The King "I will give you a
choice. You are a weapon or a warning."
The day had all the ingredients
of a good one—sunlight caught on the mirrored glass, laughter echoing across
the grounds, the scent of sea-salt from the artificial breakers that rhythmically
crashed on the fake beach.
Aisara couldn't stand a single
moment of it. Good days weren't real. Not for people like her. They were setup
acts, beautifully lit preludes to a fall. She didn't get off days or
lighthearted breaks. Never had. Not in Dominion. Not before. It was always survival.
She was always pretending to belong.
With a grin, Lina pulled her
across the sandy beach, skirts held high as her bare feet skipped ahead. "You
need sunlight. And flirtation. Or at least distraction."
Aisara blinked at her,
unimpressed. "You know none of this is real, right? Not the sea. Not the
breeze. Probably not even your optimism."
"And yet I'm still dragging your
brooding self to fun," Lina replied cheerfully, then gasped. "Wait. Don't turn.
Don't. Turn."
Aisara turned.
Nearby, Prince Azric, shirtless
and golden-skinned, laughed with students who appeared to be models from a
recruitment poster. The sun haloed him unfairly, and when his eyes flicked
toward them, he winked. Lina squealed. "He saw us. He saw you! Gods, I'm going
to die. That wink. If I end up marrying him, it will be because of this
moment."
"You should frame it," Aisara
muttered. "Put it next to your delusions."
"My dad is in the King's Guard,"
Lina said, chin high. "He visits for the Fourth Year Graduation. He'll meet
Azric. And he'll see I'm not weak like—" She stopped herself.
"Like your mother?" Aisara asked
softly. Lina looked away. "She never had a stone. It took everything out of her
to have me. Dad only sees what's strong. That's what he loves."
Before Aisara could respond, a
familiar voice called out. "Aisara! Lina! Come here!" Rheyn waved them over
excitedly.
"Feels fake," Aisara said,
pointing the ocean.
"It is," Rheyn said, dropping his
bag. "But so are smiles. Doesn't mean they can't be nice sometimes."
She raised an eyebrow. "Since
when did you become wise?"
"Since they started letting me
keep my shoes during training."
Rheyn's mood looked relaxed—which
made her suspicious. He nodded toward the group behind him. "Come meet the only
sane people left in this place." He led them to a half-shaded spot already
claimed by three peculiar energies. A girl with honey-brown curls and
sun-warmed healer vibes was laying out jars and oils like she was preparing a
spa-coven ritual. A tall, wiry boy with ink-stained fingers and a book balanced
on his knee didn't even look up. A short-haired girl sitting cross-legged on a
rock stared at the waves with the intense stillness of someone who expected an
ambush.
"Aisara, Lina—this is Callie,
Dirk, and Leila. They're not unhinged."
"Yet," Dirk said, flipping a
page.
"And you wonder why I don't
introduce people," Rheyn muttered.
Callie looked up and beamed.
"Hi! I'm the Healer and sunshine
addict. I give excellent foot rubs and terrible advice."
"Don't listen to her," Leila
said.
"I give some good advice," Callie
huffed.
Dirk waved a hand toward them,
still reading.
"Ignore me. I'm just here to
translate dead languages and judge everyone silently."
Rheyn explained, "He sees moments
in time - that is his power, a few snippets into the future. He is always
looking for the meaning, interpretations or different paths it can take."
Leila gave Aisara a slow,
measured look. "You're the fire girl, aren't you?"
"That's... one name," Aisara
said.
"She's already got a warning
sign," Callie said. "She'll fit in."
"Oh, Callie, please," Dirk
interrupted, stretching his arms behind his head. "Give her a break. Not every
conversation has to start with interrogation."
Callie looked at him, smiled at
Aisara, and admitted, "I'm curious."
Having dropped her pack, Aisara
sat. Lina plopped down next to her, face full of light.
"'The beach is enchanted,' Callie
said, watching her face." The water especially. Touch it long enough, it shows
you things you forgot."
"That's hardly reassuring,"
Aisara mumbled.
"Neither is the truth, sis."
Lina emitted a sound that was
partly a huff, partly a laugh. Aisara glanced at her, catching the slight
narrowing of her eyes. Later, as the sun warmed their backs and Aisara
experienced the smallest shred of normalcy, Callie leaned closer. "So… has Lysara
complimented you yet?"
"What?"
Dirk looked up. "Has she told you
that you are gifted? Unique? That you burn differently?"
"Yes?"
Callie sighed. "Welcome to Stage
One. She reels you in."
