The bells rang at noon.
Not in celebration.Not in mourning.
In warning.
Across Schiera, citizens paused mid-step as the sound rolled through white streets and crystal bridges, echoing against towers that had stood unmarred for centuries. The tone was wrong—lower than tradition allowed, strained as if the metal itself resisted being rung.
High above the capital, the Sunspire groaned.
A thin fracture spread along its crown, catching the sunlight and refracting it into jagged bands that stabbed across the sky. A shard of crystal broke free and plummeted, shattering harmlessly in the Plaza of Dawns below.
No one was hurt.
That did not make it better.
It made it worse.
The people of Schiera felt it immediately.
Streetlamps powered by Light crystals flickered unpredictably—burning too bright one moment, dimming the next. The fountains that once flowed in steady arcs of glowing water surged, then stilled, as if uncertain which rhythm to follow.
In the markets, voices lowered.
"She hasn't returned," a merchant murmured.
"They say she chose not to," another whispered.
"Then who guards us now?"
At the Temple of Dawn, acolytes gathered in urgent circles, hands clasped as they attempted to stabilize the Light Forges. Crystals resisted alignment. Prayers took longer to answer. Healing spells required double the effort they once did.
A young priestess collapsed to her knees, clutching her chest. "It's pulling," she gasped. "The Light keeps reaching outward."
An elder steadied her. "Toward what?"
She shook her head, tears streaking down her face. "Not what. Who."
In the Hall of Radiance, the Council of Luminars convened for the third time that day.
The chamber glowed unevenly now. Where light once flowed smoothly along the walls, it pulsed erratically, casting long, distorted shadows behind each council member.
High Luminar Seraphiel stood at the center, staff planted firmly against the marble floor.
"She was meant to return," Luminar Halven snapped, slamming his staff down in frustration. "The Vein grows unstable with every hour she remains absent."
"And dragging her back by decree would shatter what little trust remains," Seraphiel countered. "You know this."
Luminar Veyra rose slowly. "Trust does not hold the Light together. Anchors do."
That word rippled through the chamber.
Anchor.
Several Luminars exchanged uneasy glances.
"Say it plainly," Halven demanded. "If Princess Lyra does not return, how long before the Light Vein breaks its restraint?"
All eyes turned toward the far end of the hall.
Arch-Luminar Caelis had not spoken yet.
Caelis stood slowly, his expression composed but severe.
"The Vein has not broken," he said. "But it is straining."
He raised a gloved hand, and the chamber dimmed slightly as if responding to his presence.
"The Light Vein has always flowed in harmony with the royal bloodline," Caelis continued. "Not because of authority—but because of resonance. The princess is not merely ensured by Light. She stabilizes it."
A hush fell.
Luminar Veyra whispered, "Then she was never just an heir."
"No," Caelis said quietly. "She was a safeguard."
Seraphiel closed his eyes briefly. "And now?"
Caelis met his gaze. "Now the Light searches for her. And it does not understand distance."
Far beneath the council chamber, the Light Vein Chamber roared.
The Vein surged violently, waves of radiant energy crashing against the ancient Seal that bound it. Crystals embedded in the chamber walls glowed white-hot, forcing attendants to retreat behind protective glyphs.
Caelis descended alone.
He placed both hands against the Seal, pouring his will into the binding runes.
"Hold," he whispered.
The Vein pushed back.
Not maliciously.Not angrily.
But insistently.
It wanted something.
"She chose to walk her own path," Caelis murmured. "You must endure."
The Light surged again, rattling the chamber.
By dusk, Schiera's glow was uneven.
Some districts blazed too brightly, forcing citizens to shield their eyes. Others dimmed to an unsettling twilight.
In the lower wards, a child tugged on her mother's sleeve. "Why does the Light hurt?"
The mother hesitated—then answered softly, "Because it's afraid."
At the Temple of Dawn, prayers faltered.
An elder priest spoke quietly to his circle. "Faith alone cannot anchor the Vein forever."
"What then?" an acolyte asked.
The elder's gaze drifted upward—toward the palace. "Then something must replace what was lost."
Back in the Hall of Radiance, the council reconvened under torchlight.
"We cannot wait indefinitely," Halven said. "If the princess will not return willingly—"
"Careful," Seraphiel warned.
"We consider alternatives," Halven continued. "Temporary anchors. Artificial stabilizers. Light amplification rituals."
Caelis turned sharply. "Those paths nearly destroyed us once."
"And doing nothing will destroy us now," Halven shot back.
Silence followed.
At last, Seraphiel spoke. "If we attempt to replace the princess as anchor, we risk tearing the Vein apart."
"And if we don't," Veyra whispered, "the Vein will tear us apart."
No vote was taken.
But the idea lingered.
That night, in a quiet corridor beneath the palace, the light bent subtly.
Not into shadow.
Into absence.
A figure moved soundlessly past crystal pillars, the glow sliding around him like water around stone. He paused near the sealed royal chambers, where residual magic still clung faintly to the walls.
He pressed a gloved hand against the stone.
The Light recoiled violently.
A soft chuckle echoed in the empty corridor.
"So sensitive without her," the figure murmured. "Perfect."
He tilted his head, listening—not to sound, but to strain.
"She chose not to return," he said calmly. "Good. Choice always accelerates collapse."
The figure stepped back, dissolving into distortion.
"Run far, little convergence," the voice whispered. "Your absence teaches faster than any blade."
Near midnight, the Light Vein surged again—harder than before.
The tremor rippled across the entire capital. Windows rattled. Bridges hummed. Another crack split the Sunspire, light spilling through it like blood from a wound.
Citizens poured into the streets, staring upward in fear.
For the first time in living memory, Schiera did not shine with certainty.
It flickered.
Deep below, Arch-Luminar Caelis braced himself against the Seal, sweat beading beneath his gloves.
"You must wait," he whispered. "She is still alive. She still chooses balance."
The Vein pulsed violently.
Caelis gritted his teeth. "I will hold you as long as I can."
But even as he spoke the words, he knew the truth:
This was not a problem that could be solved within Schiera's walls.
As dawn approached, the bells did not ring again.
Schiera waited.
For its princess.For answers.For something—anything—to give way.
Far beyond white stone and crystal light, Jack walked beneath a foreign sky, unaware that an entire kingdom balanced on the edge of his next step.
And Light—pure, radiant Light—
held its breath.