History tells us that over a thousand years ago, the descendants of the Sun waged war against the children of the Moon. The Fayes, then elders among the Sun God's people, feared that the Moon Goddess's descendants—especially the Lycans—were growing too powerful. They believed the Lycans possessed the strength to challenge their divine throne.
But they were wrong.
The Fayes led ten thousand soldiers from the East and the West to the North and the South, toward the borderlands of the Moon's children. They waged war against a people they barely understood. The Moon's descendants were strongest in winter—when the Sun was weakest, and the Sun God was said to slumber. At the peak of their power, the Moon's warriors crushed the Sun's forces. The Fayes had led their people to their deaths.
That is how history remembers it. But those born into the royal families knew a darker truth.
Something else had stirred—something born of neither the Sun nor the Moon. A creature of unknown origin and intention. At first, it appeared to aid the Sun's children, yet its guidance led them to war in the dead of winter. Was it truly helping? Or was it feeding the Moon's strength? No one knew. Fear of the unknown kept the royals silent, but their silence was their greatest mistake.
The mysterious being did not remain idle. It raised an army of rebels and rogues—dangerous creatures driven by bloodlust and chaos. They burned kingdoms to the ground, whether they belonged to the Sun or the Moon. The conflict became endless. The Sun's people, still weakened from their earlier defeat, had little strength left to fight.
It was then that a man was born—said to be the son of the Sun God himself. A were-lion, his eyes gleamed gold, his skin glowed like it had been kissed by sunlight, his hair burned like fire, and his roar unleashed flames. In desperation, he prayed for strength as his people were dying around him.
The Sun God and the Moon Goddess heard his plea. They took pity on their children and sent forth four celestial beings—creatures unlike anything the world had seen. They entered the dying bodies of four warriors, one of them the were-lion. These beings became known as the Phoenixes—elemental avatars of fire, wind, earth, and water.
They swept through the land with wrath and fury, carving a path of destruction through every battlefield. It seemed victory was finally within reach.
But then the enemy changed.
Demonic creatures emerged, matching the Phoenixes in power. For the first time, the Phoenixes met their equals. And unlike them, the enemy had been prepared.
Months passed. Despair choked the land. All hope faded. Then, just as darkness threatened to swallow the world, another Phoenix appeared—unlike any before.
Its eyes were violet and red, its skin as dark as night, and its tail shone silver like moonlight. Some whispered it had been born from the blood-drenched cries of the fallen. No one knew where it came from—or where it went. But its presence reignited the fire in every Phoenix.
Its roar split the skies and unearthed forests. Warriors across the realm felt power surge through them like never before.
That war was won. But everything that happened during that fateful year became legend. Many wrote of their memories, but one truth remained constant—the Phoenixes had come, and they had stayed.
All but one.
The shadowy Phoenix, the last to arrive, vanished without a trace. And from the ashes of war, new beings were born—misfits, some called them. Vampires. Shadow walkers.
Centuries Later
Over a thousand years passed, and a new era dawned.
A school was built, created for the children of royalty and their loyal subjects. A place to prepare for war. Though peace reigned, the scent of blood still lingered. The trees whispered rumors of coming conflict. Some said the dead walked again. Others spoke of forgotten enemies rising in silence.
Former foes forged a fragile alliance. They trained together, waiting for the inevitable.
After each death, a new Phoenix was born—one for every kingdom. But the shadow Phoenix, the one who changed the tide of war, was never seen again. It was never reborn. Still, Phoenixes were revered—treated like royalty, regardless of their birth.
Only one Phoenix in recent times had been born of royal blood: the Red Phoenix, known as the Fire Phoenix.
Seventeen years ago, after long years of waiting, he was born. But not alone.
The Fire Phoenix came into the world as a twin.
Prince Ares Lyon bore the unmistakable mark of his legendary ancestor—gold and red eyes, fiery hair, the blood of gods. But beside him lay a sister—something unheard of. Twins born of opposite sexes were rare. Stranger still were her features: eyes as white as snow, hair dark as night streaked with violet, and skin as pale as death.
It was as though her brother had stolen the life force meant for her.
Were it not for the identical birthmark they shared, many would have believed they had been switched at birth.
The King ignored his daughter. He rejoiced in the birth of the son who would bring him glory. And in that moment, the Queen, her heart heavy with dread, vowed to give her daughter the love she would be denied by the world.