"And after that?" Lina asked,
frowning.
"She'll crush you, then," Leila
said without looking up. "Gradually, until you forget, you were ever whole."
"She's not that bad," Aisara
said, laughing. "She trained me for the ceremonial flame."
"And told me my breathing was too
aggressive," Callie said. "The day after telling me I was the most promising
healer in a decade."
Dirk: "We call ourselves the
Survivor Squad. It's not a joke."
"It sounds like a joke," Aisara
said, grinning.
"That's how it starts," Callie
replied. "Smiling. Trust. Then, one day, you cried because she said you gripped
your wand like a virgin.
Lina choked on her drink.
"She did not."
"She did," Dirk confirmed,
deadpan.
Aisara rolled her eyes.
But in the back of her mind, she
did agree that Lysara's compliments had come fast.
She shook it off. Rheyn's
expression didn't change, but something in his stance sharpened. When he spoke,
it was careful. "Be careful of her."
Aisara frowned. "Why?"
Rheyn said quietly, "When she
loves you, everything's fine," but his tone was unsettling. "But when she
turns—it's deadly." Callie shifted. Dirk ran a hand through his hair, sighing.
"No one's laughing," Aisara
murmured, glancing at them.
Lina broke the tension with a
loud, exaggerated groan. "You're all ridiculous." She tossed her tunic aside
and sprinted for the water, sand kicking up behind her. "Come on, Aisara,
before they list all the ways we're going to die!"
Dirk, turning back to her. "We
call her 'MeMe.' Short for 'Make Me Look Good'—if you survive, you're in the
survival squad support group."
Aisara wasn't sure if it was a
joke. She wasn't sure if she wanted to know.
Leila stood, stretching. "I need
a swim. You coming?"
Dirk flashed Aisara a grin before
jogging after her. Callie hesitated, glancing at her again, but didn't press
further. Soon, only Aisara and Rheyn remained.
The wind kicked across the water,
casting glitter over the surface like spilled stars.
Lina waved from the shallows,
already soaked and laughing.
"Come in!"
Aisara gave her a weak smile and
stood, brushing sand from her legs.
She took a few steps toward the
tide.
That's when Rheyn's voice cut in.
Low. Solid. Certain.
"Spit it out."
She paused. Didn't look back.
"What?"
"You're not swimming."
"You're escaping."
She turned. His expression wasn't
hard—but it was honest. Brother-to-the-bone honest.
"It's nothing."
"Don't lie to me."
"I'm not lying."
"Then say it."
She clenched her jaw. The breeze
tugged at the strands of white in her hair.
"It's Ciaran."
Rheyn didn't flinch. He just
waited.
She sat again, but slower this
time. The sand cool beneath her.
"He hasn't touched me. Not like
that. He hasn't threatened me. Not… lately."
"But there's something in the way
he looks at me. Like he sees something I haven't figured out yet. And that
should scare me."
"It does?"
"It does." A pause. "But not
enough."
Rheyn's fists clenched. He
exhaled through his nose.
"Aisara—"
"He called me Vasha."
"…You're sure?"
"Clear as fire. What does it
mean?"
He hesitated just a second too
long.
"Little storm."
She turned the words over in her
mouth.
Tasted something she didn't want
to admit was hope.
"That's… not terrible."
"It's worse than terrible," Rheyn
said. "It's personal. Rare. That name means something in the old tongues. You
don't just give it."
"So why me?"
"Because you're dangerous. And he
likes dangerous."
"You think I like him back?"
"I think… a part of you wants to
be seen. Even if it's by someone who might destroy you."
Silence settled like a second
skin.
Then—
"Your eyes are changing."
She blinked. "What?"
"Golden specks. And your
hair—there's white in it now."
"Probably the sun."
"It's not. You're changing, sis."
"And that's bad?"
"That depends on what's changing
you."
"You want Callie to check, don't
you?"
"Yes. I've learned that magic
always demands a price. I need to know you're alright."
"Is it your intention to protect
me with spells and remedies and anxieties?"
"Always." He pulled her into a
hug without asking. She let him. His arms around her were safe, familiar, real.
He kissed the top of her head.
"Girls always want to fix the bad
ones. There is no redemption in him, Aisara. He will engulf you in his shadows.
Don't let a man like Ciaran name you."
"I know."
She didn't resist the hug. Didn't
brush off the way he held her like she might slip away with the tide. His chin
rested against her head.
"You've got shadows under your
eyes," he whispered. "That stone in your wrist burns hotter every day. Your
body's changing."
She opened her mouth, but the
protest didn't come.
