Sidria is an allied yet independent kingdom located on the southeastern continent and has maintained its alliance with Solistia for over two hundred years. It currently serves as a mediator with the Southern Continent, ruled by the Lioren Empire—a power with whom Solistia maintains diplomatic civility but no formal alliance.
Geographically, the southeastern borders are traditionally part of the Southern Continent, but some kingdoms like Sidria have diverged and established independence. Although a peace treaty exists among these regions, peace between them has largely been maintained by the Velmorian Empire of Solistia.
Sidria is known for its vast tropical lands, rich with tropical fruits, agriculture, and vibrant reef life. The kingdom consists of thirty large islands and ten smaller ones. Recently, the Grand Duke was summoned to Sidria to respond to an alliance request after ancient creatures—believed to be twin serpents of land and sea—began wreaking havoc on the kingdom's agriculture and ocean life.
The Grand Duke Siarcanis Solléonis—wielder of the legendary Sunburst Sword—was a man steeped in both power and ancient heritage. This sword, a sacred heirloom passed down exclusively through the Solléonis male bloodline, was said to burn with the fierce blaze of the sun itself. Only those of Solléonis blood could wield it, and its power was whispered to pierce through the darkest shadows and most malevolent of evils. As the sole bearer of the Sunburst Sword, Siarcanis alone held the right—and the burden—to wield this blazing weapon.
Though Siarcanis himself lacks magical abilities and does not openly encourage the use of magic in Hammendir, he is not entirely opposed to it. His late wife, a Talemerein, came from a bloodline deeply connected to magic and the supernatural. While magic is not widely practiced within their household or dukedom, there stands a Mage Tower—established by the Velmorians—that served as a symbol of protection and a hub for communication between the scattered territories, noble houses, and cities under the vast Velmorian Empire. Though magic's presence was subtle here, its threads wove quietly beneath the surface of power and politics.
Siarcanis carried the bearing of a man forged by both bloodline and battlefield. Regal in every movement, he bore an uncanny resemblance to the first Solistian Emperor, Arcanos Solléonis—the first wielder of the Sunburst Sword. His features were finely sculpted: a sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and a faded scar just beneath his left eye.
His eyes, a brilliant and striking metallic gold—intelligent, unyielding, and almost divine in their intensity. His complexion was remarkably fair, like starlight against steel, and his hair—dark as the midnight sky—was always cleanly cut, freshly framing his face.
Standing six feet tall, Siarcanis was neither bulky nor overly lean; his body was the perfect balance of power and agility. Broad shoulders narrowed into a honed, agile frame—one built for fluid movement, for combat that demanded precision over brute strength. Every motion he made was deliberate, efficient, yet graceful—like a swordsman who never wasted a stroke. But what truly set him apart was his presence. There was something magnetic in the air around him, an energy that pulsed quietly beneath the surface. His presence commanded attention, not through force but through quiet control. His aura shifted between two extremes—on one side, the composed grace of a refined leader, and on the other, the sharp stillness of a warrior on the verge of action. Though restrained, his intensity was undeniable, like a blade held steady, ready to strike when the moment demanded.
And not to mention—he was only thirty years and seven. Still in the prime of his youth, yet even at his age, he was already a legend—his presence undeniable, his authority unquestioned, and his past shrouded in intrigue. In Siarcanis, he was where light met steel—a man shaped not by lineage alone, but by the very essence of his being.
The journey from Solistia to Sidria was aboard a remarkable vessel known as the Sky Ship—true to its name, it soared and sailed through the very air and wind, a wondrous innovation born from the skilled hands of Hammendir's craftsmen. This flying marvel had transformed travel, although the six-hour voyage still demanded patience from its passengers.
The Grand Duke and his Hammendir Knights were stationed at Sidria's main base, a fortified stronghold designed to house the kingdom's finest. As the sun began its descent, casting long shadows and bathing the land in a warm, golden glow, Siarcanis Solléonis and his knights returned from their latest hunt. A year prior, they had finally slain the sea serpent that had been terrorizing the kingdom. However, their victory was bittersweet, for the serpent had left behind two offspring—vicious creatures that took seven relentless months to hunt down and slay. Just a few days ago, they spotted the land serpent near the kingdom's borders and managed to wound it. Now, having returned from the hunt, they prepared to hand over the next shift of hunters and watchers.
