The night after the crown stirred above Aelwyn's hand, the palace of Lumeria was restless. Its walls, carved from crystal that caught the pale moonlight, seemed almost to tremble, as if the palace itself were a living being aware of the events unfolding within its halls. Servants whispered in hushed tones about strange shadows, fleeting figures in the corridors, and a lullaby heard but never sung.
Aelwyn did not sleep. She sat by her window, her small hands pressed against the cold glass, staring out into the forest that bordered the kingdom. Thornwilde, they called it. A forest older than kings, older than the palace, and said to be alive. Even from afar, it seemed to pulse with some slow heartbeat of its own. The wind carried its scent—wet earth and moss and something faintly metallic, like blood under moonlight.
She could hear the whispers again. Soft, nearly inaudible at first, then insistent:
"Remember… remember… remember…"
Aelwyn shivered. The voice did not come from the forest, she realized, but from somewhere deeper—inside her. A memory that was not hers. A song that had no beginning or end. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the hum of the crown echoing there, though it now lay hidden beneath her pillow. Somehow, even when out of sight, it was present.
Far across the kingdom, beyond the crystal towers and silvery rivers, Thornwilde stirred. Its trees were tall enough to pierce the clouds, their branches tangled like the fingers of ancient giants. The forest had been waiting for her arrival for longer than anyone in Lumeria could comprehend.
Inside the forest, a figure moved with silent precision. Kethrin Nine-Laughs, the fox-shifter, padded softly over roots that pulsed with old magic. Her laughter, though quiet, carried an edge that made the wind shiver. She had been tasked by forces unknown—old pacts made long before even she could remember—to ensure that the child of the moon-blooded princess survived the night.
Kethrin paused, ears twitching. The forest was speaking again, naming her, naming the crown, naming the girl. Names carried power here; to speak them aloud was to bind fate. And the forest whispered more than it had in a hundred years. Something had awakened, and it would not sleep again.
Back in the palace, Aelwyn's nurse, a gray-haired woman named Elda, finally found her pacing in the nursery.
"Child, you must sleep," Elda said softly, though her voice carried the tremor of fear. "The crown… it is not yet yours to understand."
Aelwyn shook her head, her pale eyes wide. "But it called me," she whispered. "I felt it, Elda. It spoke to me."
Elda swallowed hard, glancing at the crystal walls as if they themselves might be listening. "Then the stories are true," she murmured. "The crown chooses its bearer. And once it chooses… there is no turning back."
Aelwyn's fingers tightened around the pillow beneath which the crown now lay hidden. "No turning back," she repeated. The words felt heavier than she could bear, yet somehow familiar, as though she had spoken them in a dream before.
Meanwhile, at the edge of Thornwilde, Caeron Vael emerged from the shadow of the trees. His sword, etched with centuries of runes, caught the moonlight. He had not been in Lumeria for decades, yet the pull of the crown had drawn him back. He did not yet know why, only that duty and destiny were intertwined in a way he could not ignore.
His eyes, sharp and unyielding, scanned the forest. Every branch, every rustle of leaves, spoke to him, carrying a warning he could not ignore. The magic that had stirred in the palace reached even here, threading through the trees, through the earth, through his very bones.
Something was changing. And when it changed fully, he knew, the kingdoms of Eirathae would tremble.
High above them, in a hidden tower, Mireth the Veil-Born stirred from a dreamless sleep. The future shimmered before her eyes in shards of possibility, none of them comforting. She saw Aelwyn's crown glowing, fragile and deadly, and the tiny princess reaching for it with a certainty Mireth knew no one could afford.
"The child," Mireth whispered, her voice lost to the darkness, "the child will choose. But which will she become… the legend, or the martyr?"
She rose, pulling her black robes around her, a silent storm contained within a fragile body. The threads of fate were already twisting, and she would need every cunning, every spell, every riddle, to survive the unfolding storm.
By dawn, the palace had changed. The crystal towers, normally cold and serene, reflected the first rays of the sun in hues of silver and blood. Aelwyn sat on her window ledge, watching the morning mist roll over Thornwilde. She could feel the crown pulsing beneath her pillow once again, a steady heartbeat that seemed to sync with her own.
She did not yet know the price of touching it. She did not yet understand the worlds she was about to inherit, the enemies she would never see coming, the alliances that would break before they were forged.
All she knew was this: the crown had chosen her.
And Eirathae would never be the same again.
Chapter Ending :
A whisper came on the wind, low and urgent:
"The forest remembers. The crown remembers. And soon… so will you."
Aelwyn closed her eyes, gripping the pillow over her chest. Somewhere deep in Thornwilde, Kethrin Nine-Laughs laughed quietly, the sound like shattering glass.
The story had begun.