Ayara was a realm that floated on the breath of gods.

Continents hung like vast, jeweled islands in a sea of endless sky. Storms roared beneath them, eternal and untamed, while above, the heavens glittered with constellations shaped by divine hands. To live in Ayara was to walk each day under the gaze of immortals, and to dream of a world balanced by flame and tide, wind and stone.

Yet balance was fragile. Even the gods knew that.

The people of Solara still spoke in whispers of the prophecy: that when the heavens birthed twin eclipses, a child touched by fire divine would rise, bound to the Ember Throne. Such a one could restore order to Ayara… or set it aflame.

And now the twin eclipses had come.

The palace of Solara gleamed as though it were itself a fragment of the sun. Towers of gold-veined marble spiraled skyward, catching fire with dawnlight. Arcane crystals thrummed within the walls, breathing warmth into the air. From the highest balcony, one could see the fire-rivers coursing through the kingdom’s valleys — molten streams channeled into forges, temples, and the great pylons that lit the night.

On the eastern terrace stood Rael of Solara.

The prince was tall, broad of shoulder, his hair dark as obsidian. His eyes carried the molten gleam of the Celestial Phoenix, the divine spark from which his line was forged. He wore no crown, no finery, only a tunic of crimson linen. Even without regalia, the air bent slightly around him, as if light itself knew he was born to command.

Rael’s gaze was fixed on the heavens.

There, above the horizon, the twin eclipses had begun. One sun dimmed into shadow, and the second — a pale mirror — slid into its embrace. The sky shuddered with color: indigo bleeding into flame, violet veined with streaks of living gold.

Lakvenor, Rael’s younger brother, leaned on the balcony rail beside him. He was shorter, leaner, but sparks seemed to dance restlessly across his skin. His twin-bladed storm-staff was never far from reach.

“Well,” Lakvenor said, breaking the silence, “if that’s not a bad omen, I don’t know what is.”

Rael’s lips curved faintly, though he did not look away. “You would see doom in dawn itself, brother.”

“Not doom,” Lakvenor said with a grin. “Just… the promise of trouble. And if the seers are right, you’re the one at the center of it.”

Behind them, footsteps rang softly.

Sira of Mithila approached, her robes whispering against the marble. Her hair was bound with threads of emerald silk, her eyes deep as earthwater. Where Rael was flame and Lakvenor storm, Sira was the stillness of soil, the patience of roots. Yet even stillness could hold power. She was daughter to Queen Janara of Mithila, heir to the verdant magics of her people, and bonded to Rael by oath and destiny alike.

“The court stirs,” she said, her voice low, melodic. “The priests see omens in every shadow. And Calithra…”

Rael’s brow darkened at the name.

Calithra, chief advisor to the king — a sorceress whose words dripped honey and venom alike. She had risen swiftly in Solara’s court, her counsel subtle, her smile unshakable. Yet her eyes gleamed with ambitions too sharp to be hidden.

“She whispers of danger,” Sira continued. “She says the prophecy marks not salvation, but disaster. That the Ember Throne will burn its bearer — and all Ayara with it.”

Lakvenor snorted. “Convenient. Calithra never speaks unless it tilts the board in her favor.”

Rael’s hand tightened on the balcony rail. The light of the eclipses washed over his face, casting him in shadow and flame at once.

“Prophecy is a mirror,” he said quietly. “It shows what we fear as much as what may come.”

Sira stepped closer, her hand brushing his arm. Her touch steadied him, grounding fire in earth. “Then what do you see, Rael? In this omen, in this sky?”

He did not answer at once. His gaze lingered on the eclipses, the twin shadows burning across heaven. For a heartbeat, he thought he saw wings unfurling there — vast, eternal, fire-born. The Phoenix watching, waiting.

“I see choice,” he said at last. “And the weight of it.”

Far below, in the shadowed halls of the palace, Calithra stood before a gathering of nobles.

Her robes shimmered with threads of starlight, her voice soft as silk. Yet every word carried, twisting through the chamber like smoke.

“The prophecy speaks of fire,” she said. “And fire does not only warm. It consumes. Shall we risk the throne itself to the flames of uncertainty? Shall we trust the fate of Ayara to a prince born beneath shadows?”

The lords murmured, uneasy. Some nodded. Others frowned. The ember of suspicion began to glow.

And though Rael did not yet hear their voices, he would soon feel the weight of their doubt — a storm gathering not in the sky, but in the heart of his own kingdom.