Year 1707, 6th of March.
Above the city of Norham, in the Ivansia kingdom, the moon hung high like a silver coin pressed into the dark sky, its silvery-white glow softened by the drifting fog.
Its the time of the year when winter starts to fade away while the heat of summer is gradually coming in Ivansia Kingdom.
The gaslight lanterns along Norham's streets flickered softly beneath a heavy, clouded sky. Mist clung to the cobblestones, curling around the legs of iron streetlamps and drifting briefly under the wheels of a lone carriage.
The smell of damp stone mixed with faint wafts of freshly baked bread and coal smoke. Houses of dark brick and steep slate roofs lined the streets, each window glowing with a warm, golden light. Curtains of velvet or lace framed some, while balconies overlooked the quiet avenues. Somewhere far off, a clock tower chimed the hour, its metallic tones carried across rooftops.
Inside a palace like manor with a beautiful garden filled with many kinds of flowers. On Hawthorn Avenue, a figure ascended the broad staircase. Polished oak gleamed beneath a deep red carpet runner, golden banisters catching the glow from a chandelier above. Paintings of ancestors lined the walls, their eyes seeming to follow him as he moved.
He held a silver-patterned book in his hands, worn slightly at the spine. Its pages gave off m the scent of old paper filling the quiet hall.
He paused mid-step. His hair, a crimson red, was carefully swept back, and his oceanic blue eyes traced every word with intent. He had a sharp jaw and was decent looking, mostly because of his rare features. He looked young but mature enough to be in his early 20s.
He wore a black three-piece noblesse suit, the fabric rich, with a silk waistcoat beneath, silver cufflinks at his sleeves, polished shoes down. He seemed to have a motive of doing something.
In a luxurious room, he sat on a bench in-front of wooden table made of rich mahogany where the silver patterned fairly new book he put- remained still. Candle light enhanced the aesthetic and the mysterious vibe.
He opened the book. The scent of newly printed paper rose with each careful turn of a page.
He began to read. Mumbling words came out from his mouth.
…
Long ago, there was a young prince born into a prosperous kingdom. His hair shone like gold in sunlight, and his eyes sparkled with deep green. He was remarkably handsome and had a charm that drew people naturally to him.
He had two older brothers and a younger sister, and his life was filled with laughter and care. The prince loved his sister more than anything else in the world. They played together in the gardens, studied in the same halls, and learned about mystical arts as well as ordinary subjects. The bond they shared was pure, and it was clear to all that the happiness of the prince rested in the smile of his sister. His family, including the king and queen, cherished this closeness and approved wholeheartedly.
For many years, life was calm and bright. The prince's heart held no ambition for the throne; he only wished to see his family happy and safe. But such bliss could not last forever.
As time passed, the kingdom fell into political turmoil. His older brothers began to quarrel over who would rule, and though the prince did not care for power, he found himself dragged into conflicts he had no desire to join. He struggled to keep peace, protect his sister, and maintain the unity of his family.
Then one day, tragedy struck. An intruder broke into the palace under the cover of night. The prince was away at the time, and when he returned, he learned that his sister had been attacked. She lay in a deep, unnatural sleep—alive, but motionless, as if claimed by Death's hand yet not taken fully. No wound scarred her skin, no blood stained the floor, and no trace of the assassin remained.
But in a sense, it was death.
Grief consumed him. He fell to his knees, weeping, blaming himself for failing to protect his beloved sister. But Death's shadow was not finished—soon that day he found that his parents and brothers were also struck by the same dreadful state, trapped in silent stillness between life and the grave. The prince's world of joy collapsed, leaving only despair and the echo of Death's cruel laughter.
At one stormy night,
the prince stood on the balcony of the palace, rain soaking him as he looked out into the dark horizon. He cried out, neither at the fate nor the god, but at "Death" itself—cursing the merciless force that had stolen his family, lamenting his helplessness, and demanding to know why he had been left behind. Divine lightning split the sky, striking him directly. He fell, but he did not die. Something inexplicable had happened.
"Death" had touched him, yet refused to claim him, leaving him alive—altered, but breathing. As if, "It" has choosen him as its own.
When he awoke, he was no longer the boy he had been. The changes revealed themselves slowly, not in his hair or his eyes, but in the weight he carried with every step. His features sharpened with time, making him even more handsome than before- yet it was not beauty alone that marked his transformation. His pride had grown into something unshakable, tempered by dignity and honor. His every movement bore the quiet authority of one born to rule, though he had never reached for the crown. He was now a man worthy of the throne.
He had become the kind who could silence a room with a glance. Calm, cold, and deliberate, his words were few but heavy, and when he chose to act, it was with ruthless precision. A faint aura of mystery clung to him, as though Death itself had brushed against his soul and left its shadow lingering. He was no longer the innocent youth who once laughed freely—he had become a man of composure and cruelty, a silent force who carried the presence of a king and thousands of beings behind him.
Whether he accepted the throne or not it didn't matter as his beliefs were something that none could fathom.
He did not seize the throne. For him, kingship without honor was hollow—he would not claim it while his family still lingered in Death's shadow.
Even though it seemed that he had no emotions left he still had them deep down inside his soul.
