Bloomrise Season – 27 Years Later

“I’ll take fifty Faxals for that, sir! Thank you for your purchase!”

The marketplace vibrated with such noise and colors. It was a living thing that breathed smoke and heat. Within it, meat crackled over open flames, fish lay on beds of ice, their smell sharp and briny in the air. Bright fabrics fluttered stall to stall, brushing the shoulders of those walking by and catching eyes whether one wanted them to or not. 

Normally, Tarana LeSable might have enjoyed those sights. Today, however, the crowd pressed too close. Being around crowds meant eyes, eyes meant attention and attention... in her case, unwanted hungry attention, was never harmless.

Tarana's chestnut brown gaze swept the area. It was sharp and calculating, already mapping her path to take around the marketplace. She moved with a purpose, wrapped head to toe in a heavy black cloak that hid majority of her face, her hair and her body shape. Only her eyes showed. It was how she survived in her life. Cloaks, distance, careful choices, and above all... avoiding men. Especially men.

Tarana passed a long row of stalls that were run entirely by male vendors, her steps never slowing and her head never turning in their direction. Nevertheless, she felt their gazes crawling over her back like insects beneath the fabric of the cloak. She began to think she might have to come back another day.

Then she stopped.

A stall that was tended by a middle-aged woman stood just ahead with baskets of goods neatly arranged. The woman herself seemed calm and unhurried in her demeanor. She had a bun, and her kind eyes were framed by crow's feet. As Tarana approached, the woman smiled.

"Welcome," she said warmly. "What can I help you with today?"

Tarana exhaled, her tension loosening a fraction. Her eyes took in all of the fruits, vegetables, and spices in front of her. There were polished red apples, pale and firm pears, and astraberries, dark and swollen with juice. She pointed to each one. Four of each, please, and a bit more of the astraberries. They make my pies pop."

Her voice was muffled by the scarf over her mouth, but the woman heard her clearly enough.

“Of course.” The woman began filling a few cotton sacks with the items, being more gentle with the berries. “Anything else?”

Tarana's eyes tracked down to the lower items, which were more veggies. There were plantains, muts, and potatoes. A glance to the right showed herbs tied in careful bundles. She pointed to each one again. There was one other item she needed. "Do you sell meat as well?" She asked, her eyes raising to meet the woman again.

"Our meat is kept cool in a ice runebox. It's in the wagon behind the stall." The woman gestured toward the back. "What would you like?"

"Goat... and fish if you have them."

The saleswoman nodded and set the bags aside. "One moment. I won't be long."

Tarana inclined her head, watching her leave the stall with her long, lengthened vest trailing behind her. "Take your time. I'm not in a hurry."

That was a lie.

The longer she stood still in one area, the more it seemed like the crowd was pressed in around her. Her cloak felt too warm and too heavy. Bodies were starting to brush past her shoulders, making her step to the side. Children darted through the legs of adults, their laughter ringing out as they kicked up dust. Tarana turned her head to watch them, smiling under her scarf despite herself.

That was when she felt it—the weight of a stare.

Her smile vanished immediately as her gaze rose from the children, scanning for the source. A man stood several paces away, no longer tending his stall. He was watching her openly now. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, and locked onto her like a starving animal that had caught a scent.

Tarana's blood chilled. She knew that gaze; she had seen it too many times.

The man started toward her almost too quickly. Tarana took one step back, and a hand clamped onto her wrist. Her eyes squeezed shut on instinct as hot, putrid breath washed over her face.

"Come with me, woman," the man then ordered, his voice thick and demanding and with an unnatural edge.

"I can't," Tarana said, already pulling back against his grip, knowing it wouldn't be enough. "I have things to buy. Please let me go."

Her words slid off the man like rain off a stone. His gaze burned with something ugly and overwhelming now, desire twisted sharply by the curse she carried, whether she wanted it to or not.

"You're beautiful," he breathed. "I want to have you. I need to have you."

Tarana swallowed her revulsion and rolled her eyes beneath the hood. He couldn't even see how beautiful she was under the cloaks. Sometimes the curse seemed so dumb. "No," she said flatly. "You were just selling goods a moment ago. You should get back to that."

The man's grip tightened while his other hand slid along her side, invasive and heavy. Tarana let out a low, disgusted sound. She knew this wasn't his true doing. But it still was a violation.

"I'm warning you," she growled. "Let go. Now."

Instead of heeding Tarana's words, the man leaned closer, crowding her space until his shadow swallowed her, his lips hovering inches from her mouth.

"Just kiss me," he murmured. "You know you want to..."

As he got closer, the air around the two of them got tighter. So much so, that people in the marketplace were starting to notice them. Two women attending the next stall paused mid-conversation, their eyes looking at the man's proximity as well as his grip on Tarana's wrist. Someone cleared their throat loudly. Soon, the easy rhythm of buying and selling goods came to a stop, and attention was brought to the wrongness unfolding in plain view.

In the minute afterward, the saleswoman returned from the wagon. She took in the scene all at once. The woman she was serving was pinned in place, the merchant she knew as Farik bent too close to her mouth and his hand where it didn’t belong. Her eyes widened before her expression hardened. 

