The cart smelled like sweat, hay, and fear. Kaelen lay still beneath the rough straw, holding his sister's hand tight. Seriane's fingers were cold, trembling slightly, but neither of them said a word. There was nothing left to say. Words couldn't change what was happening. Not now.
He had promised her, in whispers and in silence, that he wouldn't let go.
But that promise fell apart when they reached the gates of Osira.
Voices shouted. Traders haggled. Chains rattled. Rough hands reached in and tore Seriane from the cart. She cried out, but her voice was lost in the noise. Kaelen fought to hold on, but she was already being dragged away. Her wide, terrified eyes searched for him one last time before she vanished into the crowd.
Then came the cold grip of metal. Shackles snapped around his wrists like a sentence passed. A man stepped forward, pale-faced, with a stillness in his voice that felt colder than steel. The physician, they called him. He looked at Kaelen not like a person, but like an object to be examined, measured, and used.
Seriane was taken elsewhere, into a world that felt nothing like her brother's. The Myrelis mansion loomed large, lit by candlelight that never warmed the air. Its halls echoed with footsteps and whispers. Portraits of ancient ancestors lined the walls, watching in silence with eyes that had long forgotten mercy.
They gave her a plain dress and tasks that changed by the hour. She moved carefully, trying not to be noticed, but she was not invisible.
Eryndor noticed her.
He was the heir of the Myrelis family, quiet but not cold. There was something kind in his gaze, something curious in the way he carried himself. One evening, Seriane found herself drawn to the garden, where moonvines twisted along the arches and the night bloomed with silence.
Eryndor stood alone beneath the stars, weaving strands of light between his fingers. He conjured a glowing bird, small and perfect, and let it flutter into the air before it faded into nothing.
Seriane watched from the shadows, then stepped closer.
Magic like that is beautiful, she said softly.
Eryndor turned toward her, and his smile was gentle. Only if you know where to look.
But someone else had seen her, long before that moment.
Vareon stood behind a wall of ivy, silent and still. He had noticed her at the market, before anyone else. But he had said nothing then, and now he watched from the edges, fists clenched at his sides. Watching her speak to Eryndor made something burn in his chest. It wasn't just jealousy. It was distance. He was always the one watching from afar.
Seriane had no idea how tangled the lines were becoming.
While she adjusted to the rhythm of the mansion, Kaelen fought to stay alive in the shadows of the physician's house. He scrubbed rusted tools in a room that smelled of old herbs and dried blood. Days blurred together. Until one evening, the physician gave a quiet command.
Bring me the hibiscus noctura. It blooms under the moon. Glows white. Pick one. Come straight back.
Kaelen slipped out into the forest without a word. The cool air hit his skin like freedom. The trees whispered above him. The moon lit the path in pieces. He moved slowly, heart pounding at every sound.
Then he saw it. A soft glow beneath a weeping tree.
The flower.
And next to it, a girl.
She sat quietly, her hair catching the moonlight like silver thread. She didn't flinch when he approached. She didn't look afraid.
You came for the flower, she said, not quite asking.
I did, Kaelen replied, unsure why he felt like a child in her presence.
She turned to face him. Her eyes held sorrow and strength in equal measure. Most people don't deserve it.
I'm just trying to survive.
She picked the flower and held it out to him.
Anything taken under moonlight binds two souls.
Before he could speak again, she was gone.
He stood alone beneath the trees, the flower in his hand, and something strange blooming quietly in his chest.
Back at the Myrelis estate, Seriane felt a shift. Eryndor's kindness was steady. But Vareon's silence followed her like a shadow. He was always nearby, yet never close. His eyes said what his mouth never did.
Vareon trained harder. He fought longer. His blade moved faster each day, like he believed it could silence the ache inside him. He had no magic like Eryndor, no graceful words. But he had fire, and it burned fiercely behind every strike.
Far beyond them all, in rooms where no sunlight reached, Morvane moved his pieces into place. He was Vareon's uncle, a leader of the council, and a man who had long since lost the meaning of restraint. His eyes were always on the Syltharion. His thoughts always on what could be brought back from death if only the rules were broken.
Let them choose Vareon, he whispered to himself. Let the boy carry the weight while I hold the power.
That night, the moon watched over them all. It cast its silver light across the lands of Eir'Vallond, shining on garden paths, forest trails, locked doors, and secret hearts.
Something was changing.
Friendships were stirring. Secrets were breaking. The quiet hum of prophecy, once buried, had started to rise.
And none of them could feel how close the storm truly was.