CHAPTER ONE
If Princess Selene had her way, mornings would begin at noon, without shoes, and definitely without diplomacy lessons.
Instead, her day began as usual with loud knocking and muffled shouting.
"Your Highness! You're going to be late again!"
Selene rolled deeper into her velvet blankets and groaned. "Go away, Mara. I'm terribly ill. Possibly dying."
The bedroom door creaked open.
"I swear to the stars, Princess, if you're naked under there again"
"I'm always naked under my clothes," Selene yawned, poking her silver-haired head out from beneath the covers, her violet eyes sparkling with mischief.
Mara, her personal maid—and lifelong, long-suffering companion—stood with her hands on her hips, eyes scanning the royal chaos. Gowns draped over chairs. Spell books hidden under pillows. Half-eaten lemon tarts scattered near the window seat.
The future queen of Aetherra, ladies and gentlemen.
"Your father's been waiting in the throne room for half an hour. You were supposed to meet with the envoys from Maranthil."
Selene blinked. "Envoys… That's today?"
"Yes. And if you don't get dressed right now, I'll let your mother pick your outfit."
That got her moving. Sort of.
Selene flopped dramatically out of bed, hair a silver tangle of starlight, and shuffled barefoot across the marble floor. "Do you think if I fake a fainting spell they'll cancel court duties forever?"
Mara didn't dignify that with a response. She was already at the wardrobe, pulling out layers of silk and lace. "Your powers woke you again last night, didn't they?"
Selene stiffened for a breath. Then shrugged. "Nope. I'm just lazy."
"Liar."
"Loving, cheerful liar," Selene corrected with a grin.
But behind the smile, she could still feel the heat of the dream on her skin.
The fire. The crown. The woman's voice screaming from behind her eyes.
Not Selene.
Something else. Someone else.
She hadn't told Mara everything. Not the part where the flames didn't feel like danger.
They felt like home.
By mid-morning, the palace halls glittered with sunlight and activity. Nobles, scholars, and soldiers filled the citadel with talk of treaties and trade. Selene sat beside her father, King Alarion, on the ivory dais—bored to tears and picking imaginary lint off her sleeves.
Her mother, Queen Elira, gave her a warning glance across the room.
Selene smiled sweetly back.
The royal court had grown used to her… uniqueness. She wasn't rebellious. Just too alive to be caged. Too strange to be molded. Too much of something even she couldn't name.
They loved her anyway.
Everyone did.
That was the problem.
Later that afternoon, while her parents hosted a luncheon with the visiting dignitaries, Selene escaped to her favorite place: the old tower library.
It was quiet there. Dusty. Full of forgotten things.
She climbed barefoot through the winding shelves, tracing her fingers over books older than the kingdom itself. Some whispered when you touched them. Others bit.
One in particular—bound in black velvet and sealed with a rusted sigil—called to her.
She didn't open it.
She never did.
At least, not yet.
Outside the palace, clouds gathered.
Far beyond the reach of Aetherra's golden spires, hidden beyond the mortal realm's veil, stood a kingdom not drawn on any map.
A place of stone and flame.
The realm of the Protector.
There, among the ash-colored mountains and ever-burning towers, he stood watching the skies—his armor dark as starlight, his face calm, distant, and unreadable.
Caelum Vireon.
Warlord. Guardian. Curse.
To the world, he was legend. Immortal. Invincible.
But in truth…
He remembered nothing.
Not his first life.
Not the name of the goddess he once loved.
Not the reason he had been reborn.
Only the flame that still burned in his chest—ancient, waiting.
And today, it stirred.
Back in the mortal realm, Selene stood alone on her balcony, hair catching the wind like silver threads. The moon was rising early, pale and sharp in the summer sky.
She pressed her hand to her heart.
The world felt… different. Tilted. A breath held too long.
And for the briefest moment—across realms, across time—his gaze met hers.
Neither could see clearly.
But both felt it.
A ripple.
A spark.
A name neither could remember whispered like ash on the wind.