“FARIK!” she shouted. “What are you doing to that woman?!” The shout cut through the marketplace like a sharp blade. The saleswoman then came up behind him, shock and fury written plainly across her face. Farik turned his head to face her in slight confusion. 

That was all Tarana needed. 

She moved in a single, fluid motion, seizing Farik’s wrist, twisting it sharply, and hauling his arm across her shoulder. His weight tipped, his slipper-covered feet left the ground, and with a startled cry, he slammed into the dirt on his back, the air driven from his lungs. 

Gasps rippled through the marketplace.

All conversation faltered, and a knife clattered against a chopping block in the distance. Somewhere nearby, a child laughed and then fell silent as a hand covered their mouth in a hurry. Some people came closer to see the commotion while others edged back, wary of being noticed.

Farik groaned where he lay while clutching his arm and blinking up at the sky, still dazed and confused as if trying to remember how he’d gotten there.

Tarana didn’t look at him, though.

She instead stepped over his stunned body and followed the just as stunned saleswoman back to the stall as if nothing at all had happened. The saleswoman stood frozen for half a breath, her eyes flickering from her fellow merchant to the small cluster of people forming nearby. Someone whispered Farik’s name while another shook their head. Tarana glanced at the growing crowd, then met the woman’s gaze calmly, despite knowing time was against her.

“How much do I owe you?” she asked.

The woman swallowed, straightened her shoulders, and answered as if reclaiming her own footing within the stall. “F-forty Faxals and five Noxos.”  She watched as Tarana nodded, digging down into her coin pouch to retrieve the amount. A pair of nearby vendors scoffed and turned away, then busied themselves with their wares, and, to Tarana’s relief, the crowd dispersed afterward. Whatever spectacle they’d hoped for was clearly over. 

Tarana offered the saleswoman a small, reassuring smile. “I’m sure he’ll be fine in a minute,” she said. “Confused… but fine.

She paid and thanked the woman before gathering her things and leaving the marketplace behind her. She was aware of the eyes that followed, but was unbothered by them now. By the time the chatter swelled back to life, she was already gone. 

It didn’t take long to leave the village’s marketplace behind.

When the sounds of bargaining, chatter, and laughter finally faded into the distance, Tarana slowed her steps and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding in. Tension eased from her shoulders in stages, leaving behind a dull, familiar ache within. 

That had been a close call. But it wasn't the worst.

At twenty-two, Tarana had already learned just how quickly things could turn. An encounter with a single man could easily become two men; the hands of a man could become weight; and escape from a man sometimes meant force. She’d shoved men off her more times than she cared to remember. Fought free when she had to. Ran when she could.

It was rough, but that was life with an attraction curse.

She forced the thoughts down, the way she always did, and kept moving.

The road thinned as Tarana walked, the churned earth gradually giving way to tall grass and an open sky. The air changed as well. It was cooler, cleaner, carrying the quiet hum of insects and the distant rustle of leaves instead of voices. She welcomed the silence.

After traveling about a mile, she slowed her steps. 

A field stretched out to her right, emerald-green under the high sun. At its center grazed a draft gelding, broad and powerful, his golden coat catching the sunlight with every shift of muscle. His flaxen mane and tail stirred lazily in the breeze, while long white feathers at his hooves brushed the grass as he moved. 

Tarana stopped with a soft smile. For a moment, she simply watched him. The steady calm of his grazing, and the way his ears flicked, alert but unbothered. He occupied space without any apology.

She raised two fingers to her lips and whistled sharply.

The gelding’s head snapped up at once. Dark eyes found her, and he immediately recognized her. He gave a low huff and started toward her, trotting easily across the field until he reached the road. Then he slowed to a stop.

Besnik, Tarana’s loyal steed.

Relief that he was safe, that she was safe, loosened something in her chest.

She lowered her hand, her laughter soft and genuine as Besnik’s nose immediately went ot her cloak, sniffing insistently. His warm breath puffed against her cheek, slightly lifting the edge of her scarf. She pat his nose gently.

“All right, all right, Bes…” she murmured, reaching over with her right arm to stroke his thick neck. “You don’t have to inspect me. I’m back and I got your treats.” 

Tarana dug into one of the bags and pulled out a burgundy mut. A mut was similar to a sweet potato and, to this day, was her horse’s all-time favorite thing to snack on. Besnik took it gently from her outstretched palm, lips soft despite his large size, and crunched contentedly as she scratched behind his ear. More of the tension Tarana had been carrying drained away with each familiar motion.

She glanced up and down the road ahead, seeing that it was empty. There were no figures approaching nor any eyes lingering.

Thank Lumina. 

Besnik nudged Tarana’s shoulder when he finished munching, hopeful for more and persistent. She snorted in amusement, her lips smirking underneath her scarf. “No. Don’t look at me like that either. You’ve had enough for now.” 

Her horse huffed, offended, but stayed close to her. She rested her forehead just for a moment against his chest, breathing in the loamy scent of grass and sun and horse. Besnik stood solid beneath her touch, unmoving like a quiet anchor in the open world. The contrast between this moment and the noisy marketplace spoke volumes.

“This is better,” Tarana murmured. “Much better.”  Besnik nickered in response.

