The bells of the Spirit Hall tolled with a resonance that trembled through every living being in the Spirit Realm. Silver light poured down from the vaulted skies, illuminating the sacred plaza where thousands of spirits had gathered in silence. Today was meant to be the day of ascension, the day when the most gifted spirits would step forward to touch the Gate of Eternity and prove themselves before the cosmos.
At the center of it all stood Queen Serenia, resplendent in robes woven from threads of moonlight and starlight. Her long hair cascaded like a river of argent, and her eyes carried the weight of countless cycles. To see her was to know majesty; to hear her voice was to know command. By her side was her daughter—Princess Illyria, her emerald gaze steady though the tension in the air pressed down like a storm about to break.
The proclamation was clear:
"In ten days' time, the Spirit Ascension Trial shall open its gates, and those deemed worthy shall ascend."
So it had been announced. So the realm had waited.
---
The Spirit Hall shimmered like a star carved into the heart of the heavens. Its crystalline pillars rose endlessly, their tops vanishing into veils of light. On this day, the divine bells rang, announcing the commencement of the Spirit Ascension Trial—a rite that only once in a millennium graced the kingdom, a trial where destiny unfolded and the chosen ascended beyond mortality.
The nobles and spirits had gathered, their breaths suspended in reverence. At the center of it all, seated upon her silver throne, Queen Serenia radiated the solemnity of an immortal monarch. Her gaze swept over the vast sea of her subjects, and for the first time in centuries, the hall trembled with anticipation.
And standing beneath that towering light was Illyria, her long hair cascading like streams of nightfall, her violet eyes unwavering. She felt the weight of countless gazes upon her, as though all of creation expected her to rise. At her chest glimmered faintly the jewel Seraphine had entrusted to her—half of her mana, a piece of her soul.
Illyria's fingers brushed against it unconsciously. Seraphine… Her heart softened at the memory of that fiery girl's touch, her warmth, the fierce oath hidden behind her silence. For a fleeting moment, the jewel's glow steadied her trembling breath. I will protect you. I will protect all of them.
The Spirit Ascension Gate loomed ahead—an archway of endless radiance, runes alive with golden fire. It was said to answer only when destiny itself decreed the time had come. The bells reached their crescendo. Serenia's voice rang out, calm and sovereign.
"Ten days of purification have ended. On this day, the Spirit Gate shall open. Let the chosen step forth."
The hall erupted in chants, prayers, and gasps. The gate's runes blazed, light searing across the chamber—yet in the next breath, the brilliance shivered. The flames of destiny sputtered, then dimmed, as though strangled by unseen chains.
Gasps turned to silence.
The gate… did not open.
The Spirit Hall trembled. Confusion lanced through the gathering like wildfire. A thousand voices clamored, but none dared raise their tone above the sanctity of that chamber. Serenia herself rose from her throne, eyes flashing with divine power.
"What is the meaning of this?" Her command thundered. "Why does the gate remain closed?"
But no answer came—only a suffocating silence, broken by the faintest echo of laughter, threaded into the marrow of the world.
In the highest shadows of the hall, unseen by all save Illyria, a figure stood cloaked in living night. His eyes, twin abysses threaded with silver flame, watched her not with affection, but with hunger to possess and devour her completely. Azeriel.
The Forgotten One. The Devourer of Emotion. The Puppeteer of Destiny.
The Forgotten God. The Puppeteer. He lingered where no light could pierce, gazing upon the unfolding spectacle with eyes that had seen worlds burn and be born anew. His interest was not in the realm itself, nor in the countless spirits gathered. His gaze was fixed solely upon Illyria.
Illyria felt her heart tighten, a primal recognition running through her veins. She had felt that gaze before—when her dreams cracked, when her victories came too easily, when the silence between heartbeats whispered her name.
"Not yet," he mused, his words woven with amusement and hunger. "She shines too brightly now. To break her in this moment would be a waste. Let her forge herself deeper, harder… until even her own light cuts her. Then—then she will be my greatest feast."
His laughter coiled around her like chains. Not yet, little star. Not yet. Shine brighter, so when I shatter you, your ruin will be worthy of my feast.
Serenia's voice cut through the silence, controlled though it trembled beneath the weight of the unseen.
"The Spirit Ascension Gate… has chosen silence."
Her words fell like a decree. At once, the nobility fell into uproar, whispers colliding like storms. Some accused the heavens, others blamed omens, still others wept that the kingdom's destiny had been stolen.
Serenia raised a hand, silencing them all. "Hear me, spirits of my realm. The gate has spoken in silence. The trial will not commence this day."
Murmurs rippled, some in disbelief, others in dread. Then Serenia declared the impossible:
"The Spirit Ascension Trial shall be postponed. Not for a year. Not for a decade. For fifty years. Until then, all chosen will enter seclusion. Destiny is not denied—only delayed."
A hush fell. Fifty years. For immortals, it was but the span of a sigh. For mortals, it was generations. For Illyria—it was an eternity of waiting.
Murmurs of disbelief gave way to despair, but none dared raise their voice against their Queen. Her authority was final.
Illyria, however, felt the tremor deep within her bones. The postponement was not fate's whim. She could almost taste the interference, like the bitter sting of smoke. Yet in the presence of her people, she remained composed, her features carved into serenity.
And in the shadows, Azeriel smiled.
