The Kingdom of Pyranthos was not one etched merely in maps, but in the pulsing veins of every soul who beheld fire with reverence. A dynasty older than ink could record, the Pyranthian bloodline wielded flames like poetry—born of the sun, tempered in battle, and veiled in myth. High atop the crimson cliffs of Arasthar, surrounded by obsidian-tiled domes and golden-stemmed towers, lived Princess Mira Pyranthos, the last flame-heir of her line.
At twenty-three, Mira stood with a storm in her gaze and fire in her step. She wasn't simply royalty; she was legend in bloom. With her midnight-black hair coiled in golden bands and eyes that flickered like molten amber, she commanded the admiration of diplomats and dread of her enemies. Yet even within the blazing grandeur of Pyranthos, a shadow was spreading.
It had begun weeks ago—dreams that singed her sleep. Visions of ancient wars, lovers made of water and light, and a child who called her Mother in a voice that echoed through lifetimes. When she awoke, her skin often radiated heat, and the silken sheets lay smoldering. No one spoke of it, but the servants whispered, and her mother, Queen Seraphina, watched her daughter with deepening worry.
"Your blood remembers," the queen said once, laying her hand upon Mira's brow. "And it will demand you remember too."
Mira had brushed it off with a half-smile, but the truth simmered within her: something inside her was awakening—and it wasn't entirely hers.
To add to the weight, suitors were arriving in waves. Princes, tycoons, warriors of noble houses—each bearing gifts of diamonds and promises, each with a shimmer of elemental power. For centuries, Pyranthos had held its seat as the elemental fire sovereign, and now with the line dwindled to one heir, alliances were the currency of survival.
Today, Mira was to meet four of the most eligible suitors.
First to arrive was Prince Rhian of Aerondale, an air-wielder whose laughter always arrived before he did. Tall, with feathered white hair and a blade sharper than his tongue, Rhian bowed low, brushing his lips over her ring.
"Mira of Flame," he said with a grin, "the winds speak of you. They burn with envy."
She arched a brow. "Do they? Tell them to get in line."
Rhian chuckled and leaned closer. "Let me take you flying. The sky knows no throne."
But before Mira could answer, Lord Caelen of the Obsidian Forge—earth-wielder and mining empire heir—entered the court. With broad shoulders and eyes the color of dust storms, Caelen was a man who carved worlds with his fists.
"Rhian," Caelen rumbled, "You'll get no crown in the clouds."
Then his gaze settled on Mira. "Princess. The ground remembers those who walk it. With me, you'll build legacies."
It went on like this—flirtations like embers, challenges sparking between rivals. Yet Mira's attention waned as another presence entered the hall. A tall figure in navy and silver, eyes like storm-tossed seas.
Jaxon Thalor.
Of all the elemental dynasties, none were more at odds than Pyranthos and Thalor. Water and fire. Ancient enemies and even older secrets. Jaxon was the heir of Nerean Isles, and the firstborn of the waterline.
"You have nerve," Mira said coolly. "Inviting a flood into a house of flame?"
He gave a slow smile. "Only to cool it... or to see if the fire still remembers me."
Her heart stumbled—because something did remember. Not Mira, not consciously. But beneath her ribs, something old stirred. Something that knew Jaxon's voice like a forgotten lullaby.
"You've dreamed of me," he whispered.
She stiffened. "You're assuming much."
"No. I saw you too."
Their conversation was brief, almost hidden in the chaos of the court, but Mira carried it into her dreams that night. She saw flames kissing waves. A temple crumbling beneath a blood moon. And always, always, a child's voice calling her back.
Later, when the guests were gone, Mira sat by the garden's edge, feeding fire lilies with her fingertips. Queen Seraphina approached.
"You know what this is," her mother said gently.
"I don't," Mira lied.
Seraphina's eyes turned to the stars. "Your soul has danced these steps before. This isn't your first throne. And it may not be your last."
Mira whispered, "Then why does it feel like drowning?"
"Because love, child, always feels like drowning when you've been born of flame."
Far away, in a room flooded with candlelight, Jaxon stood over a basin of salt water. When he looked into it, he saw Mira—alone in the garden, lips trembling. He clenched his fists.
"It's her," he said to no one. "It's always been her."
But something inside him warned: this time, the fire could burn too bright to reach.
[To be continued...]