Tarana tied all of her bags together into one knot before draping them over his neck. Mounting him was never graceful, but he helped by lifting his left hoof for her to push off on. Tarana grabbed his mane, pushed up with a grunt, and hauled herself up with a muttered breath. Besnik didn’t shift or rush her. He waited patient as ever, until she settled into the saddle. Once seated, Tarana let herself relax fully for the first time that day. 

She gathered the reins and gave her horse’s neck a fond pat. “All right. Let’s go home. I don’t feel like standing out in the open any longer than I have to.” 

As if he understood, Besnik stepped forward at her cue, easing into a steady canter eastward. The road unwound ahead of them as horse and rider moved away from the village, away from the crowd, and back toward familiar territory. 

The wind tugged at her cloak as they rode, cool against the little skin she revealed. For now, she was safe.

The same afternoon

Five lands, bordered by two vast oceans, made up the planet Tydas — and at its center lay the kingdom of Tydaria. It was the heart of the realm and home of the Elantines, the official royal family of Tydas. It was known that the Elantines had ruled over all five lands for centuries, and it was rumored that the family was among the first to ever walk on Tydas’s earth when it was formed by the Creators Three: Fax, Lumina, and Noxys.

Every reign shone brightly, especially within Tydaria itself. King after king, queen after queen, ruled with an iron fist and a golden heart. Within these reigns, wars ended before they could fester, festivals lined the streets with light and music and the Tydarians loved their rulers. It was a sincere love and not one made from fear.

The current Tydian King, Coridan Elantine, was no different. Despite being a widowed father to two sons, he had always placed his kingdom first. 

So when his lifeless body was carried into Tydaria on horseback, the city seemed to forget how to breathe. Coridan’s crownsguard — a group of knights who were his protection — walked through the many rings of the kingdom with solemn expressions on their faces.

The steady rhythm of hooves echoed through the Hearth Ring as horses passed by, the sound of leather creaking softly through armored weight.

Conversations died in mid sentence. A vendor’s call faltered, then fell silent altogether as his eyes trailed after the Crownsguard. Shocked, people stepped back instinctively, forming a hollow path to the castle as the knights passed. No one spoke; no one needed to say a word.

Perhaps the most shocked of all was Coridan’s eldest son.

24-year-old Sol Elantine rushed into the courtyard the moment that word reached him that the Crownsguard had arrived at the castle, the stone archway swallowing him as he crossed underneath it. He wore a short-sleeved gray shirt, dark jeans, and sturdy hiking boots, clothes meant for training, not grief. The wind surged through the open area, sweeping his long dusty blond hair back from his face as his blue eyes fixated on the figure being lowered from the saddle.

For a heartbeat, his mind refused to make sense of what he was looking at. Then the familiar body was laid upon the ground. Sol dropped to his knees beside the king, feeling the cold stone biting through his pants as he gathered his father’s head gently into his hands. 

“Father… what?” The word barely made it past his throat.

Coridan’s dark brown hair spilled across Sol’s lap, tangled yet voluminous. A trail of dried blood lingered near the corner of his mouth. Sol’s gaze traced downward, despite himself, over arms and legs bent at angles just wrong enough to twist something agonizing within his chest. His father’s body wasn’t shattered or torn apart.

Broken.

Sol looked up at the nearest knight, grief cracking into urgency as the question tore free from his mouth. 

“Who did this and why?”

The knightsguard dropped to one knee at once, head bowed. When he looked up, fear flickered openly within his eyes. “I… I don’t know who did it, Your Highness.” 

Another one walked up beside him and swallowed hard, his voice low and shaken.

“You mean what did it.”  The words landed as cold as ice.

Sol’s confusion cut through his grief as he turned his head toward the speaker, who was an older knight with dark eyes and auburn hair. 

“It wasn’t human?” Sol asked, disbelief sharpening his tone. “Was it an animal of some sort, Garnet?” 

General Garnet Thaleon, leader of the Tydarian Knighthood and Coridan’s Crownsblade, or personal bodyguard, tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. His knuckles went white around it. Up close, he looked as though the strength and bravery had been leeched from him where he stood, his armor dulled by dust and blood. Sol even thought he saw him shake for a moment. Then finally, Garnet spoke.

“It wasn’t any sort of creature, sire.” His voice trembled despite his effort to steady it. “It was made of… shadow.”

The word echoed within Sol’s mind. Shadow. A cold bout of nausea settled in his stomach. 

“Shadow magic, you mean?” Sol said, slowly. “I’ve heard that hasn’t been seen in Tydas in centuries. Not since Noxys departed from Tydas.” 

“I know,” Garnet replied hoarsely. “The attack came without warning on the way back to Tydaria. A black cloud just… entered the king’s body while he was riding on his horse. We didn’t understand what we were seeing at first.”

He swallowed, eyes glassy as he remembered what he saw first hand.

“Then his bones began breaking from the inside out.” 

“By the time I got to him…” Garnet scrubbed a gloved hand over his mouth before looking back up. “Great Noxys, he was barely even sitting upright anymore.” His jaw tightened. “We searched everywhere but there was nothing. Whatever attacked him was already long gone.”

His head bowed fully now. “Please accept my deepest apologies for failing to protect him.” 

