In the heart of the neutral continent, among scattered kingdoms that bowed to neither god nor demon, stood the Kingdom of Vanyareth. Though it was not the largest nor the oldest, Vanyareth had carved out a name for itself—steadfast, pragmatic, and fiercely sovereign. Where other neutral kingdoms crumbled under quiet pressures—divine whispers, demonic gold, or internal dissent—Vanyareth thrived.
Its strength came from its balance: its military was formidable, its scholars unmatched, and its leaders uncowed by myth or fear. It never claimed purity, only power. Surrounded by the encroaching ideologies of neighboring realms, Vanyareth became a kind of paradox—unbelieving yet unshaken. Its neutrality was not passive; it was chosen, enforced, and guarded by generations of monarchs who knew too well the cost of kneeling.
Unlike kingdoms that clung to neutrality in isolation, Vanyareth opened its gates—to trade, to diplomacy, and to talent. People from all corners of the world walked its streets, spoke in its markets, studied in its universities. It became not a capital of neutrality, but a symbol of what a mortal realm could become without leaning on divine or demonic crutches.
And on this quiet morning, the kingdom was about to be stirred—for the prince was awakening.
The sun hadn't yet risen when the capital of Vanyareth stirred. Bells tolled from the spires of the Skybound Citadel, echoing across marble courtyards and bronze-plated towers. Crowds gathered by the thousands — nobles cloaked in silk, merchants with prayer beads in their palms, and farmers who had walked through the night barefoot just to witness this day.
The awakening of Crown Prince Kaelith of Vanyareth.
He stood atop the grand platform overlooking the Azure Square, the city's ceremonial heart. Only once every few decades had an awakening of such public grandeur taken place. But this was no ordinary heir. Kaelith was a prodigy groomed for war, diplomacy, and divinity. He was the king's only son, beloved by the people, whispered about in holy circles, and—though none dared say it aloud—rumored to be among the seven who would change the world.
He turned eighteen at the strike of dawn.
Kaelith stood bare-chested, a ceremonial blade strapped across his back. His eyes, a silver like storm-polished steel, didn't blink. He bowed his head slightly, offering his arms.
Then the light fell.
It was not sunlight. The skies, clear just moments ago, cracked open with thunder that carried no sound. A pressure slammed into the square, like gravity itself had turned its gaze upon the prince.
And then came the flame.
It did not burn the torch — it descended from the air itself, spiraling downward in a column of gold and crimson, wrapping around Kaelith's form like a serpent of judgment.
The crowd gasped.
Kaelith's back arched, his body lifting an inch from the marble ground. He didn't scream. He didn't fall. His chest rose and a single mark bloomed upon his back — a glowing tattoo seared into his flesh in real time, brilliant and shifting like living light. A phoenix wreathed in chains, wings outstretched, eyes bleeding fire.
Then it happened.
A shockwave burst from him, blowing back the first row of onlookers. Windows shattered. Birds fell from the sky, wings scorched by proximity.
Flames erupted across the plaza — but they did not consume. The fire danced above the crowd like petals in the wind, warm and terrifying. His breath came in shallow gasps, but his eyes were wide open. Kaelith stepped forward.
And then he spoke.
"I am marked by the Chainflame. I carry the judgment of fire — not to burn, but to unbind."
No one moved.
His father, King Varyn, had stood still the entire time from his high throne above the square. But now, even he took a step back, something unreadable flashing across his features.
Whispers spread like a fever.
Chainflame. Unheard of. Not fire. Not purification. A power of release. A power that unbinds.
Could it be? Was this one of them?
Before anyone could answer, Kaelith lifted his palm.
From the floor rose molten gold, taking shape mid-air, swirling like a living creature, until it froze — a sword, elegant and jagged, burning without smoke.
The crowd, as if under a spell, fell to their knees. Not from loyalty — but from sheer awe.
Above them all, the phoenix tattoo on Kaelith's back pulsed with living fire.
The echoes of Kaelith's awakening had not stayed within the palace walls.
By midday, the palace was sealed. No entry. No exit. Couriers were turned away. Nobles were told to postpone their visits. The Crown Regent issued no official statement, only tightened security around the citadel. The silence was deafening.
But outside, rumors ran wild.
Some claimed a divine spirit had descended in fire. Others whispered of an ancient curse returning. A few—those old enough to remember—spoke of the Chimera Trials of a forgotten age. But none spoke aloud of what the bell toll truly meant.
Because they all knew: this wasn't just another noble's coming of age.
This was prophecy.
Inside the palace, Kaelith lay alone in the obsidian sanctum—his breathing shallow, his skin still marked with glowing traces of the sigils. The High Physician had tried to approach, only to be forced back by the heat emanating from his skin.
He had not spoken since the outburst.
Not to his mother, Queen-Regent Alryssa, nor to the Sentinels who now watched from behind enchanted barriers. And yet in the stillness of the chamber, he whispered words not his own—snippets of a language no one had taught him.
Runes began to appear on the walls of his room. Not carved. Not painted.
Burned into the stone.
Far across the continent, in distant citadels and war camps, the tremor was felt.
The moment the sigil blazed into existence across Prince Kaelith's arm, the tremors weren't just magical — they were geopolitical.
Across the vast stretches of Thalor, from desert nomad clans to trading guilds in sky-hung citadels, rumors surged like wildfire. The awakening of a chosen marked the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy — a whisper passed down in secrecy, now echoing louder than war drums. The "Seven Branded" — beings destined to reshape the realm — were no longer myth. One had risen. And he was not from Caelion or Virleya... but Thalor, the land that claimed no gods and bowed to no demons.
In Caelion, the High Temples rang their golden bells not in celebration, but in warning. The Supreme Ecclesiarch gathered the Hierophants in a closed council, cloaked in silken prayers and veiled urgency. To them, the prophecy was dangerous — the Chosen were unpredictable anomalies, outside the ordained structure of divinity. That a prince of the neutral lands bore the mark sent shudders through their sacred walls.
Meanwhile, in Virleya, the Demon Courts stirred with hungry intrigue. Whispers slipped through shadowed halls: if one had awakened, the others would follow — and chaos could be guided. Tempted. Claimed.
And among the common folk across the continents — in taverns, temples, ruins, and battlefields — one name began to pass from tongue to tongue, wrapped in awe and unease: Kaelith. He became the first known spark of a storm none yet understood.
But somewhere in the whispering wilds of the lost east, far from the thrones and sanctuaries, the wind rustled through an endless forest. It did not speak of Kaelith.
It whispered of another.
One still hidden.
One still sealed.
One still waiting.