(Third-Person Limited — Lysera, age 5)
The first time Lysera stepped beyond the estate walls, the world felt too large for her small hands to hold.
Wind brushed her cheeks—cool, salted, touched with the metallic tang of the distant forges along Thalenhaven's harbor. Below House Asterion, the coastal city unfurled in terraced layers: white-brick villas, spiraling markets, temple spires, and the river carving its silver path toward the sea.
To Lysera, it looked alive. A city that breathed. A city that watched.
Lord Auremis Asterion had business in the administrative district, and Lady Maelinne insisted the children accompany him. "It is good for them to be seen," she told the steward. Then softer, as if speaking only to her clenched hands: "It shows the Shrine we have nothing to hide."
Lysera didn't understand what hiding had to do with walking in the sun. But Dorian's posture sharpened at those words—stiffening, smoothing, becoming once more the careful heir he was being molded to be.
Kaen toddled ahead, clinging to Maelinne's skirts, babbling about honey cakes. Beside Lysera, Elphira held her hand—gently but firmly.
Elphira, the firstborn of Selene. Nine years old. A girl the Shrine looked upon with approval. Her grip tightened—not out of fear for herself, but for Lysera.
When they passed through the estate gates, the guards bowed deeply. Lysera blinked, unsure whether she should bow back. Maelinne's hand on her shoulder gave the answer—don't.
Thalenhaven was louder than Lysera imagined. Vendors shouted in rhythmic cadences. A blacksmith hammered steel with the clarity of ritual. Spices drifted from open stalls, mixing with brine from the harbor.
But wherever Lysera walked, voices dipped. Not always cruelly—but always knowingly. Always with the weight of rumor.
A seamstress murmured: "Is that the girl born during the eclipse?" A fisherman muttered: "The flame wouldn't warm for her mother, they say." A passing priest whispered: "Keep walking. Do not stare."
Lysera felt each word land on her shoulders—soft, but cumulative. Like pebbles collecting in her pockets. She didn't know what she had done. But she knew the world already had an opinion about her.
Dorian walked at her side—silent but protective, a shadow poised like a blade. Elphira squeezed her fingers again.
I. The Market Square
Lord Auremis discussed tariffs with merchants while Dorian watched Kaen with the vigilance of someone who no longer remembered what it meant to be a carefree child. Lysera stayed beside Maelinne and Elphira.
Bolts of dyed cloth fluttered in the wind. Lysera brushed her fingers over one. The vendor turned, smiling warmly. "What a lovely child." Lysera brightened instinctively.
Then the vendor's eyes narrowed in recognition. "Oh. Stormborn's daughter." The smile vanished.
Lysera withdrew her hand as if burned.
Dorian appeared instantly, his presence sharp. "Is there a problem?" he asked, cool as polished steel.
"N-no, young lord," the vendor stammered.
"A poor comment," Dorian replied, guiding Lysera away.
Elphira followed, her hand steady on Lysera's back, her own expression shaken. Lysera looked once more at the fabric—still wanting to touch it. Still wanting to understand the world with her fingertips. But she folded her small hands together instead.
II. The Shrine Road
When they took a road bending toward the lower shrine, glances lengthened from passing curiosity into quiet speculation.
A woman balancing water jars whispered: "Her eyes... they're Selene's. But colder." A young acolyte murmured: "Children with unfinished omens draw the flame's silence."
Lysera didn't know what it meant to be unfinished. She only knew Dorian subtly shifted closer, sleeve brushing hers like a shield.
Maelinne knelt suddenly, straightening Lysera's cloak. "Don't mind them," she whispered. "They don't know you."
Lysera tilted her head, her silver-frost eyes steady. "Do you know me?"
Maelinne's breath caught. Elphira looked away. "...I'm trying," Maelinne said softly. Trying to love a child the Shrine mistrusted. Trying not to fear a rumor she couldn't dismiss.
Lysera didn't understand the weight in her voice. Not yet.
III. The Noble District
Silks replaced linen. Tutors replaced shopkeepers. Every child here moved with stiff-backed discipline, reciting doctrine under their breath.
A girl around Dorian's age stopped when the Asterion family entered the square. Aveline Crestmoor—hair pinned with pearls, posture immaculate.
Her gaze swept Lysera head to toe—not cruel, simply analytical. "She doesn't look cursed," Aveline announced. "Just quiet."
"Aveline!" her tutor gasped. Aveline just shrugged. "The priests exaggerate everything."
Dorian stepped forward. "Mind your words." "Tell your priests to mind theirs," Aveline shot back before being dragged away.
Elphira inhaled sharply. Maelinne's hand went to her throat. Auremis kept walking, face unreadable.
Lysera just wished people would stop saying words she didn't understand.
IV. A Street-Corner Oracle (The Artisan)
Near a fountain, two elderly women spoke without caution: "That's her—the stormchild." "Which one?" "The one the flame wouldn't claim." "Pity. Selene had such promise." "Some threads come out tangled."
Before she could retreat into Dorian's shadow, a new voice cut through the air: "Threads do not tangle themselves."
An old man stood beside a stall of carved trinkets. His cloak was simple grey—belonging to no house, no shrine. He looked like a philosophical nobody.
His eyes—sharp, silvered with age—rested on her with the familiarity of someone who had seen too much injustice.
"People blame the wrong hands when a thread turns difficult," he murmured.
Dorian stepped in front of Lysera. "Who are you?" "An artisan," the man smiled. "Watching threads choose their difficulty."
He nodded at Lysera—not in reverence, but in understanding. "Walk gently, little one. The world has already decided too much about you."
Then he dissolved into the crowd like smoke in wind.
V. The Road Home
The return journey was quiet. Kaen slept on Maelinne's lap. Elphira leaned lightly against Lysera, offering silent reassurance.
Auremis stared out the window, jaw tight, thinking of things no child should have to hear about themselves. Dorian sat across from Lysera, studying her with a soft severity.
"Do you know why they spoke like that?" he asked. Lysera shook her head.
Dorian swallowed. "Because you were born on a night they fear. Because Mother died as you lived." "...And because they don't understand you."
Lysera looked down at her small hands. "...Do you understand me?"
Elphira lifted her head slightly—listening.
Dorian hesitated, then: "...I'm trying."
Lysera leaned into that answer. Just a little. Just enough.
The city had looked at her like a question it already believed it understood. But her siblings— their hands, their warmth— felt more like truth.