Sol reached out without thinking twice; Garnet was more family than protector, and Sol knew this was a toll on him. His hand closed firmly around Garnet’s shoulder, grounding and steadying him. 

“You did what you could, General,” Sol said quietly. “In such a unexpected and devastating situation, I don’t know that anyone could have done better. I definintely wouldn't.” 

Garnet nodded once, sharply, and wiped at his eye with the back of his hand. He watched as Sol looked down at his father again.

Carefully and with reverence, he slid his arms beneath Coridan’s shoulders as a stretcher was brought forward by healers who had just arrived. The weight of him felt wrong, and he was too still.

“Let’s get him inside the castle and in a proper spot,” Sol said. His voice didn’t rise; it didn’t need to. “Then we’ll figure out what to do next.” 

Garnet nodded once before carefully reaching for the king’s broken legs. Together, the men lifted Coridan from the ground and eased him onto the stretcher with painful care, as though too much force might somehow worsen what had already been done. The crownsguard silently formed around them soon after, boots scraping against stone as their king was carried through the castle doors. No voice announced King Coridan Elantine’s return this time.

Later that afternoon, Sol sat alone on the main staircase of the grand hall. The stairwell climbed upward and branched off into two more staircases on the left and right sides of the room, pale stone smooth by centuries of passing feet. His elbows were braced on his knees, his shoulders hunched forward, and his head bowed into his hands as though he could physically hold himself together. The stone under him was cooling, leaching faint warmth from his skin, but it did nothing to ease the heat building behind his eyes.

He fought it. He fought the pressure, the disbelief running through him, and the way the world suddenly felt tilted and wrong. 

The tears came anyway. They burned along Sol's cheeks as they slipped free, blurring his vision and darkening the stone beneath his boots as they fell. 

His father was murdered. 

Only hours earlier, Sol had stood before him as he prepared to leave. The memory between them rose unbidden. Corridan stood near the map table, one hand braced against its edge while the firelight caught along the silver threaded into his dark hair. Sol could still hear his father’s voice — steady and familiar, carrying the quiet firmness that had guided him since childhood.

“When it is time for you to rule over Tydas, remember the creed we’ve taught you. Always rule these lands with a golden heart and an iron fist, son.”

At first, Sol had frowned, feeling uneasy with those words.

But, Father, how can you do that? Isn’t an iron fist the same as being brutal and callous?"

“Not always,” Coridan had said, patient with his son as ever. “Sometimes, having an iron fist when it matters most is what makes you strong enough to right wrongs. It works only if you balance it with protecting your people with a just and loving heart, Sol.” 

That had been a strong bonding moment, but now the memory hollowed him out.

The words echoed with cruel clarity as Sol dragged a hand down his face, his breath hitching despite his effort to steady it. He knew his life would never be the same after this. There was no escaping from what truth lay in front of him.

Footsteps sounded against the stone, measured and approaching. Hearing them, Sol lifted his head slowly, eyes still burning, just as two figures came into view coming down the left staircase together. The first was his 22-year-old younger brother, Gwion Elantine. Gwion was slender, had green eyes and short brown hair, and was carrying himself with restless energy even now. The second was Lord Liniver Var Osyndor, High Wizard of Tydaria and the royal advisor. His staff tapped softly against the floor as he walked.

Liniver stopped before him while Gwion hung back.

Sol straightened slightly, swiping the back of his hand across his face, though that did little to hide the evidence of his grief.

“What is it, Lord Liniver?” he asked quietly. 

“Sire,” Linver started, his voice grave and carefully controlled, “I know that you are going through grieving right now." He put his hands in front of himself as he regarded the young man. "Your father will be prepared for viewing tomorrow. But there is another matter that must be addressed. I have brought Prince Gwion so he may hear it as well.”

Gwion offered a solemn nod followed by a slight shrug. Something about his whole demeanor seemed off.

Feeling slightly irritated that he couldn’t even grieve for a good moment to himself, Sol exhaled through his nose and pushed himself to his feet. His boots gave a faint scraping sound against the stone floor as he shifted his weight, grounding himself in the sensation.

“Fine,” he said flatly. “Let’s get this over with.” 

All too aware of why Sol was snippy, Liniver bowed his head. “Yes, Your Highness. Shall we proceed to the throne room?” 

Without another word, Sol turned and walked on. Liniver and Gwion followed quietly behind him.

The castle rose around them as they climbed the center stairwell and into a corridor. Towering walls of sand-colored stone caught the fading light. Midnight blue tapestries lined the hallway, their woven symbols watching silently as they passed.  Gwion slipped up beside him and nudged his shoulder lightly, as though this were any other day. As though things were normal.

“How are you feeling?” 

Sol shot him a sharp look. “Gwion, seriously? How do you think I’m feeling? Father is dead. I’m devastated.” He gestured with his hand. “Shouldn’t you be?” 

Gwion shrugged, unconcerned. His hand ran through his hair. “I mean, yeah. It’s a downer that he’s gone. But think about what this means for us in the future. Think of the opportunities. The changes we can make.” He smiled, almost too wide. “We could finally have some fun around here without Father’s hovering over us. You can have all of the naps, I can have all of the booze, the hunting and the…” he lowered his voice so the wizard wouldn’t hear. “...women.” 

