The golden peaks of Serenya's homeland often awoke before its people. Long before the first bell rang in the valley, light spilled over the terraced slopes, catching in the mist that coiled like ribbons among the ancient trees, their branches outstretched like protective arms whispering secrets to the morning wind. Brooks and streams gleamed like veins of living silver, their waters descending the green staircases of the landscape with a constant murmur, almost like a forgotten song inviting attentive ears to pause and listen.
Orchids opened to the rising sun, unfurling their soft petals in a silent ballet, leaving perfumes in the air that lingered like blessings whispered by ancient spirits. The sweet, earthy scent mingled with the damp freshness of the soil, enveloping everything in a warmth that made the heart expand, as if the mountain itself breathed life into every leaf and flower. It was there, amid such natural magnificence, that Lady Serenya took her first breath—a sharp cry that blended with the echo of nearby waterfalls—and it was there that she learned, in her nursemaid's arms, not to face the world alone, for the earth itself seemed to conspire to remind her that solitude was merely a passing illusion.
From her earliest memories, another voice had always accompanied hers: Elyra's, a playful echo bursting in like a sunbeam filtering through grey clouds. Serenya, princess of the mountainous lands, and Elyra, her inseparable friend and confidante, were daughters of the peaks, forged on the same anvil of rocks and winds. No royal blood united them, but the land that had cradled both from the first day, nourishing their roots with the same indomitable sap. Serenya, with her serene strength reminiscent of a mountain lake's stillness, her silver-grey eyes reflecting light like mirrors polished by centuries of snow, and a stubbornness as ancient as the mountains themselves, always seemed born to bear an invisible crown, one heavy with the promise of leading without raising her voice.
Elyra, light on her feet like a mountain goat and quick of tongue like a brook leaping over pebbles, laughed with a sound that fell like crystal water on polished stone, refreshing and infectious, making even the birds halt their song to listen. Her chestnut hair, golden-brown under the sun that tinted it honeyed shades, waved freely with every movement, and her eyes, always dancing between pure joy and mischievous roguery, observed everything with constant attention, capturing details others missed: a leaf's tremble, a breeze's changing sigh. They could not be more different in essence—one rooted like a centuries-old oak, the other volatile as alpine wind—and yet, their bond was as sure as sun and dawn, a tie woven from shared laughter and secrets murmured under stars.
In childhood, they wandered the orchards where cherry blossoms fell like pale, soft rain, pink petals clinging to their dresses and hair like ephemeral jewels. They imagined they were queens of hidden realms, weaving crowns from the delicate petals, as they solemnly decreed while sunlight filtered golden rays through the floral canopy. Serenya was always the tireless builder, stacking smooth stream stones into towers that leaned daringly toward the sky, her small hands dirt-stained, sweat beading her brow as she adjusted each block with childish precision. Elyra was a born storyteller, endowing each unsteady tower with an epic tale, an ancestral curse, or a heroic victory, her voice modulating to gravestones for guardian dragons or shrill for enchanted princesses.
Their laughter intertwined with the bees' hum, the air filling with invented magic: castles defying gravity, armies of loyal ants, treasures buried under twisted roots. Serenya placed one more stone higher, testing its precarious balance with a finger, while Elyra wove the legend, making it eternal. Together, they ruled realms no one else could see, entire worlds born from their shared imagination, upheld only by the power of their unbreakable friendship.
At the heart of those invisible realms, and in their quiet whisper, a question emerged: what would happen when veritable towers demanded to be built.
As they grew older, their adventures rose with them, climbing higher up the steep slopes, barefoot on moss-covered paths soft and slippery that yielded slightly under their feet, releasing an earthy scent mingling with the ozone of the heights. Chasing the roots of rivers descending from eternal glaciers, they leaped over crystal pools where icy water nipped their ankles, laughing at the sting that sharpened their senses. Serenya always paused, kneeling to admire the impassive strength of rocks split by patient roots, woody veins clinging to dizzying cliffs like bony fingers, weaving life where only void existed.
Elyra, instead, urged her onward with a playful whistle, challenging her to jump narrow abysses where wind howled like a hungry wolf, or climb where no visible hold existed, only minute cracks promising betrayal. Their hands brushed in fleeting passes, mutual anchors in the dance with danger, as the sun warmed their backs and echoes of their voices bounced off rocky walls. "Come on, Serenya, the world doesn't wait for those who measure every step!" Elyra shouted, her hair whipped by unpredictable gusts.
On one such afternoon, seated on a sharp crest with alpine wind tangling their hair in wild strands, the valley sprawling below like a living tapestry of greens and blues, Elyra turned to her friend with shining eyes. "You look at the world and see walls," she said, her voice cutting the air like a sharpened blade. "I look and see doors. Sometimes, Serenya, it's enough just to decide to open them, to shove with your shoulder even if the old wood creaks."
Serenya frowned, pensive even then, her fingers tracing patterns on the cold rock beneath them, feeling the mineral veins like the mountain's own arteries. "Doors can lead anywhere," she countered, her tone measured, weighted with caution inherited from generations—. You shouldn't enter the unknown without a map or light, Elyra. The abyss gazes back.
Elyra's laugh rang like a clear bell along the slopes, reverberating to the horizon's edge, drawing a distant eagle's screech. "And some doors lead to unimaginable wonders," she shot back, leaning forward with hands on knees, her face lit by certainty. "You'll never know if you stay forever on the threshold, measuring shadows. The world has many thresholds, and people cross them to live."
That was Elyra's innate gift: where Serenya hesitated, weighing risks like stones on an invisible scale, Elyra leaped without net or fear, her faith in the jump as pure as the brook that doesn't ask before falling. Somehow, Serenya followed, drawn by that reckless light, taking one cautious step after the bold leap, and discovered that walls sometimes disguised doors.
Days blended into that routine of exploration, each conquered crest a shared trophy, each scaled crack a lesson in mutual trust. Serenya noticed how the landscape changed not just with height, but with the perspective Elyra lent her: rocks once obstacles became steps, hostile winds allies propelling the ascent. On nights back in candlelit chambers, Serenya lay awake, the echo of those words swirling in her mind, wondering if all leaps led to wonder or some to bottomless pits.
As twilight shadows lengthened, a new challenge loomed, one that would test if Elyra's doors always opened to light.