Just… silence.
Then Rheyn pulled back and looked
at her — not with judgment.
Just knowing.
"When last did you sketch?"
Her breath caught. It was such a
small question. So simple. So soft. And she couldn't answer it.
"I… don't know."
"That's how I know something's
wrong."
She looked down at her hands, the
ones that used to draw fire on paper before it ever touched her skin.
Sketching is reminiscent of a
past life.
"Perhaps it's time to remember
it."
She didn't respond. But her
throat tightened.
"Don't let them take you, your
identity or your light, Aisara."
Aisara didn't wait for him to ask
her about it further before she ran into the water. Aisara swam until her limbs
ached. She dove beneath the enchanted tide again and again, letting the current
drag across her skin like it could erase something. Perhaps everything. By the
time she pulled herself from the water, the beach had thinned. Lina waved from
a blanket. Rheyn was gone. She didn't look for him. Her fingers still tingled
with residual fire when she climbed the steps to the library.
The library of Dominion was a
cathedral of knowledge. Vast, ancient, its ceilings stretching high, covered in
a breathtaking carving of the Six Gods—each radiating power. If you squinted,
if you let your eyes blur, there was something else there. A shadow. A seventh.
Unnamed. Unknown.
Aisara's fingers brushed over the
spines of books, shelves towering above her, endless rows filled with texts
centuries old, timeless.
It was quiet. Safe in the way
stone walls could be when nothing else was. She wandered. Not aimlessly—no, not
anymore. She was looking for something. The prism. Her stone. The power was
transforming her body from the inside out. She sensed it coiled beneath her
skin now. Heat and fracture. Light and shadow. She whispered the word without
meaning to.
"Why?"
A voice drifted in from the end
of the aisle.
"The question is never why. It's
how far you'll go to find the answer."
Aisara turned and found Lysara
wrapped in silver and soft light. She stood between two shelves like a vision
summoned for the exact wrong moment.
A small smile touched her lips.
"You look like you've been drowning."
"I was swimming," Aisara said.
"Same thing, sometimes." She stepped
closer.
"What are you looking for?"
Aisara hesitated. "The prism."
"The one embedded in you?"
"Yes. It's changing me. My hair,
my eyes—my power."
"And you want to understand it."
"I want to know if it's mine or
if it's using me."
Lysara smiled wider. "Most people
would be afraid to ask that."
"I'm already afraid." Aisara
said. "I just don't want to be blind too."
With a nonchalant air, Lysara's
fingers brushed against a book, exuding a sense of ease.
"Come. Let's find your answers
together." Aisara hesitated a fraction before following. Lysara ran a delicate
hand along the shelf, considering. "A balance stone. Meant to keep the world in
check."
Aisara frowned. "Between the
Monarchy and the rebels?"
"Yes," Lysara said. "Something
like that. Magic is power. Power corrupts."
Aisara studied her. "Does the
same apply to the rebels?"
Lysara stared a moment too long.
Then she nodded. "Yes. The gods chose the royal line. They inherit this power,
passing it down through their bloodline. The rebels say one should earn power,
not inherit it."
"The rebels portray themselves as
heroes," she said." she said. "But that's what happens when you don't win the
war — you become a myth or a warning."
Aisara silently observed Lysara's
fluctuating tone, a mix of intrigue and dismissal. "Do you think they're
wrong?" she asked. Lysara tilted her head.
"In my opinion, they lack
cohesion. Sometimes desperate people do right for the wrong reasons. Sometimes
they do wrong because it's all they have left." Lysara's fingers tapped against
the book.
"The prism," Aisara said. "What
does it mean?"
Lysara opened the old book; its
spine groaned as if untouched for a century.
"It's called the Ael'tar. A
balancing relic."
"Between what?"
"The elemental forces. The
bloodlines. Even the passage of magic through time. It kept things from…
unraveling."
"Like a regulator?"
"Exactly. No conquest. No
singular dominance. Just harmony."
Aisara traced the symbol — a
seven-pointed star fused into a prism at its center. Someone had scratched out
the last point.
"This part's missing," she said.
Lysara frowned.
"Probably just age. Or error.
During the monarchy's early reign, they destroyed many of the older records."
"Why?"
"Unification. Too many
conflicting myths. They simplified it all into the Six."
Aisara blinked.
"The Six?"
"The founding forces. The six
divine lines. You know this."
But something inside her pulsed.
Not six.
The warmth under her skin flared.
Seven.
She didn't say it aloud.
Just stared at the scratched-out
point.