Sol stopped short. He turned slightly and shoved Gwion back with enough force to make his brother stumble. “You’re twisted. This is not the time.” He watched Gwion put a hand on his chest where he was shoved.

“Dude,” Gwion scoffed, the green in his eyes flashing with irritation, “you really did inherit Father’s gloomy attitude. No wonder you were his favorite.”

“Gentlemen… Linver started, unimpressed and already feeling the tension. Arguing wasn’t a new thing between the brothers. Sol shook his head with a frown.

“I’m not his—”

“Right this way,” Linver cut in sharply, before the argument could ignite further. He walked past the two with his staff, continuing to tap along the floor. Sol and Gwion glared at each other before they followed close behind.

The throne room awaited them ahead. It was spacious and vacant. Stripped of its usual bustle and pageantry, the space felt almost cavernous in its stillness. Their footsteps echoed across the marble floor, the sound bouncing off pillars and vanishing into the vaulted ceiling above them.

Liniver stopped before the throne and then turned to face the princes, his wise blue-green eyes regarding them. The brothers stood side by side.

Both bore Coridan’s features — the same strong jawline, the same commanding presence — but the similarities ended there. Sol carried his mother’s blond hair, and Gwion shared their father’s darker coloring. Sol had blue eyes, and Gwion had green eyes. Brothers by blood, yet they were shaped by entirely different instincts.

Since his mother’s death when he was a child, Gwion has always been carefree, defiant of rules, a constant thorn in Coridan’s side. He preferred attention, thrill, and indulgence to duty. When he wasn’t holding a bottle or a woman, he was chasing distractions with his friends. At birth, he was marked by the nyctal creator, Noxys, as his reincarnation. A dark, smoke-like birthmark curled along the side and back of his neck. Shadow magic naturally came from his fingertips.

Sol, in contrast, had always wanted to be what his father was: strong, fair, unyielding when needed. He wasn’t without his flaws. He could be lazy and flirtatious, but his heart leaned toward responsibility. Though he’d shown no mark showing he was a reincarnation at birth as prophesized, his blessing from Fax, the solar dragon, revealed itself later after a freak attack from a mysterious creature had nearly claimed his life. The scar over his heart had healed in the unmistakable shape of the sun. He obtained his solar magic soon afterward.

Both princes were adored throughout the kingdom in their own ways. Sol was known for his good heart and steady presence, often seen running through the rings of Tydaria since childhood. Gwion, meanwhile, was by some for his effortless charm, laughing and joking with tavern keepers, merchants, and townsfolk alike. 

They seemed to care deeply for one another, but it was no secret in Tydaria Castle that their opposing personalities often placed strain upon their brotherly bond. 

 As the high wizard thought about this, Gwion crossed his arms, his impatience clear. “Well? What is this about, wizard?” 

Liniver’s fingers tightened around his staff. “I did not wish to discuss this publicly. What I’m about to say concerns the successor to the throne. 

Gwion’s eyes lit up while Sol’s stomach sank.

“I’ve spoken with the Tydarian council,” Liniver continued, “and they are unanimous. Your father made his intention clear that as per tradition, they were to decide when the time came.” 

Gwion stepped forward eagerly. 

Sol however, stayed where he was, suspicion hardening into certainty.

“Out of the two of you,” Linver said, “the council has chosen Solaren to be the next king of Tydas.” 

Silence crashed down over the three. Then—

“You’re joking,” Gwion snapped. “You’re fucking joking. Sol just gets the crown?!”

Sol frowned and turned sharply toward him, his hair swaying along his shoulders. He didn’t understand his brother’s sudden fury. He was in no way excited, the weight of the decision settling over him like iron. “I don’t get anything, Gwion,” he said, placing a steadying hand on Gwion’s shoulder. He didn’t want to argue about this. “This wasn’t a competition. This was forced on me.” 

Gwion slapped his hand away. “You’re telling me you don’t want the role. You don’t want to rule all of Tydas?”

“It wasn’t on my list of goals.” 

Gwion scoffed, shaking his head. “I don’t believe you.”

“Believe whatever you wish,” Sol replied tightly. “But we can’t tear each other apart over this. The decision has been made.” 

Gwion stormed closer to Liniver, fury spilling over. “Who decided that? Who the hell made this call?” 

“The council,” Liniver said, coldly, while his chin raised. “Your father’s most trusted warriors and friends. Your reaction right now at this moment…” He put both hands over the top of his staff as he met the young prince’s eyes, “...proves they chose wisely.”

Ignoring Liniver, Gwion whirled around with a snarl and jabbed a finger into Sol's hard chest. “What do they even know about you? You’re always here sleeping. You’re not better than me, brother.” 

Sol shoved him back, gritting his teeth. “Enough. I never said I was. But this is where we are. What can we do about it?”

Eyes widening in shock at what seemed like a dumb question, Gwion’s voice dropped as he shook with rage. “W-what can we do? We change the decision. We make me king.” 

“The council has decided, Gwion Elantine. Your job now is to support your kingdom by supporting the new Tydian King.” Liniver said, his tone acidic yet level. He showed his impatience with Gwion’s tantrum within his gaze.

