The first rays of the 27th of September, 2035, did not so much rise over the Kingdom of Kleindorfstein as they performed a gentle, gilded unveiling. Nestled in the heart of the Alps, in the only parcel of land historically disputed and then lovingly shared by Germany, Austria, and Switzerland, Kleindorfstein was a sovereign postcard. Its capital, Rosen, was a jewel box of cobblestone and clock towers, dominated by the Rosenlicht Palace.
The palace was not merely a residence; it was a statement in marble and myth. Inspired by the audacious elegance of Hellenic temples, it stood blindingly white against the emerald mountains, its columns and pediments adorned with gold leaf that caught fire at dawn. The grounds sprawled for hectares—a manicured dream of velvet lawns, geometric hedges, and explosions of alpine flowers in impossible colours. Under the soft, warming morning sun, the air humming with the scent of distant pines and dew-kissed blossoms, it was less a royal estate and more an argument for paradise.
---
In the Bedchamber of the Princess
Princess Lina von Rosenlicht's bedroom was a world within that world. It was less a room for sleeping and more a miniature court: a sitting area with brocade chairs for intimate audiences, a formidable oak study desk, a vanity mirror wide enough to reflect empires, and a bed canopied in silver-threaded silk. A wardrobe the size of a small cottage stood sentinel near the bed, containing silks, wools, and more shoes than a boutique.
At 7:00 AM, paradise was lost on Lina. She was buried in her duvet, a cocoon of white hair and gentle snores.
The knock that came was not a request. It was a declaration of war on slumber. Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Lady Lina! The sun is mocking your laziness! Your education, and your future kingdom, await!" The voice was crisp, efficient, and utterly devoid of royal awe.
Lina groaned, emerging like a shipwreck survivor. Her hair, long and white with ends dyed a playful amethyst, was a spectacular mess. Her skin, the famed Rosenlicht porcelain, was currently creased by pillow lines. She blinked sleep-gummed eyes, their pale lavender hue unfocused. "E…enter," she croaked.
The door swung open to reveal Elsa Riedl, the youngest and most formidable of the palace maids. Dressed in a severe but impeccably tailored black-and-white uniform, she was a study in contrasting efficiency. Her hair was a sharp, magnificent bob of raven black, and her eyes were two pools of obsidian that missed nothing. She moved with an energy that seemed to scold the sleepy air itself.
"Get up, Lady Lina. This is the last day you can be late. It's your first year. Sentimentality does not move the clock." With a dramatic flourish, Elsa yanked the heavy curtains apart.
A torrent of alpine sunlight flooded the room, forcing a hiss from Lina. As she sat up, she realized the top buttons of her silk pyjamas had come undone, revealing a blush-pink bra. She scrambled to cover herself, but Elsa had already seen everything—and judged it unremarkable.
"I shall prepare your uniform. You will shower. The order of operations is non-negotiable," Elsa stated, already turning toward the colossal wardrobe.
Lina padded to her mirror and winced. "Look at this catastrophe, Elsa! I didn't get my full eight hours. My skin will be traumatized. You are a tyrant in a pinafore."
Elsa, expertly smoothing the sheets, didn't look up. "The only trauma here is your potential tardiness. Do you want Ulrich to see you stumbling in after the bell, looking like a startled alpine hare?"
The name hit Lina with the precision of a sniper's round. All fatigue evaporated. A furious blush climbed from her neck to her cheeks. "Ulrich… he's… that's not…"
"He is, and you are running out of time," Elsa said, finally allowing a smirk. She clapped her hands sharply. "Schnell, schnell! The water is already hot."
Lina fled to the sanctuary of her marble bathroom. As the steam rose, so did her thoughts. Ulrich. The boy from three summers ago, the son of the Bavarian ambassador. They had been children, building forts in the palace library and stealing pastries from the kitchens. He had called her "Lina the Lionheart" when she'd climbed an old oak, then "Lina the Tearful" when she'd scraped her knee and he, with solemn ten-year-old gravity, had produced a handkerchief. She hadn't seen him since his family was recalled. But today… today he was starting at the Royal Academy too.
