split down the center.
"So Solara and Noctyra," she whispered, "were once one kingdom… Auralis."
Rhenessa nodded slowly. "And the daughters — Solynna and Noctyra — became the mothers of our realms."
Silence hung between them.
It was a silence thick with realization — and with something deeper. Something that made the air seem to hum softly between them.
"They were sisters," Talia said softly, almost to herself. "Bound by blood… and torn apart by pride, envy, and love."
Rhenessa's gaze lingered on her, violet eyes unreadable. "History has a cruel way of repeating itself, doesn't it?"
Talia looked up, meeting her gaze — and for a heartbeat, the world felt smaller. Like the line between past and present had blurred.
Then she gently closed the book, resting her hand atop it. "That's enough for tonight," she murmured. "Whatever came next… I'm not ready to know yet."
Rhenessa's voice was quiet. "Nor I."
They extinguished the lantern and began their slow walk back through the sleeping halls. Their hands brushed — a fleeting touch — and even that small contact sparked warmth against the cold of centuries past.
Behind them, on the open table, the sigil of light and shadow pulsed faintly once — like a heartbeat awakening after a thousand years.
The first blush of dawn slipped over Solara's horizon, streaking the sky with gold and rose.
Most of the palace still slept, but not Rhenessa.
She sat in her temporary chambers, the Song of Divided Flame open before her. Her fingers traced the curling script as if by touch alone she could divine the truths between its lines.
Talia had fallen asleep hours ago, her head resting on Rhenessa's shoulder as the candle burned to its end. Rhenessa had watched her for a long while — the way the faint glow of the flame played along her lashes, the quiet strength even in rest.
And yet, despite the peace of the night, something inside the Empress refused to still.
Auralis… Solynna… Noctyra.
The names lingered on her tongue like a half-forgotten prayer.
A story of two sisters — of light and shadow — separated by love, pride, and betrayal.
It haunted her.
Rhenessa rose and moved to the window. The city below was waking slowly, a ripple of gold spreading through its spires. From here, she could almost forget the molten rivers and black stone of her homeland — yet the same sun that warmed Solara kissed Noctyra too.
"Perhaps," she murmured to herself, "our ancestors never truly meant to divide."
But another thought followed, unbidden and unsettling: Or perhaps the divide was never meant to heal.
Her gaze dropped to the open page once more. Something about the way the ink shimmered caught her attention. The script seemed to shift, as if the gold bled into shadow when viewed from a different angle.
Her heart quickened. Hidden writing?
She leaned closer — and faint, spectral words shimmered beneath the original text, visible only for an instant before fading:
To know the shadow's truth, seek her voice in the lands where flame burns black.
Rhenessa's breath caught.
"That's… Noctyra," she whispered. "The other side of the story."
She straightened, resolve blooming like a storm in her chest.
If this Song of Divided Flame told the Sun's account, then somewhere — buried deep within her own empire — there must exist its twin: the Tale of the Shadowed Dawn.
The story of Noctyra's rise. Her truth. Her vengeance.
Rhenessa closed the book gently and ran a hand through her hair. The air was crisp, the kind that clears fog from the mind.
She would find it.
Not just for history, but for Talia — for the two of them. Because the more she learned, the more certain she became that their meeting was no accident.
Perhaps fate was not repeating history at all. Perhaps it was rewriting it.
⸻
Later that morning, when Talia woke, she found the bed half-empty and the faint scent of Rhenessa's perfume still lingering in the air. On her nightstand sat the crimson-bound book — and beneath it, a note written in elegant Noctyrian script:
There's more to the song, Tali. Tonight, let's find the missing verses together.
Talia smiled softly, running a thumb over the ink.
"Then tonight," she whispered, "we finish what our ancestors began."