Gwion scoffed and backed up. “Fuck this shit. I’m not standing here to be made a fool of.”

“Gwion…” Sol started, hating that his brother was this upset.

“You are doing a good job of that yourself, young sir,” Liniver stated.

The younger prince turned and stalked out of the throne room, but not before glancing over his shoulder at Sol in disdain. “You always fucking get everything, Sol. It’s getting damn old.” Sol watched his brother leave, the echo of his footsteps lingering minutes later.

Only then did he turn back to Liniver, his expression solemn, eyes heavy with the burden now placed upon him.

“Your brother is right. You are not happy with this decision,” Liniver observed quietly.

The elder prince gave a nod and then a slight shrug. “Isn’t that obvious?” Sol replied. “I barely know anything about ruling a whole planet, Lord Liniver.” 

“Sire.” 

Liniver’s eyes were full of regret, but also concern that Sol would give up completely. Sol didn’t miss it.

He shook his head with his own scoff. “There’s no other choice. There are no other eligible Elantines other than my brother and myself.” 

He met Liniver’s gaze, steady despite the storm inside him.

“Don’t worry,” Sol said. “I won’t abandon my duty. Tydas will have its king.” 

Liniver stayed silent, his one nod acknowledging Sol’s words, and Sol left the throne room. He knew one person who deserved to have the announcement of his father told in person. Sol found his grandfather on the eastern side of the castle, where most of the bedchambers were. 

Dravion Elantine, the previous Tydian King before Coridan, stood at a tall window overlooking the Tydian view in front of him. Horizon as far as the eye could see. His hands were folded behind his back, posture straight despite his advanced age. Long silver hair was bound in a ponytail. The late night cast the hallway into soft gold, but the stillness felt heavy, expectant.

Sol stopped a few steps behind him. “Grandfather,” he said. 

Dravion turned partway, already reading something in Sol’s expression. He waited.

Sol swallowed once, remembering how his father looked in his arms. Then he said it simply, without ceremony.

“Father is dead.”  The words settled quietly.

Dravion didn’t respond at first. He turned back toward the window, shoulders remaining square as if holding himself in place by force alone. The silence stretched long and fragile.

Then Sol saw it. A single tear slipping down his grandfather’s cheek. It caught in the light before disappearing into the lines of his face.

Sol watched it fall, his chest tightening not with surprise but with complete understanding. He stepped forward and stopped beside his grandfather, close enough that their shoulders nearly touched. 

They stood there together, saying nothing, then after a time, Dravion spoke.

“I know that look,” he said quietly. “The council chose you instead of Gwion.” 

Sol didn’t answer. There was no need to. 

“There is no doubt of why the council made that decision, Solaren,” Dravion continued, his voice steady again, though the grief lingered beneath it. He would grieve his son later, his grandson needed him now. “They chose correctly.” Dravion turned his head slightly to look at Sol, who looked so much like Coridan. He could see the stirring emotion in his eyes. “I believe you will hold the creed to its highest standard,” he said. “With an iron fist… and a golden heart.”

Again, the words of the Elantine Creed resonated within Sol’s ears from another king. They settled, not like a burden but like a truth he had always known.

They remained at the window, side by side, watching the city below carry on, mainly unaware of what had just been lost.  Their silence was comforting to each other in that moment; one understood the other.

When Sol finally left to go to the Solar Wing, Dravion did not follow, but his presence stayed with him all the same.

Sol closed the door to his chamber behind him and turned, leaning his forehead briefly against the cool wood. Then he faced the front.

His room was dimly lit, curtains half drawn against the fading light. His eyes took in what it contained: his bed, his fireplace, his cloak, which he had discarded the previous day, was slung over the side of his couch.

Everything was familiar, yet it felt distant in this moment, as though it belonged to someone else.

He crossed the room and flopped down on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees once more. His hands came together, fingers lacing and unlacing without thought. The silence pressed in right away, thicker in here than it had been anywhere else in the castle.

Tydian King. The words sat uneasily in his chest.

He wasn’t ready.

He knew he would grieve his father properly, but with the crown now spoken aloud, he understood that he would also be grieving the carefree life he’d thought was still his.

Sol dragged a hand over his face and let out a slow breath. He didn’t cry; the tears from earlier had already burned themselves dry, leaving a dull ache behind that spread outward from his heart.

Though for the first time since what happened in the courtyard, he allowed himself to feel it fully. Not just the loss of his father, but the narrowing of his world. His paths were closing. His choices were vanishing.

After a moment, the young prince straightened.

Whatever else he had lost today, he still had this much left: resolve.

Sol rose from the bed and turned toward the window, staring out into the darkening sky, knowing tomorrow would not wait for him to be ready.

Late Afternoon

Through the opening of her cloak, Tarana could see the coniferous and vast Baromund Forest stretching along the horizon. The journey home had taken roughly forty minutes as Besnik cantered and trotted his way across grass and dirt paths. Eventually, the wilderness of the Plains of Taji gave way to towering evergreen pines, their branches knitting together overhead, and dark fir trees. The heat of the sun eased from her back as the forest welcomed her home into its shade.

Alleviation settled into her shoulders.

