Solias III Year 891
The grand ducal city of Asenor stood as a monument to time's unyielding march, its ancient walls a testament to Artia's enduring might.
Rising a hundred meters, the colossal stone barriers encircled the city in a near-perfect oval, their weathered surfaces etched with the scars of forgotten wars.
From one side, no mortal eye could trace their full arc, the sheer scale dwarfing imagination. Winds howled against the stone, carrying whispers of countless generations who had once stood guard upon them, as though the walls themselves remembered every oath and every fall.
Asenor's origins stretched back to the kingdom's founding, a bastion second only to the capital itself, its heartbeat pulsing under the stewardship of the Fenixhart family.
Their military prowess, whispered to rival even the royal house, cast a shadow as long and fiery as the banners that fluttered above their domain.
At the city's heart loomed Fenixhart Castle, a fortress of ashen gray stone that seemed forged from the charred bones of mythical beasts. Its towers clawed at the heavens, radiating an aura of untamed power, as if the very walls exhaled embers.
Atop the highest spire, the family's emblem snapped in the wind—a crimson feather, not woven but alive with illusory flame, its edges flickering with heat that seemed to singe the air.
At night its glow bled across the rooftops of Asenor, and children swore a phoenix circled overhead, keeping watch over the city. To gaze upon it was to feel the weight of the Fenixharts' legacy: bravery that felled empires, might that shattered armies, and a temper as volatile as the infernos they commanded.
Yet beneath that ferocity lay a warmth reserved for kin—a flicker of tenderness that softened even the fiercest hearts, much like the fairy-like charm of a certain princess who had once danced through these halls.
Within the castle's grand chamber, tapestries of fiery conquests adorned the walls, their threads woven with scenes of battles where flames had rewritten history. At the center stood a majestic throne, carved from gleaming obsidian and etched with runes that pulsed like smoldering coals.
Here sat Duke Erogen Fenixhart, a towering figure whose red hair, streaked with silver, framed a face scarred by countless battles. His eyes burned with the intensity of a forge, their gaze both piercing and unyielding, capable of cowing even the demon lords of ancient tales.
Before him knelt Marxian, his most loyal steward, a man whose weathered features and steady gaze had endured five centuries of service, his loyalty as unshakable as the castle itself.
"My lord," Marxian began, his voice a steady thread in the chamber's heavy air, "we have a new report on Princess Aisa."
The name "Aisa" pierced Erogen's stoic facade like a spark igniting dry tinder. His cold, unyielding expression softened, if only for a breath, as memories of his youngest daughter flooded back.
Aisa, the apple of the Fenixhart eye, had been a whirlwind of whimsy and warmth, her fairy-like nature melting even the sternest warriors into indulgent smiles. He remembered her laughter echoing through the training yards, chasing sparrows across the walls while armored men paused mid-drill to marvel.
Once, she had even placed a flower crown atop his battered helm, boldly declaring him "the gentlest knight in Artia." That memory burned brighter than any conquest, a reminder that beneath the Fenixhart fire there had always been a father's heart.
Her laughter had once echoed through these halls, a melody that tamed the family's fiery hearts. Yet that sweetness masked a hidden ferocity, a protectiveness so fierce it could rival her mother's—a storm that had once made even Erogen tread carefully.
"I hope there is nothing amiss," Erogen murmured, his voice a low rumble, like embers stirring in a hearth.
"My command stands: let her live freely, intervening only if the shadows grow too dark for her to dispel alone." As he spoke, an oppressive aura seeped from him, unintentional yet suffocating, the air thickening as if a blaze waited to ignite. Candles guttered, and the runes carved into the obsidian throne flared wildly, their glow licking at the shadows. The weight of his power, honed over centuries, pressed against the chamber, a reminder of the Fenixhart temper that could scorch the earth.
Marxian, who had weathered Erogen's tempests for half a millennium, felt a tremor ripple through his bones. He steadied himself, drawing on the discipline forged in service, his voice unwavering despite the aura's pressure. "No, my lord, nothing dire. It is… heartening news. Princess Aisa's elder child, Essa, has awakened her magic core at the tender age of nine—with fire affinity at eighty percent purity."
