The temple bells tolled once, twice, and then fell silent. Their echo lingered in the vaulted chamber, swallowed by the smoke of burning incense that hung thick in the air.
Twelve figures sat around the obsidian table, their white and gold robes gleaming in the torchlight. Each bore the mark of the Ouroboros embroidered at their throat — the symbol of eternity, of the Cycle.
High Priest Maelor, the eldest among them, raised his hand. His voice carried with the practiced weight of authority, smooth and deliberate.
"The matter is simple. The Archlights grow restless. Lord Varenthal has always resisted our influence, but now, with this… anomaly loose, his defiance grows dangerous. If he chooses to set his banner against the Temple, how many lesser houses might follow?"
Murmurs rippled across the table. Some priests frowned, others whispered. One younger man slammed his palm down, his eyes sharp.
"Then we must remind him of his place. The Temple's will is divine law. If a noble dares to defy us, we will make an example of him."
A woman across from him shook her head, jeweled rings clinking as she clasped her hands. "Crude threats breed rebellion. We must not give the nobility cause to unite against us. Better they bend willingly than rise in open resistance."
Silence followed. Maelor's smile was thin, almost serpent-like. "Just so. We will not strike at Lord Varenthal directly. Instead, we will bind him, as we have bound so many others."
Several priests leaned forward.
"How?"
"Through the oldest method of all," Maelor said, his eyes gleaming. "Marriage."
The word hung in the air like a blade.
Another priest frowned. "The Archlights are not so easily swayed. Varenthal is no fool."
Maelor's chuckle was low and humorless. "Then we shall send him gifts he cannot ignore. Bright, pious youths. Sons and daughters who embody devotion to the Cycle. We will place them as attendants, advisors… companions. If one takes root, then in time—" He gestured in a slow, spiraling motion, like a snake coiling around its prey. "The Temple will sit at the Archlight hearth, and when their heir inherits, our hand will already be upon the reins."
The younger priest who had slammed the table earlier leaned forward, eager. "And not just the Archlights. If we scatter our chosen among all the noble houses, it will tighten our web. Influence spreads, unseen, until even kings must bow."
A ripple of approval stirred the chamber. Heads nodded, whispers of "divine wisdom" and "a flawless plan" circling like vultures.
But one voice, colder, skeptical, broke through.
"And if the Archlights refuse? Lord Varenthal has turned away suitors before. He will see through this ploy."
Maelor's smile widened, his teeth sharp in the dim torchlight.
"Then we will make refusal… costly. Let him appear obstinate while his peers accept our blessings. Soon enough, the current will leave him isolated, and even the proud must learn to swim with the tide."
A murmur of satisfaction followed. Hands pressed to chests in ritual affirmation, lips whispering the final refrain:
"For the Cycle. For balance. For eternity."
The council rose as one, their robes rustling like dry leaves, and the bells tolled again — not a call to prayer, but to conquest.
Morning light spilled through the high windows of the Archlight estate's practice hall, catching dust motes in golden strands. The wide chamber smelled faintly of old wood and burnt resin — a place meant for discipline and focus.
Shiro stood at the center, his sisters sitting cross-legged at the edge, whispering excitedly as if this were a grand performance. Selene leaned against a pillar, arms folded, her smile quiet but encouraging.
Kaelen, his posture as rigid as the staff he carried, regarded Shiro with eyes that missed nothing. His voice was firm, yet not unkind.
"Before you can grasp the higher mysteries, you must master the Common Arts. Flame, water, wind, and stone. Foundations upon which all else stands. Tell me, Shiro — what is magic?"
Shiro hesitated, repeating what little he'd read in dusty books at the family hideout. "A… connection to past lives? A way to draw on the Cycle?"
"Not wrong," Kaelen said, tapping his staff once. The sound echoed through the chamber. "But not complete. Magic is will, focused through memory. The stronger your sense of self — the more anchored you are in what you've been and what you are — the more firmly the Cycle answers. That is why reincarnation is so often linked with power. The past steadies the present."
Shiro's throat tightened. "Then… I really am at a disadvantage."
