The first time Aria Valemont saw the relic, it was buried beneath ash and bone.
Rain fell like judgment over the ruins of Eldwyn Estate, turning soot into thick, blackened mud. Smoke coiled in the air, lazy and bitter, refusing to fade even as dawn crept in. The once-mighty mansion, her family's ancestral home, lay in smoldering shambles, a skeleton of scorched wood and fractured stone. Aria stood amid it all, soaked and shivering, as if waiting for the dead to whisper some sort of explanation.
They didn't.
She pulled her cloak tighter, its once-fine velvet now weighed down with water and grief. Every breath she drew in carried the acrid stench of fire and loss. Around her, the King's soldiers moved like ghosts, combing the wreckage for bodies, or worse—survivors with answers.
"Lady Valemont," said Captain Rhys, bowing stiffly, armor creaking. "We've recovered your father's signet... and something else. You should see it."
She followed him numbly, boots squelching through wet ash. Her father—Lord Cedric Valemont—was dead. Her younger brother too. The fire had taken them in the dead of night, when the wind howled and the walls screamed. The investigation whispered words like "sabotage" and "forbidden magic." But no one dared say it aloud.
Rhys led her to what remained of the east wing's cellar—a place her father had kept sealed with warded iron and silence. Even she, the heir, had never been allowed inside.
The wards were broken now. Magic still tingled faintly in the air, like static clinging to her skin. And there, in the center of the stone floor, surrounded by a circle of melted runes, lay the relic.
It looked like a mirror. But its surface shimmered with an unnatural sheen, like moonlight trapped beneath glass. Symbols crawled across its edge—ancient, shifting, alive.
Aria knelt beside it, ignoring the chill. The relic pulsed faintly under her palm.
"You shouldn't touch it," Rhys warned. "We don't know what it—"
The mirror lit up.
A single heartbeat—one blink—and the world inverted.
The air snapped, the floor gave way, and Aria felt herself pulled through space itself. Not falling. Not flying. Just… unraveling. Her scream never left her lips. Her body dissolved into light.
And then—
Silence.
Wind.
Stars.
She landed hard, sprawled across cool stone. Her breath knocked from her lungs. Her ears rang.
It was night, but not like the one she'd left behind. The sky here shimmered with unfamiliar constellations. Twin moons hung overhead, one crimson, one silver. She blinked. Blinked again.
Around her rose towering pillars of obsidian and vines that glowed softly blue. Trees with silver bark loomed in the distance, and somewhere far off, a dragon cried out—its call low, mournful, and far too real.
Aria slowly pushed herself up.
This wasn't Eldwyn. This wasn't even her world.
She was somewhere else entirely.
At first, the shock muted her thoughts. She walked. Just walked, because standing still made her feel like she'd shatter. Her slippers were ruined, soaked and torn. Her hair clung to her face in wet strands. The wind here was colder, sharper, but cleaner, too—untouched by smoke or war.
Then came the realization: she had nothing.
No weapon. No food. No knowledge of this place. And yet... no fear. Not quite.
There was a strange familiarity to the air, the stars, the pull in her chest like threads tightening toward a center she couldn't yet see.
She was meant to be here.
The thought came unbidden, like a memory misplaced.
She heard hooves before she saw them.
A rider galloped down the ridge—a man cloaked in deep navy, a silver sigil emblazoned on his chestplate: a crescent moon pierced by a sword. He reined in sharply when he spotted her.
"By the stars..." he muttered, dismounting. "You—you bear the mark."
Aria took a step back. "What mark?"
He approached cautiously, eyes flicking to her collarbone. She followed his gaze and gasped.
There, glowing faintly on her skin, was a symbol she'd never seen before. A spiral encased in wings—drawn in soft, golden light like ink from another world.
"It cannot be..." he whispered. "You came through the Eclipse Gate."
"The what now?"
"You are the Heartbound."
He knelt before her, fist over heart.
Aria stared at him like he'd lost his mind.
"I'm sorry—who are you? Where am I?"
The man rose. "I am Kael Thorne, First Sentinel of Solara. And you, my lady, are no longer in your realm."
They rode for hours beneath the twin moons, her questions tumbling out in fragments. Kael answered what he could, but it was clear even he didn't fully understand.
"The Eclipse Gate only opens once in a thousand years," he said. "It chooses someone—one with a tether strong enough to bridge worlds."
"And I was chosen?"
"I don't believe in accidents," he said. "Nor do the Oracles."
They reached the outskirts of a city carved into the cliffs—a place of light and crystal spires, guarded by statues of winged beasts and banners that shimmered like flame.
Aria had never seen anything so surreal.
People gathered at their arrival. She noticed how they stared—at her clothes, her face, the symbol still glowing faintly on her skin. Whispers followed her like shadows.
Kael led her into a chamber filled with swirling starlight. At its center stood a woman cloaked in midnight blue, her eyes glowing silver.
"The prophecy unfolds," she said without preamble. "The Heartbound has crossed."
"Stop saying that," Aria snapped, exhausted. "What does it even mean?"
The Oracle stepped closer. "It means you are the bridge. Between realms. Between fates."
"I don't want to be a bridge," Aria whispered. "I just want to go home."
"There is no home left, child," the Oracle said gently. "Not the one you knew. But the one you were meant for? It lies ahead. And it burns with both love... and war."
The chamber dimmed. The stars shifted.
And deep in her soul, something cracked open.
That night, as Aria lay in the guest quarters of a castle that shouldn't exist, she stared at the twin moons above and wondered:
Was it grief that brought her here... or destiny?
Outside, the wind whispered her name like it knew what even she did not:
That her arrival was not the beginning of a journey—…but the return of a queen long foretold.