Schiera had always greeted dawn with reverence.
As the first rays of sunlight crested the eastern spires, they scattered across crystal towers and alabaster streets, refracting endlessly until the city seemed to glow from within. For generations, the Light Kingdom had stood as a symbol of stability—measured judgment, careful diplomacy, and unwavering faith in order.
But this morning, the light wavered.
High above the capital, within the Hall of Radiance, the crystal ceiling groaned softly. Hairline fractures—thin as spider silk—spread across its surface, catching the dawn light and breaking it into distorted patterns.
They had not been there a week ago.
A low murmur rippled through the chamber as the Council of Luminars assembled beneath the fractured Sunspire. Twelve seats formed a perfect circle, each occupied by a figure robed in white and gold. At the chamber's heart stood the Throne of Radiance.
Empty.
Where once the King and Queen of Schiera presided, now only silence remained—heavy, accusatory, and impossible to ignore.
High Luminar Seraphiel rose slowly from his seat, staff tapping once against the polished marble floor. His hair, once radiant gold, had dulled to silver in the weeks since the royal assassination.
"This is the third tremor," he said, voice echoing through the hall. "The Light Vein has surged again at dawn."
A murmur of unease spread.
"Coincidence," one Luminar said, though the word lacked conviction.
"No," replied another sharply. "The crystal reacts only when the Vein is strained."
Seraphiel's gaze drifted upward, following the cracks in the ceiling. "And the strain grows."
Beyond the palace walls, Schiera stirred uneasily.
Merchants setting up stalls paused as the ground trembled beneath their feet—barely perceptible, yet unmistakable. A fountain in the Plaza of Dawns overflowed briefly, its light-infused waters surging before settling once more.
"Did you feel that?" a vendor whispered.
"A blessing," another replied automatically—then hesitated.
Word spread quickly, as it always did in Schiera.
The princess had not returned.
At first, the people whispered in denial. Princess Lyra had survived countless diplomatic journeys, religious rites, and Vein ceremonies. She would return, radiant and composed as ever.
But days passed.
And the Light behaved… differently.
At the Temple of Dawn, acolytes struggled to maintain the Light Forges that powered the kingdom's defenses. Crystals that once pulsed steadily now flared unpredictably—blinding brilliance followed by moments of unsettling dimness.
A young priestess staggered back from a forge, clutching her head. "It's wrong," she gasped. "The flow keeps slipping."
An elder steadied her. "Focus. Center your breathing."
"I am," she whispered. "But it feels like the Light is… searching."
Deep beneath the capital, far below the reach of sunlight, lay the Light Vein Chamber.
Here, the Vein flowed like liquid radiance—an endless current of warm, golden energy bound by ancient Seals carved into the bedrock itself. For centuries, it had flowed smoothly, responding gently to the kingdom's needs.
Now, it surged.
Waves of light crashed against the Seal, sending tremors through the chamber walls. Crystals embedded in the stone pulsed erratically, some glowing dangerously bright, others dimming to near darkness.
Arch-Luminar Caelis stood at the chamber's edge, his robes fluttering in the Vein's turbulent aura. He was a tall man, severe in both posture and expression, his authority unquestioned within Schiera.
He pressed a gloved hand against the control glyphs etched into the floor.
"They're holding," he murmured. "Barely."
A younger Luminar behind him swallowed. "The Seal shouldn't react this way to political unrest."
Caelis turned slowly. "Then perhaps the unrest is not political."
He stared into the Vein's depths, his reflection distorted by the surging light.
"She is too far," he said quietly. "The Light knows its anchor is gone."
Silence followed.
Finally, the younger Luminar whispered, "An anchor, sir?"
Caelis did not answer.
Back in the Hall of Radiance, the council convened again by midmorning.
Voices rose, tempers flared.
"We must seal the borders," one Luminar demanded. "The Fire Kingdom has already shown hostility. Forged or not, their metal was found at the scene."
"And start a war on suspicion?" Seraphiel countered. "That is exactly what our enemies want."
"Enemies?" another scoffed. "You speak as if this were some grand conspiracy."
Seraphiel's gaze hardened. "You believe the assassination of both monarchs, the disappearance of the princess, and the destabilization of the Vein are unrelated?"
Silence fell.
A third Luminar spoke quietly. "The people are afraid."
Seraphiel nodded. "And fear spreads faster than fire."
Another voice cut in, sharp with anger. "Then bring the princess home. Force her return if you must."
At that, the hall erupted.
"She left to uncover the truth!"
"She abandoned her duty!"
"She is our duty!"
Seraphiel slammed his staff down. The sound rang like thunder.
"Enough," he said. "Princess Lyra did not flee. She was chosen."
The council froze.
Seraphiel exhaled slowly. "The Light has never behaved as it does now. Whether we like it or not, her absence matters more than any decree we pass."
As night fell, Schiera's glow dimmed—not with sunset, but with exhaustion.
The streets emptied earlier than usual. Torches burned brighter to compensate, their light harsh and uneven.
In the lower corridors beneath the palace, a single figure moved silently.
He did not hide in shadow.
Rather, the light itself bent around him—sliding aside, refusing to settle. To the untrained eye, the corridor appeared empty, though faint distortions rippled through the air like heat haze.
He paused before the sealed royal chambers.
Residual magic clung to the door—fragments of grief, rage, and shattered Light.
The figure raised a gloved hand and pressed it gently against the stone.
The light recoiled.
A soft chuckle echoed in the corridor.
"Still unstable," he murmured. "Good."
He tilted his head, listening—not with ears, but with something deeper.
"The Light strains without its anchor," he continued softly. "And the convergence walks far from home."
A thin smile curved beneath the unseen hood.
"Run, little flame," he whispered. "Your absence already does half my work."
The distortion faded.
The corridor was empty once more.
At the Temple of Dawn, priests gathered in emergency prayer.
Light candles flickered erratically, some extinguishing themselves without warning. The great crystal altar glowed too brightly, forcing acolytes to avert their eyes.
An elder priest knelt, voice trembling. "The Light tests us."
Or perhaps, another thought silently, it mourns.
Outside, citizens gathered in the plaza, gazing up at the Sunspire's fractured crown. No proclamation came. No reassurance followed.
For the first time in generations, Schiera waited.
And did not know for what.
Near midnight, the Light Vein surged once more.
This time, the tremor was felt across the entire capital. Windows rattled. Bridges hummed. The Sunspire cracked further, a shard of crystal falling and shattering in the plaza below.
No one was hurt.
But the message was clear.
Arch-Luminar Caelis stared into the Vein, his reflection splitting and reforming with each surge.
"She must return," he whispered. "Or the Light will tear itself apart searching for her."
Far away, beyond fire and ash, Jack walked unaware—his steps echoing across the Ember Plains.
And behind him, the Light Kingdom trembled.
Waiting.
Not for salvation.
But for balance.