For nearly two years, the relentless hunt had pressed on. Mages and Priests had joined the fray, their elemental arts and divine blessings weaving together in desperate harmony. Yet, these serpents—elusive, swift, and cunning—slipped through every trap and ambush, always evading capture.
The Grand Duke returned to his tent, where his chaplain, Sir Wallace Oumer, tended to him. Sir Wallace was only allowed to assist with his armor; the rest Siarcanis preferred to handle himself. After settling in and cleaning up, a steward entered carrying two birds—a peregrine falcon and a crow.
"Your Grace, these fliers are for you," the young steward said, standing straight as he handed two letters to Siarcanis at his personal desk.
"Tie the fliers' feet on the bird watch stand; I'll release them later. Thank you, you may leave," Siarcanis replied. He sat behind his desk, eyes fixed on the letters. Unbeknownst to him, the letter wrapped with a tangerine ribbon was from Ossaria, sent by raven—was intercepted by Fhena's crow. The letter tied with a silver ribbon contained Maelith's anonymous report detailing Lady Ossaria's cruelty toward his daughter.
Not knowing which to open first, Siarcanis reached for the tangerine-ribboned letter—tangerine being Ossaria's signature color.
Before he could finish reading, Siarcanis suddenly sprang from his seat, panic and grief flooding over him. Grabbing his cloak, he prepared to return immediately to Hammendir. Without explanation, he summoned his Commander Knight and second-in-command to lead in his stead for the time being, then hurried to inform the King of Sidria.
The king, who held Siarcanis in high favor, granted him swift passage home but advised traveling through the magic portals for a quicker journey. With no other option, Siarcanis gathered his captain and directed the Sky Ship toward the magic portal connecting Sidria to Hammendir.
The magic tunnel was a prism of brilliant colors—bright and inviting—and reduced the journey to just two hour's flight. Within the ship's chambers, Siarcanis finally opened the other letter—the silver-ribboned one—reading in horror the detailed report of Ossaria's cruelty inflicted on Fhena.
Back in the grand halls of the Solléonis estate—once the heart of the empire—Fhena laid quietly in her room, steadying her breath for when she was to be laid on the funeral bed. Meanwhile, Sager stayed quietly beside her, resting on the floor next to her bed.
After a few tense moments, Maelith burst back into the room, panting but clearly excited.
"Good news, M'Lady! The Madame won't be demanding your body," she announced.
Fhena blinked, sitting up in surprise. "Huh?"
Maelith smiled brightly. "She told the household a story to pass on to the Grand Duke—that you were cremated. Apparently, she spun a tale about you falling off Silikei Cliff and your body being broken beyond recognition and shattered to pieces."
Fhena's expression twisted into one of horror and disgust. "That's… not exactly comforting."
Maelith's smile softened into a sheepish grin. "I mean, it's smoother than the alternative—your miraculous return from the dead. That would have raised far too many questions." She nodded enthusiastically.
Sager couldn't help but chuckle quietly.
"So, what now? We just wait it out?" Fhena asked.
"Exactly," Maelith replied firmly. "But I'm needed downstairs for the preparations. Stay here, M'Lady. I'll come for you when the time is right."
Maelith hurried downstairs, only to find the funeral preparations nearly complete. The parlor room had been dimly dressed in mourning, with black drapes drawn tight across the tall windows. A few maids and servants moved about quietly, lighting candles and arranging garlands of withered lilies. Not a single family member or noble guest had arrived—because none had been invited. At the center of the room stood an urn, smooth and unmarked, solemn in its simplicity. Behind it hung a large, hastily painted portrait of Fhena, her features captured in awkward strokes by a painter who had been rushed and threatened by Lady Ossaria. The likeness was close, but lifeless.
In a corner near the fireplace stood Ossaria herself, draped in a dramatic veil of black and burnt orange. She was practicing her tears again, dabbing delicately at dry eyes and contorting her face into mournful expressions, rehearsing for the Grand Duke's arrival. Her sobs were hollow, performative.
Maelith tried to blend in, helping with the final details, keeping her eyes low and her movements deliberate.
But not everyone was so easily fooled.