One quiet night, he sat beside his sister's bed, watching her unmoving form. He spoke softly, telling her how empty he felt, how he had scoured the world for a cure and hunted for the hand that had done this, and how he had uncovered a clue that demanded a great war to come. A single tear slid down his cheek. Though he could not yet awaken them, he swore he would fight Death itself to bring them back.
When the day of "War" came, he led armies with unmatched brilliance. The army moved like dead at his every command killing every enemy at his sight. His strategy crushed enemies, and his courage inspired nations. Victory was his. And in the aftermath, he fulfilled his vow: he shattered the shadowy force that had brought Death to his family, and he awakened those who had been lost to its embrace.
But when his purpose was complete, he vanished. No throne, no crown, no glory—only silence.
Legends say the prince still walks unseen, a figure who once defied Death, who bore its touch and turned it into strength. To some, he is a reminder that even in despair, one can rise. To others, he is a warning—that Death is not always an ending, but sometimes the beginning of something far greater.
…
His eyes and body remained still without a bit of movement. Sudden surge of goosebumps stroke him. He was in a daze thinking deep.
Thud thud thud-
A sound came from the door.
"Young Master Reinhardt," called a voice which seemed fairly feminine. A maid appeared, carrying a polished silver tray, short and dark brown hair falling naturally, amber eyes enchanting the overall look, black dress crisp and pristine. "You're late. Again."
Reinhardt didn't answer, he remained lost in thoughts.
The curvy figure with a beautiful feminine face stood at the opened door, hands on her hips. "Are you planning to read forever?!". She raised her voice many folds.
He looked up, blinking at her dumbfounded. "Wh-what?! It's hardly midnight, Lucy. Not everyone sleeps like the dead."
"You will if you keep skipping dinner for books," she replied, rolling her eyes.
Reinhardt smirked, dusting his sleeve. "Reading nourishes the soul more than any stew you can serve. It relaxes your mind and soul. You should try it sometime."
"I'll pass," she muttered, following him toward the dining room downstairs.
…
Inside, his father, Aldric van Astraellis, sat behind a wide mahogany table, carved legs. He adjusted his spoon and fork and looked up, brown hair streaked faintly with gray and green emerald eyes shone bright. "What were you doing coming down for dinner so late? Another of your penny novels?"
"Actually…father," Reinhardt said, lifting the silver-patterned book slightly, "I was reading about a prince. A mystical tale written long ago… by a author named Marcus White. My friend gave it to me".
His father raised an eyebrow. "You have friends who send you books now?"
"I'll ignore that as you are such a respected man of the church, the high priest…Anyway, you sent Lucy to fetch me. Something important?"
"Yes," the older man said, leaning back. "Reinhardt Van Astraelis, there's a ball tomorrow night. High officials of churches, parliament, nobles, even military authorities will be there. You will attend."
Reinhardt's frown deepened. "Father… you know I don't—"
"I know," his father Aldric cut in. "But it is necessary. Consider it education. The world moves quietly beneath such gatherings."
"And its been a while since you've gone to one."
Reinhardt exhaled. "Poetic threats are your specialty."
"Practice your dancing, bowing and other etiquette. "
Lucy gave him a sympathetic pat on the back. "Don't worry. I'll make sure you don't embarrass yourself too much."
"That's what I'm afraid of," he muttered.
After that they proceeded for the dinner.
…
7th March.
The next morning, pale sunlight filtered through the thick clouds. Reinhardt stood before a tall mirror, half-defeated as Lucy adjusted his ceremonial coat. Dark blue velvet, silver embroidery tracing intricate patterns, the van Astraelis crest stitched on the lapel. Polished gloves in hand, boots shining faintly.
"Stop fidgeting," Lucy said.
He stood infront of lucy. Comparing the two of them he was relatively tall, roughly 1.8 meters.
"These cuffs feel tighter than my last breath ughh," he complained while adjusting the clothes.
"Then hold your breath and smile," she replied, smirking.
"Stop treating me like a child! will you? I'm 22 now", he frowned.
"You don't behave like one though, you behave more like a child. May the Two Faced God gives you some maturity." She shouted while she made a gesture of drawing a line with two dots in on the chest.
"Anyways I'm 22 as well!" She frowned.
"Is she my maid or my master, I wonder", Reinhardt thought while he seemed like a good boy waiting for her mother's order.
Once ready, they descended to a carriage of dark blue wood, silver crest shining atop the door, plush interior inviting. Streets gave way to the wider avenues leading to the steamrail station, where the carriage transitioned onto tracks toward Cindrallis.
…
Cindrallis rose ahead like a polished crown. Towers of white stone gleamed beside ancient palaces, smoke coming out from distant factories. Near the city center, a clocktower struck, mingling with city sounds: carts rolling, children laughing, merchants shouting their wares.
At the Redfern street,
Inside a quiet, refined house, a distinctive young man who looked to be barely in his 20s moved with measured steps. Tall windows framed with sheer curtains let in pale light, bouncing off polished wooden floors. A small bookshelf leaned in a corner, a table held herbs and rolled scrolls, a warm fire glimmered in the hearth.
