(Third-Person Limited — Lysera, age 6)
The year after Lysera turned six did not begin with tragedy. It began with something quieter—more insidious.
Silence.
Not the peaceful kind that soothed a child to sleep, but a silence that gathered in corners like dust, settled into voices, coiled itself in the halls of House Asterion with the patience of something waiting.
Lysera could not name it. But she felt it.
In the way conversations faded when she entered a room. In the way servants bowed too quickly, too politely. In the way the shrine flame hesitated—only for her—before dimming like a tired eye.
Even Elphira, gentle Elphira, who braided Lysera's hair every morning, had begun smoothing her skirts whenever Lysera approached, as though bracing herself against something she could not see.
Only Kaen remained unchanged. At three years old, he adored her with reckless, uncomplicated faith.
But today... today was different. Today was the Festival of Embers.
Which meant today was the first time Lysera would stand before a public flame.
The entire estate woke at dawn with a tension sharp as cooled iron and just as brittle.
Everyone knew this day mattered. Everyone except Lysera.
I. Morning Ashes
Lysera awoke to the scent of steaming rosemary. Maelinne sat beside her bed, dipping clean cloths into a warm herbal bowl. She moved with deliberate grace—too careful, too precise. The kind of precision someone used when their mind stood on the edge of worry.
"Good morning, little flame," Maelinne murmured, brushing a lock of ash-blonde hair from Lysera's face.
Lysera blinked sleepily. "...Why rosemary?" "For clarity," Maelinne said. "For beginnings."
The words felt heavy, as though they were not truly meant for Lysera but for the weight sitting quietly in Maelinne's chest.
Lysera sat up while Maelinne fastened the pale-blue festival dress—Selene's favorite color.
"Did she look like me?" Lysera asked softly.
Maelinne's hands froze around the clasp. A fragile breath escaped her. "Yes," she whispered. "But your eyes... those you inherited more sharply."
Lysera didn't know if sharply was good or bad.
Elphira entered then—nine years old, already resembling the kind of daughter priests preached virtue with. Her gown was white with lilac embroidery; her veil arranged with ritual precision.
"Elphira," Maelinne said, "help me with her veil."
Elphira nodded and knelt behind Lysera, her fingers gentle, practiced. "Hold still," she breathed.
Lysera did. But she noticed the small tremor in her sister's hands.
Once Lysera was dressed, Maelinne kissed her forehead and whispered: "You will be perfect." But her voice trembled again— and Lysera was old enough to hear it.
II. Descent Toward the City
Thalenhaven unfolded beneath them like a great tapestry. Festival banners fluttered in ember-orange and scarlet. Incense curled into the air in pale ribbons. Drums beat steady as a heart.
Lysera stayed close to Kaen, who held her hand with sticky fingers.
But the city's eyes were not on Kaen. They were on her.
"That's the Asterion girl..." "The one born the night the flame dimmed." "Unaligned," they whisper. "No—dangerous." "Poor child. Poor house."
The words clung to the air like soot. It was the sound of a verdict rendered before a trial could even begin.
Elphira heard them; her shoulders tightened. Dorian, walking just ahead, turned sharply each time someone spoke too loudly. He was twelve now, already carrying himself like a future lord, far too practiced in the art of shielding his siblings.
Maelinne whispered, "Keep your eyes forward," though Lysera wasn't sure whom she was speaking to—herself, or her children.
Lysera obeyed. But the whispers slid beneath her skin.
III. Ember Square: The Recoil
The Ember Square pulsed with firelight. The great altar flame towered above the crowd—a column of living orange and gold.
Children lined the front, waiting to receive their "Ember's Greeting." A symbol of acceptance—a child's alignment with the Flame's nature.
Lysera had never done this in public before. A priestess, robed in white and copper, lifted her staff. "Lady Lysera Asterion," she announced. "Step forward."
The crowd hushed to a hum.
Lysera felt Dorian's fear before she saw it. He went still. Maelinne clasped her hands until her knuckles blanched. Elphira let out a breath she had been holding for far too long.
Lysera walked toward the flame. The heat curled her veil. Shadows flickered across her cheeks.
She lifted her hand—small, unsure, exposed.
The flame responded. It trembled. Quivered. Then, slowly—deliberately— it bent away.
Not neutrally. Not shyly. Avoiding her.
A collective inhale rippled through the crowd.
"The flame recoils." "A rejection." "Omen-child." "Just like her mother—" "No, worse."
Lysera stepped back, confused. Her fingers tingled with a cold that should not exist near fire.
Kaen cried out: "Don't be mean to my sister!"
Elphira hushed him quickly, though her voice wavered. The priestess forced a diplomatic smile. "Some flames answer slowly," she said, her voice smooth and political. "It is not always a verdict."
But even Lysera could feel the lie. It hung in the air like cooling ash.
Behind the altar, two priests murmured: "Selene's readings faltered too." "Yes. That lineage was always... unstable."
Dorian heard. His jaw clenched so hard Lysera heard his teeth grind.
Lysera didn't understand the words. But she felt something crack—not loudly, but with the quiet inevitability of ice under strain.
IV. Ritual Shadows and Trembling Love
Other children approached the flame. It welcomed each of them. No flame bent away from any child. Only from her.
Lysera stood beside Dorian, hands folded tightly in front of her, the embroidered clasp digging into her palm.
"...Did I break it?" she whispered.
"No," Dorian said instantly. Too fiercely.
Elphira moved closer, placing a trembling hand on Lysera's arm.
"It's not your fault," she whispered. But Lysera saw something in Elphira's eyes— a brief flicker of fear, of uncertainty, of wanting desperately to believe her own words.
Even love had a tremor in it today.
V. The Walk Back
The sun slipped behind the horizon, staining the sea with molten gold. But Lysera felt no warmth.
Whispers followed them up the stone steps toward home.
"Stormborn." "Unaligned girl." "Bad omen on House Asterion." "Her future will be difficult." "No—dangerous."
Lysera lowered her eyes.
Then suddenly, a hand closed around hers. Dorian.
He didn't look at her. He didn't need to. His grip said everything.
Kaen clung to her other side, glaring at anyone who dared stare. Elphira walked slightly ahead, shoulders squared as if shielding Lysera from the world—even though she, too, trembled a little.
For a fleeting moment, Lysera felt held.
Not by the Flame. Not by the city. But by the three siblings whose loyalty formed the fragile perimeter of her world.
VI. Nightfall
That night, long after the household quieted, Lysera crept into the inner shrine.
Only one candle burned. Its flame wavered gently—no priests, no crowds, no expectations.
Just fire and a little girl trying to understand why it refused her.
She extended her hand. The flame lifted— softly, cautiously— as though sniffing at her presence.
Lysera's breath caught. But then the flame bent away, withdrawing into itself like an animal not yet ready to trust.
"...What am I supposed to do?" she whispered.
The flame did not answer. It only flickered— soft, cold, inscrutable— the way it had since the hour of her birth. As though guarding a secret it had no intention of sharing.
Not yet.