Chapter 1) The Festival of Eyes
The sun had barely risen when the wind stirred the wheat fields beyond the village of Rivelan. Morning dew clung to every stalk, glistening under the soft golden light like the entire earth had been polished overnight. In that quiet hour, before footsteps had worn down the dust roads and voices filled the squares, a boy stood beneath the tall hill where the chapel bell would soon ring.
He was sixteen that morning.
Tall for his age, broad-shouldered though lean, with golden-blond hair that caught every thread of sunlight and eyes of a blue so vivid it stopped people mid-sentence. Not just blue, but alive — like a sky stretching endlessly on a spring day, like a calm sea with the promise of depth. His name was Caelum. In his village, he was known not for his strength or skills, but for something far more delicate and rare: his beauty.
Yet, Caelum never spoke of it.
He walked through life as if unaware of the whispers behind him, the stares that lingered too long. To him, his looks were something external, like the color of the bark on an old tree — nothing more than what nature had chosen. He preferred silence to compliments, solitude to crowds, and books to gossip. But this day was not a day for solitude. This was the Festival of Unity, held only once every five years when the Seven Kingdoms gathered to celebrate peace and prosperity.
For the first time in over two centuries, the festival was being hosted in Rivelan's province. Villages had been preparing for months. Banners in gold, crimson, and royal blues fluttered from rooftops. Merchants from all corners of the realm had set up stalls along the main roads, their voices already lifting into the sky with promises of silks, sweets, and strange artifacts. But it was not just the merchants who would arrive.
Seven princesses — one from each kingdom — all born the same year, all now sixteen, would be attending.
They were to be presented before the people during the opening procession. Each princess represented a kingdom tied to one of the ancient sins — Pride, Envy, Wrath, Sloth, Greed, Gluttony, and Lust — though in this age, the words had softened. Pride was now called Honor, Wrath had become Passion, and Lust was known as Charm. The people had adapted the names to suit a new generation, but the kingdoms still carried the weight of those legacies.
Caelum, for his part, had not planned to attend. He had no desire for royalty or festivities. But his guardian, an aging cobbler named Taren, had insisted.
"You can't hide in the hills all your life," the old man had said, pulling at his beard. "Go. Smile. Be seen for once."
So Caelum dressed in a white linen shirt, simple brown trousers, and a gray cloak that brushed his ankles. He pulled the hood up — out of habit more than necessity — and walked toward the village square.
The transformation of Rivelan was startling.
Color flooded every corner. Children ran with ribbons streaming from their arms. Musicians tuned their instruments, laughter echoed through alleyways. And above all of it, a grand wooden stage had been constructed, trimmed with gold paint and crowned with seven empty thrones. Soldiers in ceremonial armor stood nearby, their posture perfect, spears raised toward the morning sky.
As Caelum stepped into the heart of the festival, people turned to glance at him. Some paused. One young woman dropped a fruit basket. An old merchant stuttered midsentence while haggling with a customer. Caelum walked past it all, unaware or perhaps simply indifferent.
He stopped at the fountain near the center of the square, its water catching the sunlight like spun glass. That's when he noticed them.
The procession had begun.
First came the trumpets — sharp, bright, echoing off the stone buildings. Then the flags: seven tall banners, each with a unique symbol. A silver lion for Pride. A green serpent for Envy. A crimson flame for Wrath. A violet rose for Sloth. A golden coin for Greed. A blue chalice for Gluttony. And a white swan for Lust. The symbols rippled in the breeze, drawing silence across the crowd.
Then came the princesses.
The first stepped forward beneath the lion banner. She was tall and poised, her posture regal, her gown embroidered with tiny golden threads that shimmered like sunlight on armor. Her hair was jet-black, twisted into a crown of braids, and her eyes — cold, calculating, intelligent. She walked like the world owed her space. Her name, the herald called, was Princess Elira of Solvain, Kingdom of Pride.
The second was shorter, cloaked in green velvet, her eyes flicking across the crowd with open distrust. She had auburn hair and pale skin, with a beauty so sharp it felt dangerous. She did not wave. She did not smile. Envy did not need to perform. This was Princess Veina of Tharne, Kingdom of Envy.
The third burst forward like a wildfire, her gown slashed with red, her hair copper and wild. She waved both arms, shouted something to the crowd, and laughed at her own words. Her grin was fierce, teeth white and bright against her sun-dark skin. Princess Rhiannon of Veldor, Kingdom of Wrath.
The fourth barely moved.
She was carried in a chaise, half-asleep, her pale blond hair cascading like silk down her sides. Her dress was soft blue, her hands lazily draped over the armrests. She gave a small yawn, blinked slowly at the world, then smiled — a dreamy, far-off smile. Princess Syllette of Dorswyn, Kingdom of Sloth.
The fifth came with the glitter of jewels — more than anyone had ever seen. Rings on every finger, gold threaded into her braids, a necklace so large it looked like a mistake. Her eyes were sharp, her walk brisk, and her smile had teeth. Princess Alinna of Galdor, Kingdom of Greed.
The sixth brought a wave of scent — sugar and spice and honey. Her dress was layered like a cake, pinks and blues and creams, and she handed out sweets to the children in the front row as she passed. Her face was round, rosy, and her eyes sparkled with kindness. Princess Maribelle of Oltia, Kingdom of Gluttony.
The seventh arrived last.
Her gown was silver, nearly sheer, clinging to her every movement. Her hair was platinum blond, lips a deep rose, her eyes so dark they seemed to drink in the world. She didn't walk — she glided. Every gaze turned to her. Even the guards shifted. She gave a graceful nod to the crowd, a practiced smile with hidden meaning. Princess Selene of Avaris, Kingdom of Lust.
They stood now on the stage, seven girls of power and grace, beauty and danger. And Caelum watched them with an expression unreadable.
And then, in a moment like a skipped heartbeat, something subtle changed.
Selene, the seventh princess, looked out toward the crowd — and paused. Her gaze stopped on someone. Her eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but intrigue. She tilted her head, as if trying to decide whether what she saw was real or imagined.
Elira noticed. She followed her line of sight.
Then Rhiannon turned.
Then Veina.
And slowly, one by one, all seven princesses fixed their attention on the same figure — a boy in a gray cloak, standing quietly by the fountain.
It wasn't obvious to the crowd. Not yet. Just a ripple beneath the surface. Just seven pairs of eyes, lingering a little too long.
Caelum, unaware at first, adjusted his hood. Then he noticed the silence. The odd pressure in the air. And he looked up.
He met Elira's eyes first. She did not blink. Neither did he.
Then Veina. Then Selene. One by one, the gazes connected, and something unspoken passed between them.
Not desire. Not drama.
Recognition.
Like a mystery without a name.
Caelum bowed politely, then turned back into the crowd before the moment could stretch any longer. He said nothing. The crowd resumed their cheering. The music returned. But the silence in the minds of seven princesses echoed long after.
None of them spoke of it then. Not aloud. Not in front of thousands.
But behind their royal masks, seven hearts stirred — each in their own way — and none of them could say why.
Only that something had begun.