---
Illyria left the Spirit Hall in silence, her heart a tempest beneath her composed steps. The jewel in her hand pulsed faintly with warmth, pulling her thoughts once more to Seraphine. Would you be waiting for me in fifty years? Would you still remember?
But the image of Azeriel's eyes haunted her, coiling around her resolve. The delay was no accident. It was a game. And she was the piece.
Driven by unease, Illyria made her way through the misted corridors of the palace, deeper than any courtier dared tread.
When the crowd dispersed, Illyria turned from the Hall and made her way through the endless bridges of silver light, past gardens where spirit-flowers bloomed without end. She did not seek her mother. Instead, her feet carried her to the secluded palace that overlooked the edge of eternity.
At the end of the labyrinth lay the chambers of her father—Caelus, the Forgotten Monarch Dragon. The Forgotten Monarch. The Dragon who once ruled beyond the stars before vanishing into obscurity. To most, he was a shadow of a legend, a memory barely whispered. But to Illyria, he was father, mentor, anchor.
His presence was an ocean folded into the form of a man, silver hair flowing like a storm unchained. His eyes, ancient and unfathomable, lifted as she entered.
"Daughter," Caelus said softly, his voice carrying the resonance of an ocean's depth.
"You carry a storm within you, Illyria," Caelus said softly, his voice like distant thunder. "Speak it."
She bowed her head, but her voice shook with contained fire. "Father. The gate did not open. Ten days of purification—ten days of prayers and offerings—and yet the trial was silenced. Why? Why is everything out of order?"
For a long while, Caelus regarded her without speaking. His gaze pierced beyond her words, beyond her body, into her soul. At last, he sighed, a sound weighted with eternity.
"There are hands that weave beyond the heavens' sight," he murmured. "The one you felt today… was not the gate's silence. It was interference."
Illyria's eyes widened. "Then someone did this deliberately? Who?"
Caelus studied her for a long moment, then sighed—a sound like wind across mountains. "There is one who watches. One whose gaze you cannot yet see, but whose presence you feel. Tell me, child—when the Gate stood closed, what stirred in your heart?"
Illyria's lips parted. For an instant, she recalled the shadow, the faintest brush of something alien in her soul. "It was… as if someone's hand pressed against the world. A will vast and suffocating. Cold, yet—hungry."
Caelus's golden eyes darkened. "Then you already know. Azeriel."
Caelus's jaw tightened. For a heartbeat, the dragon monarch seemed not a father but a sentinel of ages past, one who remembered wars that scarred creation itself. His voice lowered.
"Perhaps… someone has taken a liking to you."
Illyria flinched. "A liking?"
His eyes hardened. "Not affection. Not love. You are no flower to be admired, Illyria. What stalks you is a hunger deeper than death. He does not seek you as you are—he seeks what he can make of you. Be wary."
"Why me?" she asked at last, her voice quiet, but steady.
Caelus rose, his height towering, his presence immense. He placed a hand upon her shoulder, heavy with both strength and tenderness. "Because you shine brightest among us. You bear not only spirit's purity but dragon's blood, my blood. To him, you are not merely a being—you are a jewel, a creation he longs to claim. Perhaps… to unmake."
The weight of his tone chilled her blood. She whispered, almost trembling, "You… know who it is."
Caelus's gaze lingered on the jewel in her hand, on the faint glow of Seraphine's mana. For a long moment, silence reigned between them, father and daughter divided by truths unspoken. Then, at last, he said:
"His name is better left unspoken in these halls. But I have known him. I have warred against him. And if his shadow has reached for you… then you must become sharper than his chains."
Illyria's hand closed around the jewel, her mind flashing with Seraphine's warmth, with her promise. She met her father's gaze, her voice steady though her heart roared.
"Then I will not break. If he waits to see me shattered, he will wait in vain."
Caelus's lips curved, almost imperceptibly, into pride. "So speaks my daughter."
---
That night, as the palace lay in silence, Illyria stood alone at her balcony, moonlight washing her in silver. She pressed the jewel to her chest, Seraphine's mana humming faintly. The ache in her heart twisted with longing—Where are you now? Do you still think of me?—yet it crystallized into resolve.
But then she remembered her father's words. Guard what lies within. Azeriel's hunger. His obsession. If he could taste her love, her grief, her ache—he would twist it, break it, consume it.
Illyria opened her eyes again, her expression now tempered with steel. She slid the jewel back into her robes, over her heart. "No matter what he seeks, I will not give him my soul. Nor will I let him take what belongs to me."
Caelus studied her, then smiled faintly, though it was tinged with sorrow. "Your spirit is strong. But strength alone will not be enough. The trial may be delayed, but in these fifty years, you must forge yourself anew. Not only for yourself, but for the one who waits for you."
"I will protect them all," she whispered into the night. "Even if the heavens delay me, even if shadows hunt me, I will not bend."
Far beyond, in a realm of shadows where laughter was sharper than blades, Azeriel's voice echoed like a caress of doom.
"Good. Grow brighter, little star. For the more radiant you are… the sweeter your ruin will taste."
"Yes… struggle. Long. Forge yourself into brilliance. The brighter you burn, the sweeter your ruin will be."
His voice coiled like a serpent around fate itself, unseen by all but felt by those whose souls were sensitive to the currents of destiny.
The moon trembled. The stage had been set.
The game had begun.
The trial was delayed.
And the next fifty years would not be a pause, but the crucible where Illyria's fate—and the fate of all realms—would be forged.