"So the monarchy buried all the
older versions?"
"They called it cleansing the
archive. Consolidation of power." Lysara gave a small shrug. "It's history.
Messy by design. She closed the book, as if tucking the secret away.
But Aisara's fingers tingled
where they touched the page.
Remenai. "This stone," Aisara
murmured, hand pressed to her wrist.
"It doesn't just hold power." "It
remembers."
Lysara tilted her head. "You
speak like it's alive."
"It could be."
Lysara laughed and stood.
"Whatever it is, I doubt it means much beyond your own gifts."
Aisara stayed seated. Eyes fixed
on the scratched-out seventh point. The stone vibrated against her bones,
mimicking a pulse. wondering what kind of god they'd had to erase to keep the
world from remembering it.
"We know little about your
powers." Lysara reached forward, squeezing her hand. "That doesn't mean you are
without purpose. We will find your place, Aisara. You are safe here." And then
she smiled, all warmth again. "Go, Aisara. Enjoy your day off."
Aisara watched Lysara leave, as
she ran her fingers along the spine of a book she wasn't reading, her pulse
still hammering from the reckless decision she'd made. The rebel's note was
gone - the one the old man had given her. Now she couldn't stop thinking about
it. The inked symbol—simple, jagged—meant nothing to her. But it meant
something to someone. It meant something to the rebels. And she had written
over it. Sent it away. To Elira. Had she signed her best friend's death
sentence? Aisara tried to shake the unease curling into her stomach.
Lysara went outside to wait for
Ciaran. He would have been better off ignoring her, but Lysara had a way of
making silence feel like submission. Ciaran turned to face her. She stood
beneath the archway like she'd been carved into the stone itself—elegant,
unreadable, and gleaming with the sharp edge of something dangerous. A white
blade sat in her hand, turning in slow circles between her fingers.
"You are distracted," she said.
No greeting. No smile. Just truth, dressed like a threat.
"Busy," he replied.
"That's what I meant." She
stepped closer. Soundless. Effortless. Her voice dipped into something colder.
"She's quite the curiosity, isn't
she? That little Veilgate girl with fire in her bones and storm in her mouth."
He didn't answer.
"Is that what drew you to her,
Ciaran?" Lysara's lips curled. "The defiance? Or the danger?"
His jaw tightened. "You're
imagining things."
"Am I?" Her head tilted. "I knew
you once, not so long ago. Do you remember our passionate nights? How you never
looked twice at the ones we tossed into the sand. How you followed orders like
a blade without a soul."
She stepped in close. Too close.
"Now you look at her like you remember what it's like to bleed."
Still, he didn't move. Didn't
speak.
"Be careful," she whispered.
"Because if you fall, Ciaran... I will be the one ordered to catch you. Or to
cut you down. And you know I never hesitate." She turned and vanished through
the archway, her steps echoing behind her like closing doors.
Ciaran he stood alone. Staring at
the space where she'd twisted the knife… and smiled as she did it. He should
walk away, get back to his rounds, to the files stacked in his quarters, to the
reports waiting on his desk — but his feet didn't move.
Across the courtyard, framed in
the amber light of a cracked window, Aisara stepped into view. She couldn't
hide her agitation; her body language spoke volumes. He watched her like a man
standing too close to a fault line. Not because she was beautiful, because her
strength was undeniable, but untamed. And the strangest feeling twisted inside
him. Not hunger, rage or duty. A pull. A warning. A need to shield her from the
world… and from himself. He didn't recognize it. Didn't trust it. "What the
hell are you doing to me?" he whispered to no one.
She didn't make it back to her
room. She didn't even make it past the northern corridor. Aisara stumbled into
a low alcove near the training spires, pressed her back to the cold stone, and
let it go. She didn't sob. She couldn't. It was the crying that gutted
silently—the kind that tasted like salt and shame. What if they found Elira,
and the note got her killed? Could it have been her fault? She clenched her
hands over the embedded prism in her wrist, like she could make it stop
burning. "You're a storm," she whispered, voice breaking. "And storms don't get
to be sorry." She ducked into a low alcove near the training court wall,
pressed her back to the stone, and broke.
"Who hurt you?"
Her head jerked up.
Ciaran, arms hanging loosely,
stood in the shadows, his gaze fixed on her as if she were the only thing that
existed.
"Go away,"
He didn't. Didn't blink.
"Are you hurt?"
Her brow creased. "What—"
"Did someone hurt you?"
The way he said it — low,
clipped, cold — made her stomach tighten.
It wasn't tenderness. It was
lethal instinct. The voice you used before you killed.