Kaelen studied him for a long moment before replying. "Perhaps. Or perhaps not. Power is not only inheritance, boy. It is choice. Resolve. I have seen prodigies fall, and late bloomers shake the earth."
He turned, flicking his wrist. A small flame sparked into existence above his palm, steady as a candle. "Today, we begin with fire. The simplest, but also the most dangerous. It responds to passion — and to control. Too little, and it dies. Too much, and it consumes."
He motioned for Shiro to try.
Shiro extended his hand, heart thudding. He pictured warmth, light, the tiny flicker he'd seen in Kaelen's palm. For a moment… nothing. Just the weight of everyone's eyes on him.
Then — a spark. A brief flare of orange. It sputtered, hissed, and died. His sisters clapped anyway, delighted by the attempt. Selene bit her lip, suppressing a laugh, but her eyes were shining with pride.
Shiro tried again. And again. Each time, the flame was either too faint or flared wildly, forcing Kaelen to dispel it before it scorched his sleeve. Sweat beaded on Shiro's forehead, frustration rising in his chest.
"I can't do it," he muttered. "It's useless. Everyone else has past lives to draw on. I'm just—"
The voice came like silk across a blade, curling at the edges of his mind.
"Useless? Is that what you believe? You carried your sisters through fire and shadow. You defied the Cycle itself. And you think you are powerless? How quaint."
Shiro stiffened, breath catching. His eyes darted toward the others, but no one else reacted — only he could hear it. The same whisper from the ceremony.
"Flame is not memory, boy. It is hunger. It is survival. It is you."
His chest tightened. He shut his eyes, forcing himself to push past doubt, past the heat crawling up his throat. He thought of his sisters — their laughter, their trust. Of Selene's steady gaze. Of the darkness chasing them all.
A spark leapt to life in his palm. Not wild this time. Not fleeting. A steady, glowing ember hovered, dancing with quiet strength.
His sisters gasped, clapping again. Selene's hands came together softly, her smile radiant.
Kaelen's expression didn't shift, but there was something new in his eyes — interest, maybe even approval.
"Better," the instructor said. "Rough, but not without promise."
Shiro exhaled, the flame fading as exhaustion pulled at him. Yet for the first time, he felt a spark not just in his hand, but in his chest.
The whisper chuckled, fading into silence.
"Yes… not without promise."
The great hall of House Archlight was draped in banners of deep crimson and gold, sunlight filtering through tall windows to bathe the chamber in regal light. Lord Varenthal sat upon the carved oak chair at the head of the chamber, his expression already hard with suspicion.
Across from him, the Temple envoy stood flanked by two clerks. He was young, barely older than Selene, but dressed in pristine white robes marked with the Temple's golden sigil. His manner was polished, voice smooth — the kind of tone trained to soothe and deceive in equal measure.
"My lord," he began with a bow, "the Temple recognizes your noble house as one of the cornerstones of this realm. In these uncertain times, when heresies and… anomalies spread, faith and order must stand together. To that end, we humbly propose a bond between our institutions. One that may, in the fullness of time, bring your house even greater honor."
Lord Varenthal's fingers drummed on the armrest. "A bond," he said flatly. "Say it plainly, priest."
The envoy smiled faintly. "A marriage. Between one of your daughters and a chosen of the Temple. It would strengthen both faith and nobility, ensure divine favor upon your line, and—"
"That will not happen." Lord Varenthal's voice cracked like thunder, final and uncompromising. "House Archlight will not be used as a ladder for the Temple's ambition."
Shiro stiffened from his hidden place behind a heavy curtain, his breath caught. He had slipped into the hall's shadowed edge with Selene to spy, though she had drifted forward when her father's rejection rang out.
The envoy pressed delicately. "My lord, with respect, this is an opportunity few would refuse. It would—"
"Enough," Varenthal snapped. He leaned forward, eyes blazing. "You presume to barter with my blood as though my house were desperate. I will not hear—"
"Father."
The word cut clean through the hall. All eyes turned as Selene stepped into the open, her footsteps deliberate, her posture proud.
Shiro's heart lurched — she had left his side, boldly revealing herself in the middle of a political snare.
Selene stopped at her father's side, chin high, eyes cold as steel as she turned toward the envoy.