Knowing that she was finally not in sight of people, Tarana began to undo her cloaks. The hood slid free from her head, releasing glossy, dark, almost black curls that spilled over her shoulders and back. The largest cloak followed suit, lifting the trapped heat away with it. Beneath it, her white crop top and patchwork skirt felt lighter, freer, and far better suited to this place.

She folded the cloaks neatly into her lap and urged Besnik onward. He shifted into an easy trot as they traveled deeper into the forest, the familiar rhythm of his hoofbeats steadying her breath.

A shallow creek ran along their right, its quiet presence guiding her without thought. Tarana followed it instinctively, the sense of almost home growing stronger with each step. Grass thinned into a familiar dirt path worn by Besnik’s many journeys. It curved between the trees, crossed the creek, and continued on the other side. 

Besnik stepped through the water without hesitation, his hooves splashing softly before finding solid ground again. With a soft sigh, Tarana turned the reins left, guiding him along the creek's edge.

The creek had sustained her in more ways than one, so it wasn’t surprising to see her light green caravan waiting where she had left it. Its weathered exterior was tucked in a clearing surrounded by pines and firs. The wood was worn, the paint dulled by time and travel, and the wheels nicked and marked by countless roads.

Seeing home, Besnik snorted and quickened his pace. 

Tarana laughed, the sound light and unguarded. “Yes, yes. We’re home, Bes. Let’s get comfy shall we?” 

With a gentle pull of the reins, she brought him to a stop, gripping his pale mane as she swung her leg over and slid carefully down to the ground. Besnik stood patiently while she removed the tied-up bags from his neck, then took the time to remove his saddle and reins, letting him loose to wander nearby. Cradling her goods against her hip, Tarana climbed the short wooden steps and pushed open the caravan door.

Curved wooden beams stretched overhead, their darkened wood worn smooth with age. Delicate carvings from her homeland, Asrail curled along the edges, giving a sense of familiarity beneath the glow of the lanternlight. The caravan creaked slightly around her as she stepped further inside. It was warm and comforting, loosening her muscles.

Afternoon sunrays slipped through diamond-paned windows bordered by red curtains that stirred faintly with the breeze that snuck in behind Tarana. They moved gently over dressers and shelves decorated with various dried flowers and knick-knacks. Her bed rested against the wall on the right side; it was narrow yet inviting. Layered with soft blankets and cushions that smelled faintly of incense and herbs, it was a place that always brought her comfort.

A couple of low shelves above another window across the way held a modest amount of books. The spines of the books were worn and uneven. Some were bound in soft leather, others stitched together by hand, their pages marked and reread often. They were not decorative. They were companions; an escape to other worlds. These were reached for when the world outside grew quiet.

Along the opposite wall, more shelves held jars of dried leaves, folded clothes, and candles worn down by use. Everything had its place, chosen with care rather than excess. Near the front of the caravan, a small cooking nook was built into the wood. It was a simple space with a compact surface, a kettle, and a few well-used utensils. Plates and bowls were on shelves above that. The wall across from there had a wooden slab that could be pulled up to be a table or desk in case of rain. Hooks were on the wall next to it for her cloaks and for Besnik’s reins.

Lastly, a patterned rug softened the floor beneath her feet, and a pair of cozy slippers sat waiting to be worn. All in all, the caravan was Tarana’s moving haven in her small yet steady world.

It was here that days passed softly, untouched by urgency, and Tarana was unaware of how precious that calm truly was. 

She moved through the rest of the afternoon without a care. She unpacked her goods first, settling everything in its proper place. The forest hummed naturally around her as she worked; a familiar chorus of birds and wind through branches. When her hands were empty, Tarana returned to the creek with a woven basket full of the produce she bought, rolling up her skirt as she stepped barefoot into the cool shallows.

She rinsed dirt from roots and greens, her fingers getting wrinkly as the water slipped between them. She waited until the fruits and vegetables were clean and bright before gathering them up. They were left to dry in the basket on the bank as she paused, hearing the creek murmur beside her. Behind her, Besnik lingered nearby, snorting quietly before he wandered off to graze along the other side of the bank. His closeness was steady, a comfort she barely noticed anymore, unless he wasn’t there.

Next on the list was getting the fire pit ready. 

Tarana gathered dry wood and kindling she had stored up in a pile on the other side of the caravan, before striking it with flame. Smoke curled upward as fire caught hold, its light and warmth spreading slowly into the clearing. She took the basket of produce up and then laid some greens on a small slab of wood next to one of her cooking knives. The steady rhythm of her hand grounded her as she quietly chopped them, humming. Goat meat was seasoned next with practiced ease: salt, herbs, and a touch of spice. Both the chopped greens and the meat were set aside to wait while the fire settled into a steady burn. 

Back inside the caravan, she began the dough for sparkleberry pie, one of her favorite desserts. 

Bare feet padded against the rug as she moved between shelf and counter, measuring and mixing by memory rather than literal thought. Strawberries and light pink astraberries were folded in last, their faint shimmer catching the last of the light as she cooked. She set the pie to bake in the mini hearth and stepped back outside again.

