Before there was ruin, there was peace. Before vengeance, there was kindness.
This story began long ago — in a time when Alden had not yet bled, nor cursed, in his first lifetime, he had been kind once. The world had been brighter, the future untouched by shadow. There was no reason to seek revenge.
Not yet.
Not when the flames of war were still far off, and the name Aurenya had no weight in his chest. Not when the stars above Antithesis still shimmered quietly, and the Trees sang only to their daughters.
Back then... he had no idea what he would become.
---
It all started in a tiny land shaped by Trees — Antithesis, where, the sky was always split in two. One side burned red like fire; the other shimmered silver-blue, cold as frost. Between them stretched the golden lake, where gold like liquid flowed peacefully mixing blood and frost.
Virelya, the Tree of Flame, stood tall with branches like burning veins. Its leaves flickered when touched by wind. When wounded, it bled. From it came daughters of fire — skin deep and dark as dusk, eyes lit like embers.
Nhalrien, the Tree of Frost, stood across the stream. Its trunk glowed faintly blue. Frost clung to its roots, and beside it flowed a cold stream that breathed in and out, gentle and steady. From it came daughters of frost — skin pale as snow, hair clear and soft like flowing water.
The golden trees stood farther off, quieter. Their leaves shimmered like sunlight on still water. They gave birth to golden Saelari — gentle in voice, calm in step, with skin and hair that glowed like the golden lake. The total not even approaching thousand.
Each time a Saelari fell, another girl was born. One for one. Each carried the voice of her mother Tree.
From Virelya came Kaelira — strong, dark, warm as the deep hearth. From Nhalrien came Syralis — graceful and silent, her steps light on ice. Their cloths were woven from their mother's leaves. Flameborn wore soft ember-red. Frostborn wore pale blue. The golden ones wore woven gold.
Then came Aurenya. She wasn't born after someone's death. She became the second flame child, for the first time in the history of Antithesis a second flame-child was born without the death of previous one.
Born from Virelya, her hair burned bright like wildfire, but her skin shimmered like pale moving water. Her eyes held the warmth of embers and the calm of a lake. She walked barefoot along the stream, chasing bugs with a bent stick, smiling at clouds.
"They're staring again," she said once, pointing up at the split sky. "They never blink."
Beside her sat Cirelle, weaving a ribbon through her braid. "You speak like the sky can hear you."
"Maybe it can," Aurenya said. "It just hasn't decided what to say."
Other girls braided leaves into their hair — a quiet tradition passed down from older Saelari. Aurenya liked petals better. Sometimes she added sharp frost thorns or loose fire-blossoms, whatever she could reach.
"You'll cause trouble with that," one girl laughed and warned.
"If the Trees are angry," Aurenya said, "they can tell me themselves."
Each Saelari could hear from their mother tree except Aurenya. Kaelira stood near Virelya, gazing lovingly at Aurenya, as if she were seeing the world's most adorable creature. Syralis kept to the frost. Neither often spoke, but both watched Aurenya often, with adoration, as she was the weakest — too weak to fight — but most lovable of all.
So did the Trees.
No other Saelari laughed as much.
No other child danced with flame and cooled her feet in frost.
And none of the others ever asked why the sky was split in two.
But unlike the others, she never heard her Mother Tree's song. Instead, in her loneliest moments, a faint voice sometimes reached her — aching, desperate, calling for someone she did not know. She never understood it, only that it felt...alien, different.
Aurenya liked the stream and the strange bugs that shimmered in the golden shallows. She liked chasing falling leaves. She liked asking questions.
She liked the world as it was.
But the world was already changing.
The Trees knew it.
Virelya knew it.
Nhalrien knew it.
Even the sky seemed to wait.
But Aurenya laughed, ankle-deep in golden water, her hair lit like flame, her voice light as wind — never knowing that soon, the sound of laughter would disappear.
The Prince Who Watched
Alden Alger de Leonhelm was the Crown Prince of the Leonhelm Empire.
And the world belonged to him. Or so it seemed.
Red velvet banners framed the imperial dais. Beneath them, his father — Emperor Caelus Alger de Leonhelm, known as Caelus IV — sat tall on the throne. His crown glinted, but his eyes never softened. Beside him stood Alden, dutiful, silent, crown prince of the Empire.
At fifteen, Alden had already learned: the throne wasn't about power. It was about performance.
"You look bored," came a whisper from behind the curtains. "Try not to yawn. The nobles hate when you seem smarter than them."
Alden didn't turn. "Go away, Limon."
The curtain rustled. Limon, a thin youth with ink-stained fingers, red hair, and too many secrets — Alden's friend. Though officially only an aide, Limon had long served as Alden's eyes and ears in the palace.
"His Majesty just decreed five new grain tariffs," Limon muttered. "None of them will work. Would you like me to log that in my 'Things That Will Burn' journal?"
"Log it in your mouth," Alden replied flatly.
A loud voice boomed through the hall — Aran had entered.
Prince Aran, the second son and Alden's younger half-brother, charged in with messy curls, cheeks flushed, and a sword-shaped stick strapped to his belt.
"You're late," the Emperor said without turning.
"I'm early!" Aran grinned. "For something. Probably." His lips curved, but his eyes, for a fleeting moment looking at Alden, held a different, unreadable light.
Several nobles sighed. Alden watched with the faintest twitch of amusement.
"You smell like stable hay," he said.
"I was dueling a goat," Aran said proudly. "It cheated. After finishing my golem research someday, I will make it fight my masterpiece."
The Emperor exhaled. "Take your place. Or leave."
Aran winked at Alden and flopped beside him anyway, muttering, "Father loves you more."
"He loves neither of us."
"That's not true. He loves tax revenue."
Alden didn't smile — not quite.
As court dragged on, Alden's mind drifted — not to boredom, but observation. He watched the nobles' movements: the clenching fists, the sideways glances. He knew how to read ambition the way others read poetry.
One lord, Baron Ferren, kept shifting his weight. Another, Lady Shuri, avoided eye contact with the finance minister. The southern provinces were preparing for unrest — Alden knew it without needing a word spoken. It was more than tariffs — whispers spoke of dark elves crossing the Ravencliff border, stirring unease in the eastern roads toward Aethelgard.
"I hear a new consort has arrived," Limon whispered later, walking beside Alden down a side hall. "The Emperor's latest attempt at dynasty insurance?"
"She'll last three months," Alden replied. "If she survives the court."
"How very kind of you, crown prince," Limon smirked.
"___"
The Emperor had several women in his harem. Alden tactfully ignored their existence altogether. Ever since his mother's passing when he was seventeen — now twenty-five — he couldn't care less.
Later that night, Alden sat by the royal observatory — alone. The stars shimmered, but he saw only patterns.
He had stopped believing in stories early. Gods, angels, fate — none of it ever mattered. What mattered was information. Leverage. Strategy. And control.
By seventeen, Alden could recite entire battle doctrines, trade routes, and assassination patterns without needing a scroll. He didn't pray to heaven. He studied the weaknesses of nations.
And yet, some nights, when the palace grew too quiet and the stars blinked cold through his window, he would find himself staring at a small trinket — a smooth glass shard hung on a thin chain.
A gift from his mother. She had once claimed it came from the sky.
"When you speak to the sky," she'd whispered, "some angel might hear you and fulfill your wish."
He had been too young back then, believed every word, and prayed to the angel each night, crying for his mother to be healed — she had been paralyzed ever since. But no angel ever heard or replied...
Had it been Alden now, he would have laughed at her, saying all those fantasies only suited a fairy-tale.
Still, he never threw it away.
Not even when everything else burned.