"You waste your words," she said evenly. "I already have a fiancé. Your proposal means nothing."
The hall fell silent.
Shiro nearly stumbled from his hiding place, pulse pounding. Fiancé?
Lord Varenthal's brows shot up, though his surprise was quickly buried beneath a grim sort of satisfaction — his daughter had struck the blow he was prepared to land himself, but sharper and final.
The envoy, caught mid-step in his scheme, faltered. His polite mask cracked just enough to reveal the fury beneath before he quickly bowed, retreating a half-step.
"My… apologies, Lady Selene. I was unaware such arrangements had already been made."
"Unaware," Selene repeated, voice frosted with scorn. "Or uninterested. Either way, this conversation is over."
Her father did not correct her. He didn't need to. The dismissal was absolute.
The envoy forced a brittle smile, clearly realizing there was nothing left to salvage. "Very well. The Temple will continue to pray for House Archlight's prosperity."
He withdrew, robes sweeping, his clerks trailing behind him.
When the doors finally closed, Selene let out the faintest breath and smoothed her dress as if nothing had happened. Her father's eyes remained on her, unreadable, but there was no rebuke. Only the heavy silence of a political victory… and the weight of a new question hanging unspoken in the air.
Behind the curtain, Shiro's thoughts swirled, louder than the hush of the emptying chamber.
Fiancé…?
The heavy doors shut behind the envoy, and the echo lingered like the aftershock of a quake.
Selene curtsied to her father with impeccable grace, then turned away as though the confrontation had cost her nothing. But when her eyes flicked — for the briefest second — toward the corner where Shiro was hidden, he felt the jolt like a blade drawn too close.
Later, when the hall had cleared and the sisters were escorted back to their wing, Shiro lingered in the shadows, head spinning.
A fiancé? Me?
The word burned in his mind like a brand. He remembered her bold stance, the unwavering certainty in her tone, as if it were not a lie, not a political maneuver, but a truth she had always carried.
When Selene slipped back into the corridor where he waited, her lips curved in the faintest smirk.
"You look pale," she whispered, brushing past him. "Did my words shock you so much?"
"Y-you can't just—" he stammered, but her finger pressed lightly against his chest to silence him.
"I can, and I did," she murmured, her voice low enough that no one but him could hear. "Would you rather I let them drag my name through their schemes? Besides…" She tilted her head, eyes gleaming. "It isn't so unthinkable, is it?"
Shiro flushed, speechless.
Selene only laughed softly and continued down the hall, leaving him frozen in place, his sisters peeking at him with wide, mischievous grins.
"Fiancé, huh?" Elira teased under her breath.
Mirielle clasped her hands together dramatically. "Brother, you never told us you were engaged! Does that mean we get to wear fancy dresses for the wedding?"
"Wh-what?! No! That's not—!" Shiro sputtered, chasing after them as they giggled down the corridor.
For a brief moment, despite the shadows gathering around their lives, laughter echoed through the halls of House Archlight.
Far across the city, beneath the vaulted ceilings of the Temple's inner sanctum, the envoy knelt in shame before his superiors.
The High Priest leaned forward, his face obscured in the shadow of his hood, his voice a velvet snarl. "Rejected. Publicly. By a child, no less."
The envoy swallowed hard. "Lady Selene was… resolute, Eminence. And Lord Varenthal did not press the matter further. It was clear they would not yield."
Another voice, cold and sharp — one of the senior cardinals. "Archlight was never going to be easy prey. We will need sharper hooks. If persuasion will not work…"
"Then we find leverage," the High Priest finished. His fingers tapped slowly on the armrest. "Their loyalty to their blood is absolute. That will be their weakness."
A heavy silence fell, punctuated only by the crackle of braziers.
The envoy bowed his head lower, shame mixing with dread. He knew what "leverage" meant when spoken within these halls.
"Do not fail us again," the High Priest said. "Send another. Someone younger, more pliable, more… charming. If House Archlight will not bend to reason, we will see if it bends to desire."
The envoy trembled, nodding quickly.
Plans began to take root in the gloom of the sanctum — schemes dressed in holy words, but reeking of ambition.