Celestria was breathtaking.
Marble towers shimmered like frost under the summer sun, their spires stretching like frozen prayers toward the heavens. Banners embroidered with silver stags, coiled dragons, and golden suns danced high above the cobbled roads, catching the breeze like the city itself was breathing.
The scent of spice, sweetbread, and citrus oil lingered in the air, mingling with the sound of laughing children and merchants haggling in open stalls. Villagers moved through the avenues cloaked in fur-lined robes or dyed linen, their eyes bright, their smiles warm—and all of it under the calm gaze of silver-armored royal guards posted at every street corner.
But beneath all that beauty, something itched at Veylan's instincts—a quiet dissonance that made the hairs at his neck rise.
He stood in the center of the square beside Cael, both now dressed in finely woven cloaks offered by the steward who had greeted them at the gate. The material was soft, the crest of the royal house stitched into the fabric like a mark of ownership.
In the plaza, a spectacle unfolded.
Swordsmen spun in perfect rhythm, their blades slicing the air with elegant precision, twirling steel in arcs that caught the sunlight. Spectators clapped, cheered. A group of archers followed—loosing arrows that pierced distant apples without flinch or error.
"They praise the blade like it's divine," Cael muttered, folding his arms.
"It is, to them," Veylan replied, eyes scanning the stage. "In a world ruled by muscle and myth, the sword is scripture."
"No one's asked who we are. Where we came from. They gave us food, clothes, and smiles." Cael's voice lowered. "That's not normal. It's rehearsed."
Veylan's gaze hardened. "Everyone smiles too perfectly."
Just then, the sharp blare of trumpets pierced the air.
The crowd turned as the great palace stairs came into view.
She appeared like a phantom from legend.
Princess Diana descended, every movement choreographed by divine instinct. Her gown, crimson-lined and layered in shimmering white silk, flowed behind her like a trail of blood on snow. A circlet of moonstone, shaped like a broken halo, sat upon her brow—catching the light and casting pale reflections across her face.
But it wasn't her beauty that stilled the square.
It was her presence.
She didn't walk like a woman who inherited power. She moved like one who took it—then made the world thank her for it.
Cael tensed. "There's power in her. Deep. Coiled like something that's been hungry for centuries."
Veylan didn't blink. "She's not just a monarch. She's a warning."
She reached the base of the stairs and turned to face the square.
The people fell into silence—not commanded, not ordered. Just... stilled. As if even the breeze paused for her.
"You're the strangers who fell from the heavens," she said, her voice rich and melodic, every word polished. "Celestria welcomes you… warriors of a distant star."
Cael tilted his head. "You don't sound surprised."
Diana's gaze didn't waver. "I've seen the skies rupture. I've heard the rift scream. And I felt the world bend as you arrived." She stepped forward slowly. "Only two could break the stars into a cry like that. You've come at a time of great turning."
Her gaze lingered too long on Cael—curious, amused—then flicked to Veylan with something colder. Measuring.
"I've granted you audience. Shelter. Peace." She raised a hand. "Stay. Rest. Explore. But understand this—everything in my kingdom serves balance. Tilt it…"
She let the words hang like a blade mid-swing.
"We don't bow to crowns," Cael said coolly, his voice a blade of its own.
A dangerous smirk danced at the corner of her lips. "Then let's hope your spine is worth its weight."
Without another word, she turned and vanished back into the palace, leaving an echo behind her like thunder that hadn't yet reached the ground.
---
That night, atop the balcony of a moonlit inn, Cael stood alone, eyes to the stars.
The city glowed in warm lantern-light below him, but his attention was fixed on the sky above—ribbons of green and blue flickering faintly in the night, like the world itself was remembering something it had long forgotten.
"This world's magic breathes differently," he murmured. "Like it's not just alive—it's watching us."
Veylan joined him, carrying an old scroll and a folded parchment under his arm.
"I searched the palace library. No mention of gods. No divine texts. Only fragments… burned edges." He unrolled the parchment. "But I found a map—sealed inside a forbidden tome. It shows a vault… buried beneath the city. Deep. Hidden. Protected."
Cael looked over. "You think Diana's hiding something?"
Veylan's jaw tightened. "I don't think she's ruling this kingdom. I think she's harvesting it."
Cael exhaled. "Then we dig. And we don't stop until we know what lies under all this marble and moonlight."
---
And far below them, beneath the golden floors and shining walls, buried in a chamber untouched by time, a chained voice stirred.
Faint. Starved. Divine.
"Please… someone… remember my name…"