The Awakening Storm
The rain lashed against the stone roads like a relentless drumbeat, echoing through narrow alleys flanked by towering, soot-stained brick buildings. Streetlamps flickered under the weight of wind and water, casting trembling halos onto cobbled lanes that had forgotten the sun.
A man in a dark overcoat ran through the storm, boots splashing through puddles, breath sharp and frantic. His hood clung to his scalp, rain pouring down his face, but he didn't stop. The bells in the eastern towers had tolled midnight, but tonight was no ordinary night.
He turned sharply into a narrow street — Quillbone Lane, the sign read, crooked and rusting. At its end stood a crooked little bookstore, wedged like a secret between larger shops. The windows were fogged, the door unmarked, but a dim orange glow pulsed from within.
He shoved the door open.
The warmth hit him like a whisper. The scent of ink, dust, and old wood curled into his lungs.
She was waiting behind the counter.
A woman — no older than thirty — with dusky skin, coiled black hair, and sharp eyes that shimmered strangely in the lamplight. She wore a deep red cloak fastened by a brooch that looked… ancient. Her expression was calm, almost amused.
He panted, dripping, eyes wild. "The queen... she's gone into labor. Early. Two weeks early."
The woman didn't flinch.
She simply smiled — a soft, wistful curve of her lips — but something in her gaze burned. It wasn't joy. It was closer to fury... disguised as peace.
"The time," she said quietly, voice like silk wrapped in steel, "has come."
And then — before the man could respond — she vanished.
No sound. No shimmer. Just… gone.
The bell above the shop door rang again. But it hadn't moved.
---
Across the city, in a soot-slicked alley beneath the metal scaffolding of the Royal Foundry, sparks flew.
An ironworker stood before a forge, shirt soaked in sweat, arms blackened with soot. His tools clanked methodically — hammer, twist, shape. Focus sharpened his features into stone.
"This time," he muttered, as if chanting, "I won't fail."
His hands never stopped.
---
In the heart of the Palace, the queen screamed.
Silken sheets were stained crimson. Midwives rushed, barked orders, pressed cloth to flesh. Candles trembled in their holders.
Outside the birthing chamber, a fifteen-year-old girl stood still as marble.
A princess. Skin pale as pearl. Eyes lined with kohl. Her golden hair was pinned back into braids, untouched by wind.
She looked out the grand arched window at the dark city.
And whispered, "Something is wrong."
---
Then — the sky split.
A blinding white light tore through the clouds, sharp and soundless. It wasn't lightning. It wasn't fire.
It was otherworldly.
Every head turned — the ironworker's hammer stopped mid-air. The palace midwives froze. The princess's lips parted, breath caught. Even the man in the bookstore stumbled back.
He turned toward where the woman had stood.
She was gone.
In her place lay a single object atop the wooden counter — glowing softly despite the dim.
A solid gold bracelet, thick and ancient-looking. Its ends twisted into twin phoenix heads, their beaks open, almost whispering to each other. The eyes were tiny rubies, glinting like living flames. The surface pulsed faintly with warmth, like a heartbeat.
Then the white light surged — swallowing the city in brilliance.
And the world held its breath.