"Today," she whispered to her foggy reflection, a slow smile spreading, "Ulrich von Morgenfels will see that Lina the Tearful has retired. Long live Lina the… the Composed. The Elegant. The Devastatingly Attractive."
---
Freshly showered, she returned to find her uniform laid out like a suit of armour. The Rosen Royal Academy uniform was a masterpiece of intimidating prestige: a double-breasted black jacket with razor-sharp white piping and silver buttons embossed with the school's crest—a rose entwined with a sword. The pleated skirt was just as severe. The accessories—a silver chain from shoulder to button, a brooch of obsidian and pearl—weren't decorations; they were insignia of command.
As she dressed, Elsa worked on her hair, weaving the white and purple strands into an intricate crown braid. Another maid, Elsa, a softer figure with kind eyes and chestnut curls, brought in a tray of breakfast pastries.
"So big boobs and such a curvy body," Elsa sighed, glancing at Lina's reflection with genuine wistfulness. "Sometimes I am jealous, my lady. I am a 'flat chest girl' with the romance of a rock. I shall end up like Mme. Greta, the head housekeeper, married to her feather duster."
Lina, now feeling more herself, turned and hugged Elsa. "Nonsense! Mme. Greta terrifies three governments before breakfast. And you, Elsa, have a heart bigger than this palace. Someone will fall madly, stupidly in love with you. Probably a dashing pastry chef or a poet who mistakes your dusting for a ballet."
Elsa laughed, a warm, bubbling sound. "You are too kind, Lady Lina. Now, let me finish this braid before Mme Greta accuses me of sedition through slow styling."
Once the final boot—a heeled leather item polished to a mirror shine—was fastened, Lina grabbed her leather satchel. "Thank you, my guardian tyrants! Wish me luck!"
"Luck is for the unprepared. You are merely on time," Elsa said, but her dark eyes twinkled. "Do not forget your economics text. And try not to stare too obviously."
Lina's journey through the palace was a gallop through history. The long, tapestry-hung corridors of the third floor were a gauntlet of ancestral scrutiny. Portraits of stern men with impressive beards and women with ice-cool gazes—great-grandparents, warlords, treaty-signers—watched her dash past. Marble statues of past kings held out sceptres she nearly clipped with her bag.
---
Lina slowed her steps as she passed through the long corridor, her eyes drifting toward the tall pillars and carved arches that lined the palace walls. Even after all these years, the architecture still fascinated her. The ceilings seemed impossibly high, decorated with ancient patterns that spoke of power, legacy, and silence. For a brief moment, she forgot the time.
Then she turned the corner—too fast.
Thump.
"Oh—!" Lina stumbled back slightly.
"Careful, Lady Lina."
Standing before her was Greta Steinbach, the oldest maid of the royal family. She had served the Rosenlicht household for over six decades, long enough to become part of the palace itself. Her gray hair was neatly tied in a round bun, and her black uniform was spotless despite her age. Wrinkles framed her stern but kind face, and a pair of old glasses rested low on her nose.
"Breakfast has already been served," Greta said calmly. "You must hurry. It is already eight o'clock.""Yes, Mme Greta. Thank you," Lina replied with a small bow before rushing past her.
She pushed open a large double door, and the scent of warm food immediately filled the air. The dining room opened before her—vast and elegant. In the royal palace, there were three dining rooms. The largest was reserved for political banquets and foreign guests. The second was used for formal family gatherings. This one, however, was private—meant only for the Rosenlicht family.
At the center of the room stood a round table, neatly prepared. As Lina stepped inside, she noticed she wasn't alone.Standing near the table was her elder sister, Theresa von Rosenlicht, twenty-seven years old. She wore a black suit beneath a white lab coat, as always—half noble, half scientist. Her long white hair fell smoothly down her back, contrasting with her sharp yet gentle features. Thin, high-tech lenses rested over her eyes, glowing faintly.
