She was born beneath a sky of fractured light, in a place where dawn dared not linger. Her birth was not marked by celebration, nor by lineage, but by silence—an omen wrapped in silver cloth and left at the edge of the world. The stars knew her name before she did. The shadows whispered it before she could speak.
Lioraen was a child of light, stolen by shadows and raised in the forgotten corners of the realm. She was not cradled by royalty, nor taught by scholars. Instead, she learned from silence, from the flick of a blade in moonlight, from the hush of footsteps across broken stone. Her family was thieves—not by choice, but by survival. They gave her no crown, only a name: Shadewyn, the wind that moves unseen.
But the light within her never dimmed. It flickered, quietly, beneath her skin—waiting. Solastra, they called her in secret, for the way her presence warmed even the coldest night. She was the ember in the ash, the memory of something sacred long buried.
And when the old magic stirred, when the stars began to fracture and fate itself unraveled, she stood at the edge of the world—not as a queen, not as a thief, but as something older. Something chosen.
She walks through the world like a shadow stitched with starlight. She does not seek glory. She does not crave vengeance. She protects what others discard. She remembers what others forget. And when the world begins to fracture, when the old magic stirs and the crowns begin to fall, it is her name they will whisper—not in fear, but in hope.
Lioraen Shadewyn Solastra Nyxthorne.
The dusk-born sovereign. The silent flame. The fate no one saw coming.