The forest was silent, but not with peace.
It was the silence before a storm.
Through the undergrowth, thousands of boots pressed into the soil, crushing roots, frightening birds into the air. The crimson banners of the Dominion swayed between the trees, their sigils glinting faintly beneath slivers of sunlight. Armor clinked, whispers spread, the weight of anticipation thickened the air.
The Crimson Dominion had marched for war, and yet what they found was not a battlefield.
It was a clearing, soft with moss, the river winding like glass. And there, by the water's edge, sat a girl.
Her knees drawn to her chest, her hands gripping her dress, her shoulders trembling. She cried quietly at first, then louder, a child's sobs breaking into the open air. The sound was raw, unguarded—so small it cut deeper than steel.
The soldiers froze.
Duke Malrick's brow furrowed, his hand tight on his sword. "This… this is her? This sniveling wretch?"
Baron Ulrich spat into the dirt. "A trick. It must be a trick. No weapon of gods would waste tears over a stream."
But Seliora Vaelith—the king's daughter—stepped forward. Unlike her father, her gaze carried calculation more than fury. Her dark hair shimmered under the sun, her crimson gown trailing through the grass. She studied the girl closely, her eyes narrowing.
The face… yes. The resemblance to the murals of the Spirit heir was undeniable. The shape of her eyes, the faint glow in her skin even dulled by tears.
"Do you not see?" Seliora's voice rang in the clearing. "This is the one. The Spirit Princess. Broken perhaps, empty perhaps—but blood does not lie. Power lies within her veins, even if it sleeps."
The men stirred uneasily. Some expected fire. Some expected thunder. But none expected this—an orphaned cry, a trembling child who did not even glance at them.
---
Selene did not recognize them. She did not see kings or dukes or soldiers. Her world was already collapsed into grief.
"Dad…" Her voice cracked, thin as paper. "Where are you? Please… don't leave me…"
She pressed her face harder into her knees, her sobs echoing through the trees.
Seliora's heart skipped for a moment—not with pity, but with recognition of opportunity. This girl's weakness was greater than any chain.
She lowered herself, careful not to startle the child. Her voice softened, honey over venom. "Little one. You are not alone. There is a place… where people like you wait. A place where you will never be abandoned again."
Selene lifted her head slightly, her tear-stained face turning to Seliora. Her eyes were blank, clouded, like glass fogged over.
"People… like me?" she whispered.
"Yes," Seliora coaxed, leaning closer, her hand hovering just out of reach. "You have suffered here, haven't you? All alone. Come with me. I will take you where others will care for you. Where you will belong."
---
For a brief moment, Selene's trembling eased. The words almost reached her. But then—her body stiffened, her eyes widened. She shook her head violently, pulling back as if from fire.
"No," she whimpered. "No, I can't. Dad… Dad will come back. He said… he promised…" Her voice broke again. "I can't leave. What if he comes back and I'm not here? He won't find me…"
Her tears returned in a rush, her body curling into itself again.
The nobles exchanged glances. Whispers spread through the soldiers. This is the weapon? This fragile child?
Duke Vaelor Kryne's lips twisted in contempt. "Pathetic. She clings to phantoms while the world waits on her shoulders. What use is a god's gift if it weeps at riversides?"
Duke Elvaris Nyx silenced him with a sharp gesture. His eyes glittered. "Do not be deceived by the husk. A blade is not less deadly for being hidden in a sheath. She resists because she is unshaped. Shape her, and she will be unstoppable."
Baron Calista Veyne frowned. "And if she refuses still? If her will breaks against us?"
Elvaris smiled thinly. "Then break her. A weapon does not require a will."
---
Seliora extended her hand again, her voice sugar-sweet, every word designed to pierce the fragile heart before her.
"Selene," she said softly, using the name the girl had given herself. "Your father… he cannot return. But I can be with you. I can help you find others. Don't you want to be safe? Don't you want to stop crying?"
Selene blinked at her through tears. Her lips parted, trembling. Her small fingers twitched—then clenched into fists.
"No…" she whispered. "I can't leave. He'll come. I know it. I'll wait… even if it hurts. I'll wait."
Her refusal was fragile, but it was final.
Seliora's eyes narrowed. She had offered the soft hand, and it had been rejected. Now only steel remained.
---
King Veythar, who had listened in silence until now, rose from his steed at the edge of the clearing. His voice carried across the gathering, cold as iron.
"Enough. She is ours, whether she wills it or not. Take her."
The soldiers hesitated. None wished to seize a child crying for her father. Yet the king's command was law.
Mages stepped forward, their robes dragging through the grass. They lifted their hands, runes igniting along their arms, voices chanting in unison. The air grew heavy, vibrating with arcane weight.
Selene's sobs grew sharper as the magic circled her. "No! No, please—Dad, help me!" Her voice cracked into a scream, high and raw. She clawed at the grass, trying to crawl back toward the river.
The runes flared. A circle of light spread around her, rising like a cage.
Her body froze, locked by spellcraft. She thrashed, but her limbs no longer obeyed.
Tears streamed down her face. Her voice shattered into broken whispers. "Dad… please… I'll be good… just come back…"
The teleportation circle burned brighter, the forest fading into white.
The nobles watched with satisfaction, some with unease. To them, this was victory—the capture of their promised weapon.
To Selene, it was loss beyond words.
---
The circle flared one last time, swallowing her form. The cries cut off. The space where she had been was empty, the grass singed with faint light.
The forest was silent once more.
Seliora rose, smoothing her gown. Her lips curved into a satisfied smile. "At last. The girl is ours."
The dukes and barons exhaled, some relieved, some hungering for the days ahead.
But in the emptiness left behind, the air still trembled with her last cry—
not of power, not of fury, but of a child begging for her father.
And thus, the first chain was forged.