"Good morning, little sister," Theresa said, pulling out a chair. "I hope you're feeling great today."
"I am," Lina replied, sitting down. "School resumes today… and I'll finally see Ulrich again. It's been three years."
Theresa smiled softly. "I'm glad to hear that."She glanced at her watch, her expression shifting slightly. "I'll be leaving soon. I've been assigned to a new project—development of advanced technology. The client prefers to remain anonymous."
"As always," Lina teased lightly.Theresa chuckled, then leaned forward and kissed Lina gently on the forehead.
"Have a nice day, Lina. I'll be back in a week."
"Be safe," Lina said.
With that, Theresa turned and walked out of the dining room, her footsteps echoing down the corridor. Moments later, Lina heard the distant sound of a car engine starting outside.
Left alone, Lina looked down at her breakfast, unaware that this ordinary morning marked the calm before something far greater.
---
In the royal garage, her personal driver, Mr. Gunther Kohl, a man built like a friendly bear in a chauffeur's uniform, held the door of a sleek, armoured electric limousine open. "Ready to conquer the academic world, my lady?"
"Ready to survive it, Gunther. Let's move." She slid inside.
The journey from the palace mount to the city below was a winding descent from myth into vibrant reality. Rosen's spires gave way to wider avenues. On the car's panoramic screen, news feeds flickered. One headline dominated: "Sahara Meteorite Impasse: EUS Conference Deadlocked."
Gunther's eyes flicked to the rear-view mirror. "Six months since that thing crashed, and all the world's 'wise men' can do is argue. It's like watching badgers fight over a hornet's nest."
Lina leaned forward. "The news is so vague. But Mother and Father… they've been on calls all hours. They look worried. What do you know?"
Lowering his voice, though the car was soundproofed, Gunther said, "Miss Weber in the Foreign Office lets things slip. She says it's not just a rock. It's a battery. A new energy source, densities beyond anything we have. They say a piece the size of your fist could power Rosen for a year."
Lina's stomach tightened. "Power like that… it's not a gift. It's a test. And we keep failing those." She looked out at her peaceful, frozen city. "I hope Mother and Father can make them see sense in Geneva."
"Your parents," Gunther said, his voice thick with uncharacteristic emotion, "are the best of us. This kingdom is lucky. And, if this old soldier can be bold, I'd follow a queen like you one day sooner than any of your oafish brother."
Lina blushed, flustered and touched. "Gunther, that's treasonous flattery and you know it—"
"We're here," he announced, smoothly cutting her off as the car glided to a halt.
Before them lay the Rosen Royal Academy. The palace was majestic, but the Academy was sublime. It was a fantasy of neo-Gothic spires, crystalline conservatories, and manicured quads, all nestled against the mountain. It looked less like a school and more like the university where angels might earn their wings. Guards in polished, ceremonial armour stood at the gates, their halberds glinting.
"Have a magnificent day, my lady. I'll return at three. We'll continue the treason then," Gunther winked.
"It's a date," Lina grinned, stepping out into the crisp air, her heart a drumroll against her ribs.
---
The entrance ceremony in the Rosen-Heart Hall—a cavernous space built by the very first King Rosenlicht—was a symphony of pomp. The headmaster's speech echoed under vaulted ceilings painted with constellations. An orchestra swelled. It was beautiful, endless, and all Lina could think was: Where is he?
Afterward, the student body dissolved into a chattering river flowing to homerooms. Hers was Hall 1-1. She had barely entered when the whispers began.
"The Princess..."
"Her hair is unreal..."
"Do you think she'd say yes to a coffee? Or, like, a treaty?"She was surrounded. An avalanche of eager faces, questions about palace life, fashion, her opinions on the new wing of the National Gallery—it was overwhelming.
The siege was broken by an arrival that parted the crowd like a shark through minnows. Three girls, moving with a collective aura of ownership, strolled in. At their forefront was a vision of aggressive glamour: Klara Edelstein. She had lava-flow orange hair, eyes of chilly emerald, and a smile that showed too many teeth.