A sharp-eyed maid—one of Ossaria's closest servants—had slipped away and crept upstairs. Suspicion had gnawed at her from the beginning. Quiet as a shadow, she peeked into the Duke's daughter's room.
And there she saw it: the Young Lady Fhena, very much alive, breathing and moving.
The maid's heart pounded as she backed away and rushed back downstairs. She found Lady Ossaria and whispered the discovery into her ear with a smirk of triumph.
Ossaria froze mid-wail.
Then her expression twisted. Rage surged through her like wildfire.
Without a word, she shoved aside a candleholder, startling the maids, and hissed, "Keep Maelith busy. Now."
The servants scrambled to obey, distracting Maelith with trivial tasks—rearranging vases, adjusting the curtains—anything to keep her from following.
Ossaria stormed up the stairs, her heels echoing like thunder against the marble. She reached the door to the room where she had confined Fhena and flung it open.
Empty. The room was silent. Gone.
A cold sweat broke across her brow. It was as if all blood had drained from her face, leaving her ghostly pale. Her fingers trembled. Panic clawed at her throat.
"No… no, no, no," she whispered, then screamed. "FIND HER! Search the halls! Search the grounds! I want every inch of this estate turned inside out!"
Chaos erupted within the estate. Servants ran in every direction, startled by her screeching voice, and house knights were summoned on the spot.
Meanwhile, hidden within the winding corridors and shadowed stairwells of the Solléonis estate, Fhena moved like smoke—silent, careful, slipping from shadow to shadow with the aid of her magic. The spellwork came instinctively now, flowing from her like muscle memory etched into her soul. But it was still incomplete. Though she had already mastered teleportation and learned techniques to preserve and retain energy, it now proved difficult. Her strength was fractured. Her magic—still sealed. Her body—frail.
Despite the full return of her memories, her knowledge, her intellect—Fhena was still bound to the weakened frame of a child, one that bore the scars of neglect and mistreatment. She indeed had been awakened, but the vessel was not yet whole.
And worse still—only two of the five gems where her magic had been sealed had been recovered and returned to her. The rest remained scattered, hidden across the tangled remnants of her past life. Until they were found, her magic would remain fractured, and her strength limited.
But she moved forward anyway—because time was running out.
Every jump through shadow pulled something vital from her. She could feel her limbs weakening, her breath shortening.
But she had to stay hidden. She had to stay alive.
Because her father… was already on his way home.
Maelith quickly caught on and joined the search for Fhena, moving swiftly through the estate's shadowed halls. Meanwhile, Sager lingered nearby, watching for any sign of danger. When the coast was finally clear, he quietly instructed Fhena, whose small body already felt heavy and tired, to take the main stairs and make a dash for the front door.
Without hesitation, Fhena hurried down the staircase. Her steps were urgent but careful, her arms stretching out to grasp the railing, which now felt taller than she remembered. Each hurried step sent her heart pounding wildly in her chest. Normally, descending a flight of stairs would have been nothing—yet now, trapped within the fragile body of a child, old instincts mingled with her mature mind, flooding her with raw anxiety and fear.
She reached the bottom and moved straight toward the door—only to be suddenly caught by the base of her neck. Sharp nails dug into her skin, and a harsh voice snarled behind her.
"There you are, you little rat!" Lady Ossaria hissed, fury dripping from every word.
Fhena whimpered and bit her lip to hold back the sting of pain from the rough grip, though the choke was not suffocating, the sensation was enough to make her flinch. Ossaria crouched down, seizing both of Fhena's arms tightly.
"Where do you think you're going, huh?!" she spat venomously.
Overwhelmed, Fhena's defenses crumbled and tears burst forth uncontrollably. Ah, this child inside me is such a crybaby, she thought bitterly, even as her mind screamed silently for her mother—both the mother she once had and the one she yearned for now.
"Stop crying!" Ossaria snapped, her voice rising with fury. "How are you even alive?! Who did this to you? Maelith? That useless servant?!" Her roars grew louder, more unhinged with every word. "You worthless brat! You were supposed to die quietly, and yet here you are!"
Fhena's sobs only deepened, words stuck like stones in her throat. Anger, fear, and frustration blazed inside her small frame, scorching her from within.
"Who did this to you? Answer me!" Ossaria demanded fiercely.