"No," she snapped. "No one
touched me."
He took a slow step forward.
"Then why are you crying?"
She let out a dry, broken laugh.
"You can't just kill someone
because I'm upset."
"Watch me," he said.
She stared. "You're serious."
"I saw your face. Your hands.
Your breathing. Something broke you. So tell me who, Aisara. Tell me who to
hunt."
"You can't mean that."
"I do."
"That's insane."
"You're lying," he growled,
stepping even closer. "And I want to know who I should break for it."
Her throat tightened.
"It was me," she whispered.
That stopped him.
"I did it. I wrote to Elira on
rebel parchment. I forgot. I didn't think. I just missed her. And now if anyone
sees that—if they catch her—it's my fault."
His jaw flexed. The silence
between them trembled. Then he crouched down in front of her.
"They won't touch her."
"You can't know that."
"If they do," he said, dead calm,
"I'll gut the ones responsible and hang them by their magic."
Her mouth opened. Closed.
"You don't even like me."
"No," he said. "But you're under
my protection and mine to break."
"You don't get to say that."
"Then tell me to stop."
She couldn't. Not when he looked
at her like he'd already decided she was worth destroying empires for.
"You don't get to protect me from
everything," she whispered.
He reached out — not to take her
hand, but to press two fingers over the pulse at her wrist, where the prism
lived.
"That note." Her voice was quiet,
but steady. "It was the rebels' sign, wasn't it?"
Ciaran stilled.
Aisara lifted her chin. "Was it
meant for you? Ciaran."
She took a slow step forward,
voice dropping to something more dangerous. "Are you working for them?"
The temperature in the room
seemed to drop. The shadows at his feet thickened, alive. A breath. A shift.
"Careful, Vasha." It was a
warning.
But she wasn't being particularly
careful. "The rebels say the monarchy is corrupt," she continued, voice
unwavering. "The monarchy says the rebels are murderers." She let the silence
stretch before murmuring, "So which is it?"
His expression didn't change. But
the tension in his shoulders did. "Neither. Both."
"You're avoiding the question."
Ciaran's eyes flickered.
Something sharp flashed behind them. "I'm telling you the only answer that
matters."
She didn't let him look away. "Is
that what the boy was?"
Ciaran stared at her, unmoving,
unreadable. "You don't want to know the answer to that." His voice was above a
whisper. "Walk away."
She held his gaze for a heartbeat
longer. Enough to prove to him she was not intimidated but her shaky knees gave
her away.
"I keep having these nightmares
Ciaran. I'm always falling."
Ciaran said nothing. "The dream,"
he added. "The one where you fall. Off a ledge. You haven't slept," he said
next.
She stilled. "You were in my
mind."
"I saw enough to know it haunts
you."
She looked at him. Really looked.
His eyes weren't glowing. His voice wasn't cruel. He was still Ciaran. Still
dangerous. Still calculating. But in that moment he was there, and she wasn't
alone.
"Sometimes it's a cliff, or it's
the sky. Other times there's nothing below me at all. … falling. Forever. And
there's a voice. Or perhaps it's mine. It keeps repeating something over and
over again."
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Valear'kha serana."
Ciaran went still.
"Say that again."
She did. Slower this time.
"I don't know what it means. I
can't even tell you what language it is. But every time I hear it… it's like
something inside me is waking up. And I don't know if that's good or
dangerous."
Ciaran didn't respond for a long
time.
"What does it mean?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"But — you reacted."
"I've heard a lot of things," he
said. "Doesn't mean I understand them. If you want… I can stay in your head
tonight."
Her eyes narrowed.
"To catch the nightmare. Replace
it with something else."
"You know I hate that," she said.
"I do. But I offered anyway and I
might do it, anyway."
"Why?"
"Because you need to sleep to
survive this place."
"You can't control everything."
"I don't want to control it," he
said. "I want to catch it. Before it kills you."
He turned, walked to the door,
and stopped without looking back.
She didn't look at him.
"And if I never forgive you for
it?"
"I don't trust you yet, little
storm. But I'll still catch you if you fall. Let me know if you change your
mind."
She didn't say thank you or tell
him no.
She just walked all the way back
to her room, through shadows that didn't quite suggest solitude.
Sleep overcame her instantly as
she fell onto her bed, fists clenched and eyes burning. And the ledge was
waiting. When the wind screamed in her ears and the ground came closer — she
sensed it. A presence. A shadow. Something caught her. And just before waking,
she heard it again a voice not her own. "No, Vasha, not tonight."