Elysia Valmont turned one beneath a sky brushed in dusk and illusion. Queen Eleanor had forbidden grand processions or public parades. No banners. No orchestras. Only a private gathering at the Shrouded Shore: family, loyal courtiers, and silence. Lanterns hung from white-barked trees, casting halos of soft light across the sand. Silken tables shimmered with sapphire cloth. Harps and stringed instruments played songs older than the kingdom itself. For the first time in many months, Eleanor smiled without trembling.
King Alaric stood beside her, wine in hand, his face softer than usual. "She's quiet today," he said, nodding toward the parasol-covered cradle.
"She always is," Eleanor murmured.
"But she listens," he added, watching the baby sleep.
Under the shade of cream silk, Elysia lay swaddled in golden wraps, rose petals drifting from the garland above her. She looked peaceful. Too peaceful.
A courtier toasted, "To the flame of the future!"
Another, "To the Valmont legacy!"
And someone whispered, almost afraid to speak, "To the star born child!"
No one noticed how still the sea had become. Dancers spun across the sand, their dresses trailing ribbons of starlight. Children laughed through colored lanterns. Even the guards smiled. But Melville, cloaked and distant on a cliff above, did not. He narrowed his eyes, feeling the Tear's echo within him shift, off-rhythm, uncertain.
"It's not time," he whispered to the wind.
In the cradle, Elysia stirred. Her fingers twitched. One petal fell from the garland and brushed her cheek. She blinked. Reached. The parasol tilted. The silk dragged.
No one saw.
A ripple crossed the sand. The tide, unnoticed, had risen inches higher than it should. It hissed as it reached the cradle's base, pulling it toward the water like a whisper of fate. By the time Eleanor turned, by the time the guards dropped their goblets, by the time the dancers froze mid-spin, the cradle was gone. No splash. No scream. Only a hollow absence, like someone had stolen a note from the song of the world.
Above, on the cliff, Melville moved but too late. A black shape vanished into the sea mist behind the waves. Something else had come.
Eleanor collapsed to her knees, hands clawing into the sand, breath ragged. King Alaric shouted orders, too late. The sea was empty. In the shadows of the Veil, a voice murmured:
"The fire has scattered. Let it hide. For the world is not yet ready to remember her."
High above the clouds, something ancient smiled.
The world between worlds shimmered. This was not ocean. Not sky. Not time.
This was Veilspace the passage where fate dripped slow like honey through torn silk. In the middle of it floated a cradle of glass and silk, wrapped in moonlight and the last breath of a forgotten prayer.
Inside: a child. Her skin glowed faint gold. Her fingers sparkled with constellations yet uncharted. The last spark of Aurelith, reborn.
Something moved beneath her. Darkness. Curved. Clawed. Humming in a language not meant for mortals. A shadow bloomed tall, serrated wings built from torn scripture and bone. A Veil-breaker, servant of the Thorn Prince, intent on unweaving the child's divine spark. Glyphs etched across its chest began to glow.
Then, a streak of burning light. The world jolted. The air sang. The enemy's hand recoiled, scorched.
From nothing, a figure landed: cracked white armor, hair trailing silver fire. The Shatter-Saint. Silent, godlike. Light bent around them, forming halos in motion. The sand beneath barely stirred. Silence followed them like a cloak.
The wraith lunged. The Saint met it mid-air. Blades screamed through prophecy, carving symbols unseen since the gods bled from the sky. Fangs struck. Blades sang. Memory collided with unmaking. A burst of flame shaped like a wolf's howl consumed the Veil-breaker. Ash floated in silence.
The Saint knelt beside the cradle. Their hand hovered above the child's brow but did not touch. "She burns still," they whispered. "The Veil remembers. So must we." Then gone. Only ash symbols remained, floating in the wind. The cradle drifted downward toward the mortal world. Toward Eldermere.
Serene walked the shoreline alone, cloak pulled tight, satchel full of rare leaves and fragments of forgotten plants. The sea shimmered in hues of bronze and pearl. Then a shift. A smell. Smoke. No fire. Only ash on the wind.
She followed it across the dunes, to a stretch of shore that had never felt quite… right. There, nestled between sea-glass and black sand, was a basket. Half-buried, wrapped in noble silk. Serene stilled. A breath. A step.
Inside: a child. Hair of gold. Eyes closed, yet glowing faint blue beneath the lids. "By the stars…" she murmured. Sacred heat radiated from the child, divine. She pressed her face to her chest. The child did not cry. Serene exhaled shakily, rose, and walked into the forest, unaware of watchers, of gods, of the battle just fought above.
High above the cliffs, half-veiled in fog, Melville watched. "The fire sleeps," he murmured. "Let it be held by a hand that will not try to name it." He vanished into mist.
For three days and nights, the search swept across Aurelis. Knights rode until horses collapsed. Scholars pored over scrolls by candlelight. Mystics lifted their arms to the heavens, chanting under the twin moons until their voices shattered into whispers. Still no trace.
Inside Celestine Palace, Eleanor pressed her forehead to the marble chapel floor, shoulders shaking violently. "Please… bring her back. I'll give anything. Anything."
King Alaric stood behind her, fists clenched. "We searched every shore. Every forest. The rivers. The cliffs…"
"Eleanor… she's"
"Don't say it!" she snapped, lifting her tear-streaked face. "Don't you dare say it's over."
Servants stood frozen at the edges, heads bowed. Courtiers clustered in corners. Outside, Aurelis held its breath. Bells tolled low and long. Markets fell silent. Children clung to their mothers' skirts.
Far beyond the palace gates, past rivers, past forests, past starlit fields and dreaming hills, the heavens stirred. The stars leaned close, their ancient eyes glinting with recognition. The sea pulled softly at the shore. And somewhere, just beyond the veil between worlds, a voice soft and certain was heard:
"She is not gone. She is hidden. And when the time comes, the Astral Veil will lift. And all of Aurelis… will remember."
Far beyond Aurelis, where no map reached, a man cloaked in smoke and silence stood atop a hill of ash. He looked down at the last glimpse of a shoreline where a child had been placed like a question without an answer. In his hand: a sigil carved from starlight, the last key to the Veil's original gate. He closed his fist. Let it fall into the sea. The sky shimmered once, a line of light torn across the heavens and then sealed. The Veil had closed. The fire was hidden. The gods had turned away.
In the Forest of Eldermere, near the old dunes, a woman walked through morning mist, humming an unnamed lullaby, bundle pressed to her chest. Eyes closed. Dreaming.
"Sleep now," the wind whispered. "You are safe. For now. The hidden flame waits."