Then, cutting through the chaos, a booming voice echoed down the hall.
"OSSARIA!"
Lady Ossaria froze in place, her grip faltering. Fhena continued to cry in her grasp, trembling.
At that moment, Maelith appeared, but before she could reach Fhena, Ossaria's maids quickly moved to restrain her.
Siarcanis stood at the doorway, a storm of rage burning behind his eyes—an intense, scorching fury that Fhena could feel radiating like wildfire. It was an intent so fierce, so raw, it threatened to consume everything in its path.
"S-Siar!" Lady Ossaria trembled, her grip on Fhena's shoulders tightening as she tried to steady herself. "This—it's not what you think! She came back to life—yes! Through prayer and—"
"ENOUGH!" Siarcanis's voice thundered through the hall, cutting her off like a blade.
Ossaria's knees shook. "Siarcanis, please, this isn't how it looks."
Fhena's sobbing continued, uncontrollable and deep, while Siarcanis fought to hold back his own tears. Seeing his daughter—alive, yet so broken—pierced his heart with a pain he had never known.
"RELEASE MY DAUGHTER."
"But Si—"
"RELEASE HER NOW!" His command left no room for argument.
With a shudder, Ossaria finally let go. Fhena looked up, her tear-streaked face lifting toward Siarcanis, and in that moment, a flood of relief and yearning swept through her.
"Papa!" she called out suddenly, her voice trembling but full of hope.
Her feet dragged as she ran, every step fueled by desperate love, straight into Siarcanis's open arms. Meeting her halfway, he scooped her up with fierce protectiveness, pulling her close. Fhena melted into his embrace, burying her face in his shoulder, her sobs muffled against his chest.
Siarcanis held her tightly, never having felt so horrified, so terrified—and yet so deeply grateful—in all his life.
Siarcanis's eyes, glowing a fierce metallic gold, cut through the room like the edge of his sword—sharp, cold, and impossible to ignore. His voice dropped low, heavy as a hammer striking steel, "Are you not aware that the child you are mistreating is my daughter? An heir to a Dukedom?" He jabbed a finger toward Lady Ossaria, every word weighted with such authority that the lady and the servants alike trembled in fear.
That golden glow in his eyes wasn't magic—not exactly—but the light from the chandeliers caught it just right, making it seem like something otherworldly. The Solléonis family might lack traditional magic, but their power was undeniable. Intelligence, presence, and an unshakable authority made them formidable.
Legend says they were descendants of Aefhen—the Sun Guardian Master, firstborn of Lehoi, creator and ruler of the world. With that bloodline came a mysterious, almost sacred power. Not all Solléonis bore this light, but Siarcanis did—a blazing aura that marked him as the rightful scion of Aefhen himself. In that moment, his very presence demanded respect, a living reminder of the divine legacy that ran through his veins.
"P-Please, this isn't what it looks like—" Lady Ossaria stammered, her voice barely a whisper under the weight of fear.
Siarcanis didn't flinch. His gaze burned like sunlight through a magnifying glass. "Are you saying my eyes deceive me?"
By then, Fhena had already fallen asleep in his arms, her breathing steady, her small frame finally at rest.
"N-No—" Ossaria tried again.
"Then what I witnessed was the truth," he said, each word sharp as steel. "You mistreated my daughter—pushed her so far she nearly died."
"That's not true!" Ossaria fell to her knees, clawing at every lie she could conjure. "I loved her! Like she was my own!"
Siarcanis didn't even blink. "Then why does the letter in my hand—signed and sealed—say you were her tormentor? That you were the one who punished and broke her?"
Ossaria's sobs halted mid-breath. Her face twisted with fury as she turned her eyes to Maelith, her voice rising like a banshee's scream. "You! You filthy servant! You dare turn me into a villain before Siarcanis?!"
She lunged.
Before her foot could cross the room, a sword flashed like lightning and blocked her path—Sir Wallace, the Duke's chaplain, stood tall. "Enough, Lady D'Vorelle."
"Don't you dare command me!" Ossaria screeched, twisting away, only to turn again toward Siarcanis with wild desperation. "Siar! Please, I—!"
Another blade flew up pointed straight at her throat—this time deadlier. It was Rheomund, Siarcanis's eldest son.
