While armies marched and emperors sharpened their blades, far from the thunder of war, the Voltaire Imperial Palace remained a rare island of calm.
Inside the Golden Chamber, where even the air seemed perfumed with quiet reverence, a cradle rested at the center—carved from obsidian wood, lined with silken sheets so soft they shimmered in the lantern light. Within it lay the heart of an empire: a sleeping child, small and perfect, untouched by the storms raging beyond the palace walls.
The infant prince—Ace Voltaire.
His breathing was steady, his tiny hands curled into fists as though even in dreams, he clutched at the world. Black hair framed his gentle features, his skin kissed with bronze warmth. His eyelids, closed in sleep, hid the promise of eyes that one day would see farther, deeper, darker than most dared imagine.
Six maids stood around the cradle, speaking in hushed tones, their voices a blend of awe and anxiety.
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"I heard the drums this morning," one of them whispered, glancing toward the distant windows. "His Majesty has already marched. They say the Infris army has crossed into our lands."
Another sighed, her face pale beneath the golden light. "The Azure Fiend himself leads them… gods help those who face his flames."
A third maid frowned, wringing her hands. "I still can't believe it—fighting again, after all these years. It's said the sky itself turned red near the border last night. My brother serves under Duke Viron… I pray he's still alive."
The first maid placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Don't speak such ill omens. His Majesty will return victorious. He always does."
Their words hung in the air, trembling between fear and faith. Then, as if realizing the heaviness that had filled the room, one of them glanced back at the cradle and whispered, almost in relief, "Still… to think, even amidst all this, a new prince sleeps here. He must be a good omen."
That simple thought softened their hearts. The talk of war faded, replaced by gentler murmurs—the kind of wonder that only new life can bring.
---
"What do you think his affinity will be?" asked one, smoothing the silk blanket around the baby's form. "Surely lightning—it has always been so in the Voltaire line."
Another giggled, her eyes lighting up. "But not ordinary lightning, surely. His Majesty's Golden Lightning is unmatched—swift, radiant, impossible to follow. Maybe the young prince will awaken something even greater! Perhaps silver lightning, or divine thunder! Something the world has never seen!"
The eldest of them chuckled softly, shaking her head. "Be careful with your words. Power like that rarely comes without cost."
But the youngest maid, bright-eyed and curious, leaned closer to the cradle and whispered, "Do you think… he could awaken something else entirely? I heard my uncle speak of the Headmaster of the Transcendent Academy—the one said to wield the Black Flame. The flame that devours even other elements."
The others stiffened instantly.
"Don't speak of him," one hissed, crossing herself. "That man isn't mortal. His flame burns through essence and soul alike.
"But still," the youngest insisted, her voice almost reverent. "Wouldn't it be something, if the prince inherited a power that no one could name? Not gold, not lightning, not anything known. Something... different."
Her words trailed off as all eyes returned to the cradle.
For a heartbeat, silence fell—soft, but strange.
And then, faintly, the air shifted.
It was nothing visible at first—only a whisper, a tremor, a ripple across the stillness. The golden incense flame flickered, shadows bending oddly across the walls.
Unseen by any of them, a sliver of darkness danced across the infant's fingertips before vanishing into the air like smoke swallowed by light.
Ace stirred in his sleep, his lips twitching as though dreaming of something far beyond his cradle. The tension in the room broke, and one maid laughed softly. "See? Even he's listening to our gossip."
They chuckled, unaware that fate itself had just brushed against their world.
---
As the evening light bled through the crystal windows, the maids continued their work, humming lullabies older than the empire itself. To them, these were ordinary moments—gentle duties, quiet days in a palace untouched by war.
But beyond the gilded walls, destiny had begun to stir.
The faint ripple returned once more, pulsing through the air like a heartbeat—deep, patient, alive. A spark of shadow, darker than midnight, glimmered briefly at the edge of the cradle before fading again into nothingness.
None of them saw it. None could.
Yet that single breath of darkness carried weight enough to shape the ages.
For in that cradle lay the child who would one day inherit not only the storm of his father's lightning, but a power far beyond the understanding of gods or men.
When Ace Voltaire's eyes opened, Elyra itself would tremble.
And while the four emperors clashed for the Terra King's Egg, destiny was already moving its pieces—quietly, patiently—around the boy who slept beneath a sky of gold.
The storm of an era was coming.
And its heart beat in that cradle.