Time softened. Besnik swished his tail lazily, occasionally lifting his head to watch her before settling again to nibble on grass. Tarana checked the fire and then set the pan full of meat and greens on top of it. Now it was a waiting game. The forest seemed to shift around her. The afternoon birds gave way to the sound of toads and crickets, the light thinned, and the air cooled just enough to be noticeable against her tan skin. 

Tarana leaned down near the caravan door to briefly inspect the carved markings along the lower frame. The faint shimmer of the markings settled evenly across the wood. 

“Okay… the pie, meat and greens are cooking nicely… the runes look good…” she murmured, continuing her small nightly checklist. 

From the outside, the caravan would appear old and half-rotted to wandering eyes, weathered enough that most travelers and thieves would pass it without a second glance. Her older sister had learned about and taught her the illusion runes years ago, insisting that unnoticable travelers survived longer than impressive ones.

Satisfied, Tarana straightened and returned to checking on the simmering pan over the firepit as moonlight slowly gathered along the trees.

By the time dusk began to settle in earnest, everything was ready. The goat meat she bought at the market now lay roasted on a plate next to sauteed greens and a few nuts. The meat was tender, nearly melting in her mouth. It was nicely seasoned while on the pit, and the greens gave just enough bitterness to round out the flavors. Dinner was truly worth what she had gone through earlier in the day.

After nibbling on the last few nuts, Tarana went inside to put dishes away and to get a slice of the cooling dessert. After sitting on the staircase with her plate in hand, she sighed while starting in on it. The first bite of sparkleberry pie was enough to make her moan in delight. She recognized the familiar pop and tingle of the astraberries baked in and couldn’t help but feel nostalgic. It was the very same recipe her sister Tsuna used to make for her. Memories then ran through her mind,

“Make sure you have enough astraberries. The strawberries can over power them, TaTa.” 

“Okay, rahma. I’ll remember!”

“Good, little one. Now let’s get this pie done!”

“I’ll help you put it in the hearth!”

With the last part of the memory fading away, Tarana finished the last bite of her pie. The tingling sweetness still lingered on her tongue as she leaned back against the step. The night had settled deep and quiet around her. Baromund’s towering pines swayed softly overhead, their shadows stretching long and cool in the silver wash of evening. She let out a small contented exhale and brushed crumbs from her fingertips as she lifted her light brown gaze skyward. 

She froze. 

The full moon hung impossibly bright above the treeline. Not the usually gentle glow she had always known, but a luminous and beckoning brilliance that seemed to see her, call to her, stake claim over her.

A shiver ran down her arms, raising every fine hair on her skin. She blinked once then again, her eyes slowly brightening into a silver glow. The moon only grew brighter.

Her breath caught. “No… not again,” she whispered, already feeling the familiar unraveling in her limbs.

Before she could stand on her own accord, her body did it for her. A soft gasp escaped Tarana as her feet carried her a few paces into the clearing beside her caravan, light and purposefully. Her lantern glimmered faintly on the step, forgotten.

Night seemed to hold its breath.

Then it happened, a gentle tug inside of her soul, subtle but undeniable. The ritual took hold of her.

Tarana's arms rose with slow, reflexive grace, palms open to the moon. Her fingers trembled as if brushed by unseen hands. Her hips turned, guiding her into a circling step. She moved with a fluency she had never been taught yet had somehow always known. It felt ancient and sacred. Pine needles whispered beneath her feet, and moonlight wrapped itself around her body like a veil that shimmered along her skin. She turned in a soft spin, her hair trailing behind her. The world blurred into silver. A faint crescent glow appeared on her right shoulder blade, hidden beneath fabric.

Her heart beat to a rhythm that didn’t belong to her. It was soft yet relentless.

Her ears could hear it: an echo of a chant without voices. A song that lived in the bones of the world she lived in. The pull of something gleaming, threading through her blood. 

Her breath caught, a fragile sound swallowed by the night, but still she danced. Her eyes were in a trance, but her soul was wide awake. 

Round and round she spun, then her strength vanished. Her legs folded beneath her, and she crumpled onto the cool forest floor. Darkness consumed her as the dance drained the last of her energy.

Later that night, Tarana regained consciousness. Pine needles cracked under her hands and feet when she pushed herself upright, shivering and disoriented.

It never failed…

This phenomenon had been happening more frequently. Tarana would be minding her own business, living her quiet life in her caravan, when, as the moon rose to its highest point in the night sky, her body would drop everything and begin to dance. There was no explanation and no prior awareness. Just the ritual overtaking her as though it was woven into her bones.

Then she always woke up just like this. Cold, alone, and confused. Vulnerable if not for Besnik standing nearby.

Divine Lumina… is this your doing? What do you want with me?

Tarana lifted her gaze to the moon with a slight wince, hoping there wouldn’t be a second part to come. Its brightness had softened now, as though the dance ritual had dimmed it too. She waited, hoping for a whisper, a sign, or even the faintest shift in the air.

However, nothing came—only silence and starlight.

Walking on shaky legs back to the caravan steps, Tarana reached for her now dimly lit lantern, her fingers still trembling. Besnik was silently dozing near the back. Climbing slowly inside, she paused at the doorway and cast one more look toward the silver-lit clearing where she had involuntarily danced moments before. 

There were still no answers. 

With a soft breath of exasperation, Tarana closed the door and let the night remain outside.