Erogen's hand gripped the throne's armrest so tightly that the obsidian creaked under his strength. His breath caught, his eyes widening in rare astonishment. A faint, proud smile tugged at his lips, flickering like a flame in a storm. Eighty percent purity? Such a mark was unheard of, even among the Fenixharts' storied lineage.
He had always known Aisa's children could never be ordinary, born of her union with Marcus—a man whose origins remained a mystery cloaked in whispers.
To the world, Marcus was merely a powerful adventurer, an upstart who had stolen Aisa's heart twelve years ago when she fled the castle's gilded cage. Erogen had chosen restraint then, forbidding pursuit and dispatching only his most trusted shadows to watch from afar, their reports painting a life of quiet joy in Veloria.
Yet Marcus's sudden vanishing during Aisa's second pregnancy had stirred Erogen's deepest worries. He had nearly summoned her back to Asenor, fearing the dangers tied to Marcus's enigmatic lineage.
Whispers from the empire hinted at bloodlines that could topple kingdoms, a heritage so perilous that even the king remained ignorant of its presence in Artia. Two heirs of that lineage—Essa and her younger brother, Aeon—now dwelled in Veloria, their potential a spark that could ignite chaos if discovered. The mere thought sent a shudder through Erogen; a single rumor could unravel Artia like a tapestry caught in flame.
Marxian cleared his throat softly, a subtle cough that pulled Erogen from the labyrinth of his thoughts. "My lord," he continued, "with eighty percent purity in her base fire affinity, Essa holds the potential to refine it into the purest form of the Fenixhart lineage flame. But to achieve such a variant, she requires our house's training and resources—the potions, techniques, and spellbooks passed down through generations."
Erogen nodded, his mind racing through the arcane intricacies of affinity evolution. Every human who formed a magic core began with a base element: Fire, Water, Earth, Wind, Light, Darkness, or the rare Space.
Through absorption of compatible magical cores and specialized techniques, one could elevate a base affinity to a variant—Ice from Water, Magma from Fire, Healing from Light, Shadow from Darkness. Yet purity was the key. Most commoners awakened with a mere thirty to forty percent, leaving scant room for evolution before destabilization.
Essa's eighty percent was a prodigy's mark, a once-in-millennia gift, granting her a vast window—fifty-five percent stability—to forge a unique flame without shattering her core.
Such refinement was no trifling feat. Noble houses like the Fenixharts thrived on their inherited variants, their grimoires brimming with spells tailored to those affinities.
A commoner might stumble upon a rare variant through sheer luck, but without the knowledge to craft spells, it was useless—a destabilizing curse. For every prodigy born, history recorded two dozen tragedies—cores shattered, lives consumed by flames they could not master.
The nobles' edge lay in their legacies: tomes of Arcana, elixirs to stabilize the core, rituals to weave new incantations. Erogen knew Marxian spoke truth; Essa's potential demanded the Fenixhart forge, lest her fire flicker out in obscurity.
He pondered deeply, the weight of legacy pressing upon him. Aisa's stubborn spirit flashed in his mind—her fairy-like sweetness masking a will of steel, much like the hidden overprotectiveness that had once fooled even him into thinking she was easily swayed. Her daughter, Essa, mirrored that duality: a fierce, tomboyish sword-genius whose clingy love for Aeon burned as brightly as her newfound affinity, her protectiveness a storm that could rival Aisa's own.
Erogen sighed, the sound carrying both resignation and a flicker of paternal warmth, like the gentle glow of Aisa's lanterns in Veloria. "It looks like it is time for Aisa's return," he said, his voice steady yet tinged with the ache of years apart.
He paused, his gaze sharpening with resolve, the fire in his eyes mirroring the crimson feather above. "Knowing Aisa's stubbornness, Marxian, send your daughter Arya to fetch her and inform her of my decision."
The chamber fell silent, save for the faint crackle of runes along the throne, their glow pulsing like a heartbeat.
Outside, the crimson feather snapped in the wind, its fiery illusion casting shadows that danced across Asenor's walls. Destiny stirred, its whispers weaving through the city, reaching toward a small house in Veloria where a boy, a girl, and their mother lived unaware of the storm gathering on the horizon—a storm that would call them back to the heart of fire.