A leather covered notebook was left open which presented a name on it. It says- "Sebastian Stormvale".
He wore a dark wool coat over a soft white linen shirt, grey trousers fitted beneath. Unusual snow like white hair fell just enough to brush his forehead, pale skin nearly luminous in the morning light, crimson moon like red eyes sharp and observant. Sharp jaw, slim nose, charming eyes, skinny figure with hints of muscle- overall, he was good looking in this era of gentlemen.
"Sebastian," his mother called, smiling gently, "can you go pick up some groceries today? You are free today right?"
"Of course, Mother. I'll go.," he replied quietly, adjusting the cuff of his coat in his medium tall frame.
"Oh and the list of the items is on the table and the money's on the drawer, you can keep the money left", she said with a gentle tone.
"Okay mom", Sebastian adjusted his clothing picking up the list from the table and the money from the drawer, he kept it in his pocket.
Sebastian's snow-white hair gleamed faintly in the morning light, his piercing red eyes calm and observant; beside him, his mother shared the same pale hair with equally striking red eyes and a fairly young and beautiful face with gentle smile.
"Aria, you have school today, get ready quickly", his mom said.
"Ah, yes mom. I totally forgot about it heh". His younger sister mirrored the family's silver hair but with soft, curious blue eyes that seemed to reflect the sky.
His younger sister who looked 16 years old, Aria grinned, hair bright in contrast to her pale tones. "Try not to bring the bakery home in pieces, okay?"
"I'll manage. ," he said, calm, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Sebastian finally got out his house.
…
Misty street market, Cindrallis.
Sebastian walked through the streets to the market. He seemed to stand out from the rest because of his distinct and good looking features. People stole glances at him.
Stalls overflowed with fruit, vegetables, spices, and fabrics. The smell of freshly baked bread mingled with herbs and roasted nuts.
The brass bell above the wooden door rang softly as Sebastian stepped into the shop. The air smelled of flour and dried herbs. Behind the counter, Mr. Halden, the broad-shouldered shopkeeper, was arranging jars of jam.
"Morning, Sebastian," the man said with a nod. "Out on errands again, young man?"
"Yes, Mother asked for butter and milk," Sebastian replied, adjusting the paper list in his hand.
"Fresh churned butter came in today, you're in luck," Halden said, wrapping a block in cloth. "Milk too, though I hear the price might rise soon. Farmers are complaining that the fog's lasting longer than it should."
Sebastian tilted his head. "Longer fog? Is it troubling them?"
"Aye," Halden grunted, pouring milk into a sealed tin. "Cows get restless easily and even other animals, birds are behaving strangely. Some priests say that the fog is a blessing... Some folks whisper that it's a sign of the god…—Can't say I believe in that nonsense though." He said while making a gesture of triangle referring to the "God Who Seeks Salvation".
Sebastian gave a faint smile. "Still, fog that clings too long does make the mornings feel strange."
"And to tell you something—I'm a believer of the Dreaming Goddess, Mr Halden. The priests there don't speak nonsense like that, they recognise it as a genuine problem rather than a blessing", Sebastian stated.
Halden chuckled. "True enough… Anyways, here you go, lad. Butter and milk, its 6 lire - same price as before, for now at- least heh. Tell your mother it's the best she'll find in the whole capital of Cindrallis."
"I will. Thank you, Mr. Halden.," Sebastian said, placing 6 bronze coloured coins with a mystical symbol of "a man with an umbrella" on the counter before stepping out into the misty street again.
He went on to buy few more things in misty street market.
Sellers, wearing aprons and patterned scarves, greeted him politely. He returned smiles, asking after subtle details: ripeness of fruit, freshness of bread, origin of herbs. Children darted between stalls, laughing. He noticed the threads of a woven scarf, the sheen on a polished apple, the precise arrangement of spices in wooden boxes.
Turning down a narrow alley on his way back, he caught a flicker of movement in the mist curling between old walls.
A man, running too quickly, accidentally bumped into him, jolting in surprise before dashing away. He had mud on his boots and had ragged breathing, a gun could barely be seen on his left pocket.
Sebastian observed calmly, noting nothing else unusual except the gun, though it was common for police and church authorities to have guns. After thinking for a second he continued on his way to buy a few of his own things with the money left.
…
In the carriage while going to cindrallis, Reinhardt lingered on the thoughts about the book, fascinated by the prince's courage, transformation, and the weight of responsibility, most of all- Death which he tried to defy.
Back in Norham, hawthorn avenue , Reinhardt had left the book about the prince's story in the table carelessly.
The silver-patterned book was left open. It looked slightly worn out.
The opened last few illustrated pages depicted castles, gardens, and a golden-haired prince with his silvery lavender haired— violet eyed beloved sister surrounded by a happy family.
…
Evening arrived in Cindrallis. Sebastian finished putting away with his own needs using the remaining money, exchanging polite farewells with sellers and known pedestrians.
He arrived home shortly after taking a quick stroll.
At home, his mother prepared the little evening snacks, his sister chattered about school and small adventures. Sebastian moved quietly, attentive, composed thinking about things.
Outside, Cindrallis rested between day and night- waiting for the events yet to come.