The Thirty-Third Cycle was about to arrive.
That single truth stirred the world—not only with excitement, but with unease.
For every voice that spoke of hope, there was another that remembered what Cycles had brought
before. Wielders would rise. Power would return. And wherever power gathered, conflict followed.
Markets buzzed with rumors, soldiers were trained harder than usual, and prayers were spoken
with more caution than faith.
Still, belief was stronger than fear.
Children everywhere dreamed of becoming Wielders—or more precisely, of becoming the one
spoken of in the prophecy. The one who would stand at the front. The one who would bring the long
war to an end.
The hero.
And I was no different.
My name is Shrey Lai, and I believed—without a single doubt—that I would become that hero.
My father, Cassian Lai, was one of the King's Knights.
Not just any warrior.
A knight who answered only to the king's command.
When the king spoke, my father moved. When the king ordered, my father obeyed—no matter the
cost. That was the duty of a King's Knight.
He was feared on the battlefield and respected within the kingdom. Soldiers straightened their
backs when he passed. Even commanders chose their words carefully around him.
And yet, to me, he was simply my father.
Whenever his duties allowed it, he trained me personally.
Not gently.
Not kindly.
Proper stances. Controlled breathing. Repeated strikes until my arms ached and my grip failed. He
never praised me easily—but when he nodded in approval, it carried more weight than any
compliment.
My mother, Lyra Lai, always watched our training in silence.
She had once been a warrior herself, before marriage pulled her away from the blade. Sometimes,
when she thought I wasn't looking, her smile would falter—replaced by something uneasy,
something she never put into words.
When my father was called away by the king, I trained alone.
And when the training ended, I ran.
Not away from duty—but toward excitement.
The streets beyond our home were already familiar with our footsteps. My friends were always
waiting, arguments already in progress before I arrived.
Who would awaken first.
Who would receive a sword.
Who would be chosen by the Ember.
We reenacted battles with wooden sticks, shouted orders we barely understood, and laughed
whenever someone tripped or fell. Sometimes we argued fiercely, each of us convinced we would
be the one history remembered.
None of us doubted it.
Why would we?
The Selection Ceremony was only ten days away.
Ten days until the Ember would judge us.
Ten days until the world would see who we were meant to become.
As the sun dipped lower and our voices grew hoarse, I looked toward the palace walls in the
distance, imagining the Royal Concourse filled with fire and light.
We believed in the prophecy.
We believed in the Ember.
We believed the Thirty-Third Cycle would be different.