"One more step and you die," he said darkly, eyes colder than his father's. "You dare lay a hand on my sister."
Ossaria's laugh cracked like glass under pressure. "This is a misunderstanding! It's not what it looks like!"
Siarcanis turned slowly to the gathered servants. "You all knew?" His voice was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that makes mountains tremble.
The servants dropped their gaze. Some fell to their knees. Shame and fear danced across their faces like shadows.
Siarcanis looked down at the girl asleep in his arms. Her fragile fingers clutched the edge of his cloak. His jaw tightened.
"Listen well," he declared, voice ringing like a decree from the heavens. "This incident will be recorded and brought before the Imperial Court. A report will reach the Emperor's hands. As of this moment—" he turned back to Ossaria, who was still gasping for words, "—the union between House of Solléonis and D'Vorelle is void."
"No! Siar—!" she shrieked.
"Silence," he snapped. One word. And the room obeyed.
He glared down at her one final time.
"You will face judgment before the House of Solléonis, and the Empire's Court," Siarcanis declared coldly. "And I, Siarcanis Solléonis, will personally petition for your execution."
It was as if a storm had broken inside the estate—thick, heavy silence gripped every corner, choking the air from everyone's lungs. No one moved. No one dared speak.
"As for the servants and knights under your command," Siarcanis continued, "you are all stripped of your titles, honors, and positions. You will be imprisoned in Hammendir Hold—for life. For the crime of colluding with an abuser, and worse—betraying a blood of House Solléonis. A crime of the highest order."
Cries broke out as the servants dropped to their knees, pleading desperately. But it was too late.
The Hammendir knights swiftly began seizing them, binding their hands. The knights loyal to Lady Ossaria were driven out of the estate. Some attempted to flee, but Hammendir Hunters shot them down on sight—no mercy, no second chances.
Then Rheomund spoke, voice firm, eyes scanning the crowd.
"Wait. Father—Maelith Dorea of Arrocel. Where is she?"
By this time, the prisoners were being loaded into Hallowbrays—heavy, box-like steel carriages used for transporting high criminals. They reeked of iron and rust, bound by the warding power and sacred decree of the reverends, ensuring no criminal could flee. Each was drawn by two massive Ironclad Rhinos bred for war and burden.
Ossaria was placed in a separate Hallowbray—her destination: the Velmorian Palace, where royal interrogation and judgment awaited.
"Who do you speak of?" Siarcanis asked, his voice firm yet measured.
"Mother's former handmaiden," Rheomund replied. "She was imprisoned for trying to escape with Fhena—once before, and again after her… accident. Fhena asked me to tell you herself. Please, Father, do not punish her."
Those words were taken directly from Fhena's letter—her final plea scribbled in childlike scrawl to her older brother.
Siarcanis's gaze swept across the grand, now-tainted estate. "Very well. Speak with the knights and find her. I'll be taking your sister back to Hammendir at once. We'll use my carriage. Will you be alright on your own?"
Rheomund gave a half-smile and bowed slightly. "Yes, Father. I'll return shortly—with Fhena's maid."
He bowed and turned toward the crowd of servants, already scanning for the woman.
Outside, Siarcanis stood momentarily by the waiting carriage. He paused as his eyes found Rheomund in the distance, already speaking with a young woman—the maid in question, who had been pulled from the line of servants, her face pale but determined. Assured, he turned toward his chaplain.
"Wallace," he called.
"Yes, Your Grace?" Sir Wallace answered promptly.
"See to it that this estate is purged—clean of traitors, spies, and no corrupt servants remain."
Wallace bowed deeply. "As you command, Your Grace."
Siarcanis stepped into the carriage with care, the fine fabric of his travel coat rustling softly as he settled in. Fhena, fragile and thin, lay curled against him, still fast asleep—yet clinging to him with a grip that did not loosen. Her small fingers were tightly balled into the fabric of his cloak, as if afraid he might disappear. Even in slumber, she whimpered quietly, her breathing uneven.
Siarcanis exhaled slowly, eyes heavy with thought as he gazed down at her. For all his strength and status, there was a helplessness in that moment—a father holding his broken child, far too small for the pain she carried.
He adjusted his cloak to wrap her more securely, then leaned back in silence, letting the steady rhythm of the road carry them home.