The sky was bleeding.
Ash drifted like snow over the burning rooftops of Aethermoor, carried by the wind's cruel whisper. Screams echoed in the alleys like fading hymns, drowned beneath the thunder of collapsing towers and the roar of fire-hungry beasts. The rebellion had come and gone in a single night, leaving behind nothing but smoldering ruin.
And in the center of it all stood a girl with ember eyes.
Liora Vex crouched low behind a shattered stone arch, her breath shallow, chest heaving. Her daggers—heat-forged steel etched with old rebel sigils—were slick with blood, not all of it human. Her leathers were scorched, and her left shoulder pulsed with pain where a firebeast's claw had clipped her.
But she was alive.
Barely.
She peeked around the edge. The palace gates were still standing, surrounded by scorched bodies and glowing sigils burned into the ground—royal wards. The prince's men had moved fast, faster than any of them expected.
She clenched her jaw. The mission had failed.
Thorne would be furious. Not because the king still lived—but because she'd stayed behind to save one of the younger rebels. The boy had been fifteen. His scream still rang in her ears.
Coward, Thorne had said. You get attached. That's why they die.
She had no answer for him. Just scars.
A low hum of energy flared across the courtyard. Liora froze. A ripple in the wards. Someone was coming.
She ducked back, blades ready, fire magic burning beneath her skin like a fever.
A tall figure stepped into view, cloak billowing, eyes glowing faint violet in the ashfall. The sword in his hand was long, mirror-polished, slick with blood. It reflected the flames around him—and her.
Prince Caidren Ashveil.
He saw her.
Liora didn't move.
Neither did he.
The air between them stretched, heavy and silent. A heartbeat. Two.
Then he lowered his sword.
Liora's eyes widened.
She rose slowly, confusion tightening her grip. "You're not going to kill me?"
Caidren's voice was quiet. Tired. "Not tonight."
She stared at him. The firelight caught his face—smoke-streaked, bloodied, eyes ringed with grief.
He looked at her like he knew her.
And that scared her more than death.
She vanished into the smoke without another word.
---
Three weeks later, the palace smelled of polished steel and roses.
Caidren stood in the Hall of Crowns, flanked by guards and nobles draped in silk. The high banners of Ashveil hung above them, their crimson folds spotless despite the kingdom's wounds. He wore black under his ceremonial armor—mourning colors, despite the court's celebration.
They had crushed the rebellion.
And yet, his sleep was still haunted.
Every night: fire. Screams. Her.
That girl with ember eyes.
He didn't know her name, but the image of her—drenched in blood and flame—was etched behind his eyelids. She shouldn't have survived. No one in that courtyard had. No one but him.
And her.
"You're drifting again, Your Highness."
Caidren blinked. Serene Calivar stood beside him, lips quirked in a half-smile. Her silver-threaded dress shimmered like moonlight.
"I'm always drifting," he muttered.
"Mm. And yet you're the one they want to crown."
He offered a smile. It didn't reach his eyes.
"You shouldn't frown so often," she said. "It'll ruin the portraits."
He chuckled. Barely.
But she was right. His coronation was only a month away. His father—King Rael—was slipping into quiet madness, speaking more to ghosts than men. Soon, the burden would be Caidren's.
And yet, all he could think of was her.
The ember-eyed girl.
---
Liora's breath caught as she looked out over the palace grounds from the rafters.
This high up, the city looked like a different world—clean, bright, full of laughter and gardens. She crouched on the wooden beams of the outer observatory, dressed in a servant's uniform, her daggers hidden beneath her skirts.
The plan was simple.
Infiltrate. Find the prince. Kill him.
Except it wasn't simple at all.
Because she had seen his eyes, and they weren't the eyes of a tyrant.
They were the eyes of a man who carried too much.
Her fire pulsed faintly beneath her skin. She closed her eyes, steadied herself. This wasn't about emotion. This was about the prophecy.
A voice echoed in her mind, old and sharp: The flameborn and the cursed heir. One must burn the other to break the chain.
Thorne believed she was the flameborn.
But he didn't know that when Caidren looked at her in the fire, he hadn't seen an enemy.
He'd seen something else.
And that terrified her.
---
In the palace's lower levels, Serene met with a shadow-draped figure.
"She's here," Serene whispered. "In the palace."
Thorne Vex stepped from the darkness, his eyes like dying coals. "I told her not to come."
"And yet, here she is. Near your prince."
"He's not mine."
Serene smiled. "Perhaps not. But he might become hers. And if that happens…"
Thorne's jaw clenched. "I'll end it."
Serene touched his arm. "Let her try. Let her believe. Hope makes the betrayal sweeter."
---
That night, Liora stood in Caidren's chambers, her disguise slipping as she emerged from the shadows.
He turned, startled—then froze.
"You," he whispered.
She didn't raise her blades. She didn't need to.
"Did you dream of me?" she asked.
His silence was answer enough.
She stepped closer. The distance between them shrank until her breath brushed his jaw.
"If you're cursed," she said softly, "I think I'm part of it."
His hand rose slowly, hesitantly, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "What's your name?"
"Liora."
He exhaled like it hurt. "I don't know whether to arrest you... or run with you."
She smiled. "Neither do I."
---
And somewhere, deep beneath the palace—where even the light feared to tread—the Oracle whispered to no one:
It begins.