"Well, well. The crown jewel arrives," Klara purred, not bowing but leaning in as if examining an artifact. "You must be Lina, huh?"
A whirlwind with bouncing chestnut curls, Thea, threw an arm around Lina from behind. "Klara, you can't just 'huh' a princess! She's not a stray puppy!" She squeezed Lina. "I'm Thea! I like food! Do you like food? Specifically, meat pies?"
A third girl, Frieda, with severe black hair and thick-rimmed glasses, physically detached Thea. "Excuse the human tornado. Thea believes etiquette is a type of cheese." She pushed her glasses up. "Frieda Mohr. My parents wrote Fundamentals of Quantum-Stare Crafting. I intend to improve upon their work."
"Oh, I've read it!" Lina said, genuinely impressed. "The chapter on stabilizing prana for improved perception was—"
"YES! You understand!" Frieda's eyes ignited with scientific fervour. "The potential for non-linear perception is—"
"BORING!" Thea sang, hopping from foot to foot. "Lina, ignore her. Tell me about palace breakfasts. Are there mountains of sausages?"
Before Lina could answer which faction to side with, the classroom door swung open. The man who entered didn't need to call for order; he simply absorbed all the noise and light in the room. Herr Anton Blüm was young, built like a classical statue taught to wear a tailored suit, and had a grin that promised both challenge and fun.
"Guten Morgen, future leaders and headache-inducers!" he boomed. "I am Herr Blüm. For your first period today, you have Prana Practical Course with me. Consider it… applied philosophy. With sweat. Changing rooms! Now! The gymnasium in eight minutes! Move with the urgency of people who want to pass!"
A collective groan rose, but it was undercut by excitement. As the class shuffled out, Lina's mind raced. PPC. Gymnasium. Ulrich will be there. This is it.
---
Meanwhile, in Geneva, Switzerland.
The setting was a brutal contrast to the sun-drenched Alps. In a sterile, ultra-secure conference bunker beneath the European Union headquarters, the "European United States 2035 Emergency Session" was entering its twelfth hour. The air was thick with recycled anxiety and expensive cologne.
Heads of state, their faces blurred in the secure holographic feeds for public record, sat around a vast circular table. Maps of the Sahara, spectral analyses of the meteorite—codenamed "Obelisk"—glowed in the air. The debate was a tense murmur of threat assessments, energy quotas, and military contingencies.
At the far end of the table, a figure who had been silent for hours leaned forward. He was not a head of state, but the special envoy from a private, continent-spanning scientific consortium. His ID tag read simply: Dr. V. Richter.
His voice, when he spoke, was a dry, cold scrape that silenced the room. "Honoured representatives. We have analysed the containment breach at Site Gamma. Our projections were… insufficient." He tapped a control. A new hologram bloomed—a seismic map of North Africa, with a slow, inexorable red pulse radiating from the crash site.
"The Obelisk is not inert. It is not merely a 'battery'." He paused, letting the dread settle. "It is listening. And for the last six months, we have been broadcasting our every fear, our every greedy thought, our every blueprint for a weapon into its core. Our attempts to harness it have, in fact, been priming it."
He zoomed the map in further. The pulse was not random. It was forming a pattern—a complex, fractal geometry that was now spreading through the continental plate at a rate of five kilometers per day.
"It is an unknown unstable energy source," Richter concluded, his eyes lifeless as shale. "It is a geological infection. And the diagnosis is tectonic recalibration. The prognosis?" He looked around the table of frozen, powerful faces.
"Extinction-level. And the clock, ladies and gentlemen, just started ticking a lot faster. The first major seismic event will occur at the point of highest resonant concentration of human neurological activity." He pulled up a final map. A glowing, pulsing epicenter superimposed itself over the Alps. Over a cluster of cities. Over Rosen.
"We predict the initial cataclysm in Ten hours. Right here."