The day the second princess of Solhara was born, the kingdom bloomed.

From the queen’s chamber, where her cries first rang out, vines unfurled along the stone walls. Blossoms broke into impossible hues—lavender-gold, sapphire-blue, crimson-tinged white. Even the marble floors seemed to hum, as if the earth itself recognized something ancient stirring anew.

King Thalan, renowned for his mastery of fire and wind, held the infant with trembling reverence. Queen Elowen, healer and life bringer, pressed her lips to the child’s brow, her tears shining in the candlelight. Beside the bed, little Kaeyla clutched the sheets, her five-year-old eyes fierce with devotion.

“I’ll protect her forever,” she whispered to the sleeping baby.

The court rejoiced. Aelira, Light of the Dawn, they called her. A festival shook the kingdom that night, music soaring, wine overflowing, nobles and peasants alike raising cups to the miracle child.

But joy is fragile. And joy draws shadows.

The feast stilled at the echo of a cane striking marble. An old figure entered, draped in gray and silence—Vaelen, Elowen’s estranged brother, long absent from the court. Scholar. Seer. Exile.

His voice was quiet, but it carried like thunder:

“Stop the music.”

It is well-known to the public that despites his brilliant mind and magical power, and his status as the King’s brother-in-law, he is a grumpy man. Until this day, he remains a bachelor, finding no woman in the kingdom who is willing to tolerant his eccentric and impossible to please characters.

Thanks to his intense worries to his sister (it was before her becoming the Queen), rumors spread of him having unholy thought to her. Of course, it was not the truth, but to give peace of mind to his sister and her husband, and avoid future trouble, he chose to stay away from them. That was what everyone thought, until today.

Gasps spread through the hall. Elowen rose, clutching her infant tighter.

“Vaelen…? What are you doing here?”

He did not answer her. Step by deliberate step, he climbed the dais, until his shadow fell across the cradle. His gaze fixed on the newborn child, and his hand trembled against his cane.

“That child,” he rasped, “should not be allowed to live.”

Hearing such madness suggestion the moment Vaelen’s open his mouth, the King roared. Elowen froze.

“Not a child,” Vaelen pressed, voice cracking like dry parchment. “She is a fragment of something older. She bears the fire of Vaelyrn, the god of creation and destruction reborn. I’ve seen it in the stars. The palace will burn. The Queen will die. The throne will fall to ash.”

“Enough!” Elowen’s voice rang sharp.

“I am not your enemy, and I don’t mean to hurt you with my words,” Vaelen whispered, anguish beneath the steel. “But I must warn you. She is not your blessing, sister. She is a faultline. And when she breaks, all of Solhara will break with her.”

The King shielded Elowen with his arm, his words a growl. “We will sooner fall than forsake our daughter. Leave, Vaelen. You are no longer welcome.”

But Elowen’s voice faltered, softer, aching. “Brother… you’ve never lied to me.”

“And I do not now,” he answered.

The silence between them was heavier than stone. Then Elowen dismissed him with trembling dignity, and Vaelen turned away, vanishing like mist on the wind.

 ---

Three years of peace followed.

Aelira grew radiant—bright laughter in the palace halls, green eyes curious as dawn. Kaeyla never left her side, training hard under their father, already wielding wind like a blade. Elowen gathered them each day under flowering vines, telling stories as sunlight spilled through the leaves.

“What do you want to be, little ember?” Thalan teased.

“Fly,” Aelira said, wrinkling her brow.

Elowen smiled that night, whispering in bed, “Perhaps Vaelen was wrong.”

But fate waits. It always waits.

One quiet afternoon, Aelira’s cup of tea shimmered strangely. No one noticed. Minutes later, her body shook. Her small hands clawed at the air.

The scream that followed split the heavens.

Fire—pure, divine—erupted from her. The ground cracked, trees disintegrated, the palace trembled. The child’s terror became storm, heat, ruin.

“Behind me!” Thalan bellowed, shielding Kaeyla as flames lashed.

But Kaeyla tried to reach her sister, her voice breaking. “Aelira!”

Elowen ran forward, gathering the child in her arms. “Shhh, my little one, I’ve got you—”

Her healing light flared, binding, soothing—but the fire was too vast, too divine. It tore against her like a beast. Her skin burned, her magic shattered.

With one final cry, she poured her life into the child. A burst of green and gold consumed the courtyard—then silence.

When the light faded, Elowen lay lifeless in the ashes.

Thalan staggered, bloodied, screaming her name. Kaeyla’s skin blistered, her wails raw. Half the palace lay in molten ruin.

And Aelira—untouched—sat wide-eyed in the wreckage, her mother’s scorched cloak still wrapped around her.

Vaelen arrived too late.

The sight stole his breath. He knelt by Elowen’s broken form, trembling fingers clutching the cloak she had left behind. His sister—the only person who had ever called him home—was gone.

His eyes lifted to the child still glowing faintly with power.

The calamity.

The reason.

The last tether to his sister’s blood.

His heart tore between rage and grief.

“You’ve taken her from me,” he whispered.

But when the little girl reached for him, voice small, “Mama…?”—his hand shook, then steadied. He could not hate her. He could not love her. She was both.

“Princess Aelira,” his voice cracked, half a command, half a plea, “come. You must come with me now.”

Too shocked to resist, too young to understand, the child let him take her hand.

 ---

From that day, Solhara told another story.

The King and Queen, slain by assassins. The second princess lost with them.

Only Kaeyla remained—crowned, young, carrying the grief of two worlds on her shoulders.

And Aelira…

Sealed away. Trained in shadows. Never a niece, never a daughter.

She called Vaelen “Master.” Never “Uncle.”

And in her silence, the god’s fire waited.