The moon had long dipped beneath the horizon, but Kaelith remained awake.
He stood atop the South Tower, watching the glow of Solaris—the capital of Solmere—sprawl like a sleeping beast below. From this height, he saw the outer districts: homes made of clay and soot, flickering lamps barely holding back the cold night. The people there lived in shadow, while the palace basked in golden flame.
"Is this what it means to be a prince?" he murmured. "To sit above the flames while others burn in silence?"
The fog clung to his voice, offering no answer.
Earlier that day, he had ventured into the city in disguise—something he had rarely done. What he found disturbed him deeply: starving children with hollow eyes, corrupt guards collecting illegal taxes, nobles turning blind eyes.
This wasn't the kingdom his mother had dreamed of. This wasn't the Solmere he wanted to inherit.
---
Back in his chambers, Kaelith paced. A storm brewed in his chest—guilt, anger… and doubt.
He thought of Vaeron—how the ministers bowed to his presence, how the soldiers spoke his name with fear and respect. How even Solaris responded to him. It was as if the sun itself bent toward his brother's will.
"You know the Trial of Suns begins in four years."
"I know."
"And when it does, one of us will kneel… or fall."
Kaelith clenched his fist.
I won't kneel. But how can I stand... when I'm this weak?
His sword training was minimal—only what royal decorum required. His magic? Flickers. Sparks. Nothing compared to Vaeron's solar prowess.
He couldn't fix the kingdom by words alone. He needed strength. Real strength.
That night, he slipped past the palace guards and into the old library beneath the Chapel of Light—a forgotten place, hidden beneath dust and candle soot. Here, records of ancient warriors, forbidden tomes on elemental resonance, and the true history of Solaris lay buried.
Kaelith lit a single flame in the darkness.
And that's when he saw it—an old crest engraved on the stone floor: a broken sun wrapped in silver vines. The mark of the Order of the Dying Star, a long-lost warrior sect said to have defied the throne centuries ago.
A whisper echoed in the chamber.
"You carry her flame... but do you dare bear her burden?"
Kaelith spun around, hand on the dagger at his waist. From the shadows emerged a figure—cloaked in worn leathers, a faded sword across his back. His eyes were silver, like steel reflecting starlight.
"Who are you?" Kaelith asked, bracing himself.
The man stepped forward slowly. "A ghost. A warrior. And your last chance."
Kaelith narrowed his eyes. "Last chance for what?"
"To save this kingdom… and yourself."