The new castle of the Second Realm was rising — towering walls of lightstone and fire-glass forming over the remnants of the old Dravaryn stronghold. Runes pulsed from scaffolds, and spell-infused cranes levitated carved stones from sunlit carts. The castle, though unfinished, already loomed over the realm like a monument of peace forged from war.
Princess Elysera, draped in a light cloak stitched with silver ivy, walked along the balcony of the west wing. Her auburn braid hung neatly down her back, her amber eyes sharp as ever. She held a crystal scroll showing the latest castle model — sketched towers, elemental halls, magic chambers, council vaults, and diplomatic quarters.
Beside her strode Nirelle, half-elf, soft-spoken yet never quiet with Elysera. Her lavender hair fluttered gently in the highland breeze, and her sky-blue eyes scanned the floating construction drones ahead.
"Three towers finished," Nirelle said, brushing a hair from her cheek. "If they follow the plan, the North Star Wing will hold seven floors of elemental research labs, and the central spire will house the throne gallery."
"I'm thinking of expanding the garden chambers on the east side," Elysera murmured, pointing at the blueprint in her hand. "And merging the ceremonial hallway with the portal atrium. Two in one."
Nirelle raised an eyebrow. "And what about the military barracks? You didn't move those."
Elysera smiled. "Of course not. I need them near the strategy hall."
"Of course you do. So you can argue with Caelen all night."
Elysera lowered her scroll. "You're in a mood."
Nirelle smirked, then turned serious. "Prince Caelen was waiting for you. Near the flamecourt."
Elysera sighed. "Don't start."
Nirelle's voice was quiet. "I'm not starting anything. Just doing my job."
"Stop calling me 'princess,' Nirelle," Elysera snapped gently. "We've been through too much for that title to still feel real between us."
"You're still a princess, Elysera. And he's still a king."
Elysera stopped walking.
Nirelle did too.
Elysera turned to face her. "Are you trying to push me to him?"
Nirelle looked away. "No. I know you love me. And I love you too. But you and Caelen… it makes sense. I'm just your—"
"Don't say that."
"I'm just the half-elf woman who kissed the princess during a war."
Elysera stepped closer, her voice low. "You think one night erased everything we shared before the siege?"
Nirelle's eyes flickered. "I haven't forgotten."
"We weren't just soldiers in love, Nirelle," Elysera whispered. "We were lovers before the world fell apart."
She kissed her.
Slow. Soft. Real.
When she pulled back, Elysera whispered, "You still think I should marry him?"
Nirelle's voice trembled. "Yes. Because that's what peace demands."
"And if I do… I'll still belong to you."
Nirelle laughed, almost broken. "Like you'd love me after marrying him?"
Elysera stepped closer. "Yes."
Nirelle whispered, "Ohh, princess… I love you."
Elysera stepped away. "Stop your funking meaningless congratulations. Don't face me again today out here."
Nirelle blinked.
Elysera's eyes were fire. Pain, love, duty — twisted into one impossible knot.
Nirelle bowed her head. "Understood, Princess."
She turned and walked away, her lavender hair trailing behind her like memory.
Elysera didn't move.
Behind her, the castle rose.
In front of her, the war within had only just begun.
The fog fell heavy in the northern fringe of the Elaris Empire, where the forests grew gnarled and the frost never melted. Here, nestled between forgotten ruins and whispering trees, sat a lone ancient house carved of graystone and blackwood. Snow curled around its roof like a protective veil. No one knew this place existed—except those who were meant to find it.
Inside, the air was quiet but alive. Incense smoke swirled gently from an open bowl carved of leviathan bone. Runes shimmered faintly across the walls, pulsing like breath. Candles hovered mid-air, flickering in rhythm with an invisible heart.
At the center of the room, kneeling in silence, was a woman cloaked in layered robes the color of fog and starlight.
Her name was Vaelora.
Her black hair streaked with natural blonde strands was tied in a half-bun, the rest cascading softly over her shoulders. Her amethyst eyes glowed gently in the dark, like old fire sealed behind crystal glass.
She was no sorceress, but there was something eternal in her posture, something ancient in the stillness of her hands.
Then — the door opened.
Wind swept in.
Footsteps — hesitant, muffled by old wood.
A voice. Broken.
"Mom… I'm back."
Ren stepped inside. His dark brown hair was tangled with frost. His forest green eyes were heavy with the weight of truths too deep for his age.
Vaelora turned slowly, but she did not rise.
"You've returned," she said, her voice soft and strong like falling snow.
Ren fell to his knees before her.
"I didn't know where else to go," he whispered. "Two years ago, you told me I was adopted. I ran. I searched. And I found her… my real mother."
His voice cracked. His hands shook.
"I saw her. I spoke to her. And I ran again."
Tears streamed down his cheeks.
"I keep running. Why am I like this? Why do I feel like I'm always too late, too weak—too scared?"
Vaelora reached out and rested a hand on his head.
"You are not a coward, Ren. You are not broken. You are born from fire."
Ren looked up. His breathing hitched.
"She's so powerful," he said. "And I'm… just me."
Vaelora's voice was like a story—slow, warm, and edged with memory.
"When she was your age, they didn't call her Queen. They called her Elaris — the name she held before crowns, before titles. It means 'flame that refuses to die.' She was not born powerful. She became power. Through pain. Through war. Through love."
Ren listened like a child at the edge of a legend.
"She held the northern line when her generals fled. She rose from ash when her city burned. She raised a kingdom with her bare hands, and when your father died—she stood alone, because no one else could."
"But she didn't know about me…"
"She believed you were gone. Lied to. Manipulated. Her enemies sealed your truth because they feared what her son might become."
Ren whispered, "Then what am I?"
Vaelora cupped his cheek.
"You are her second flame. Her soul continues in you. Not just her blood — her will."
A hush fell.
Then — from the shadows — a silver-blue butterfly drifted through the open window. Its wings shimmered with soft light, like moonlight on still water.
It hovered.
Then landed gently on Ren's shoulder.
A pulse.
A memory.
A voice in his mind:
"Don't forget me, Ren."
His breath caught. His heart stopped.
"Nyx…"
He stared ahead, eyes wide.
"I will find you," he whispered. "Even if I have to burn the sky."
Vaelora stood behind him.
"And when you do… the world will remember who you are."
To be continued...