The sacred groves of Lumivara were alive with color.
Long silk banners fluttered high above, each one proudly displaying the sigil of one of the Five Great Houses. Sunlight danced along golden threads, scattering light like confetti across the smooth marble paths. The scent of blooming flowers—moonflowers, bellvine, and phoenix-root—perfumed the air. Children ran barefoot through the petals, their laughter ringing beneath the canopy of ancient trees.
It was the day of the Solvaris Festival.
A festival of unity. Of heritage. Of hope.
Long ago, before kings claimed thrones and empires rose, the goddesses walked the world in mortal form. Each carried a gift—and a burden:
Luceria, who brought light and wisdom.
Aetheris, who ruled rebirth and destruction.
Pyrrha, the fire and the stone.
Indoria, mistress of sea and storm.
Zephyra, the wind and change itself.
Together, they shaped Luneth. They gifted power to five mortal bloodlines, leaving a legacy that still stirred with divine traces.
The Solvaris Festival was more than a tradition. It was a remembrance. A sacred renewal.
Every ten years, the Five Houses returned to Lumivara—the place where the goddesses had once stood side by side. Ceremonies were performed. Blessings given. Old peace renewed, even if only for a short time.
Preparations had begun days in advance. Fabrics were chosen with care, each reflecting a goddess's domain:
White and gold for Light.
Crimson and ash for Fire.
Green and silver for Wind.
Deep blue for Water.
Black-gold for Rebirth.
But the Blessings were more than beautiful moments. They were ancient rites. Echoes of a time when magic still walked with bare feet.
At sunrise, the Blessing of Light was held.
Clerics in white robes read from scrolls beneath the crystal obelisk that towered above the central glade. As the first light of morning filtered through the branches, children scattered mirrored petals—sunpetals—that shimmered in the dawn.
The clearing glowed. It felt like standing in the heart of a memory.
At noon, the Blessing of Fire began.
Warriors and dancers of House Pyrrha performed a spiraling flame dance around a scorched ring of stone. Their staffs burned bright, their motions timed like breath to flame. At the final spin, the circle erupted in a short-lived blaze, then sank into soft ash.
From the center, flame-colored blossoms bloomed.
The fire had not destroyed—it had purified.
By midafternoon, the wind stirred through Zephyra's grove.
There were no instruments. Only breeze, ribbons, and the distant song of bells. The High Voice stood beneath the tallest tree, her words lifted like feathers.
Children released flocks of birds into the air. Windcatchers spun in every hand.
It felt like the grove had begun to breathe.
As evening cooled the day, the Blessing of Water flowed.
At the sacred spring, music rippled through the reeds. Guests walked slowly to the stream, lanterns in hand. Each was placed on the water with care.
They floated downstream, soft lights bearing hopes, memories, and prayers.
Some believed the river would return them one day. Others knew it never would.
Twilight fell. The Blessing of Rebirth came in silence.
Attendants in ash-gray robes circled a ring of white lilies. No drums. No chants. One by one, the petals were lit—not with fire, but with a smoke that curled and vanished into the violet sky.
Some saw shapes in the smoke. Others turned away.
No words were needed. The earth had already listened.
And something… had stirred.
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That morning, before the ceremonies truly began, Empress Elira of Aetheris arrived quietly, dressed in soft lavender and silver.
In her arms, she held her daughter, Eclissa.
The child, just past seven moons old, rested calmly, her silver eyes wide and unblinking. She didn't cry. She didn't fuss. She simply looked.
As if she was already watching the world.
Elira greeted the other rulers with a soft smile and a graceful bow. Her words were few. Her voice carried no weight of command. But there was something regal in her stillness—something both distant and kind.
She did not linger in the center of the grove. Instead, she slipped back into the shade of her pavilion, choosing quiet over spectacle.
It was her first public appearance since the child was born.
No one guessed it might be her last.
Later that afternoon, the festival opened a space for the children of the Five Houses—a small garden tucked just beyond the main path.
There, five young souls gathered, their steps light on the grass.
Etheron Damien Aetheria, Crown Prince of the Aetherian Empire, stood at the center. His silver ceremonial tunic shimmered like moonlight on stone. Though only five, his presence carried weight—a quiet strength, like his father's.
He looked nervous.
A girl stepped forward.
"Are you Prince Etheron?" she asked with a soft smile.
Her name was Liceriana Celeste Lucerion, daughter of House Lucerion. She was graceful, her movements calm, her silver hair glinting in the light.
Etheron gave a small nod. "You're Lady Lucerion?"
"Liceriana," she corrected, her smile never fading.
Across the pond, a voice chimed in.
"He's just a boy, Liceriana. He doesn't need a title."
That was Kai Orithia Pyrian, bold as ever, brushing dust from her knees after crouching to watch the koi swim.
Thalassia laughed—quietly, like a ripple.
"Be kind, Kai. It's their first time meeting."
"I am being kind," Kai replied. "But we don't have to act like we're already grown-ups."
Etheron's eyes shifted between the girls' faces, unsure what to say.
Then, the wind stirred, and a soft laugh drifted through the trees.
Lilith Sylwen Zephyrion twirled into the garden, her green cloak fluttering like wings.
"You're all so serious," she said brightly. "It's a festival, not a war council."
Kai smirked. "Not all of us are born with the wind in our hair."
Lilith grinned. "But we're all here. So let's enjoy it."
Before anyone could answer, a nursemaid entered, cradling the tiniest member of their little circle in her arms.
Eclissa Aetheris.
The baby was swaddled in pale silks. Her gaze was steady, her presence quiet.
The older children gathered around, drawn by something they couldn't name.
"She's so small," Thalassia whispered, her voice full of awe.
"She looks kind of... different," Etheron murmured, leaning in with wide eyes.
Liceriana tilted her head, curiosity dancing in her gaze. "She feels different too. Like... warm sunshine."
None of them knew what it meant. They didn't need to.
Beneath the golden trees, as dappled light fell softly through the leaves, a quiet feeling settled over them—gentle and sure.
No one said it aloud.
But somehow, they all knew:
She belonged with them.
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As night fell, the sky above Lumivara turned a deep indigo.
Stars twinkled, slow and distant. Lanterns floated above the marble walkways, casting soft gold glows. Banquet tables were arranged under each pavilion, their canopies shimmering in the light.
But House Aetheris dined without a roof.
Their table stood under the open sky.
At its head sat Emperor Edmund, silent and composed.
Beside him—an empty chair.
No one asked where the Empress had gone.
The banquet began with music—gentle strings and whispered songs. Platters of food from every province lined the tables. Laughter passed between nobles like traded favors.
But at the children's table, a quiet hush had fallen.
Etheron poked at his food, his spoon barely making a sound against the plate.
"She's not here," he said softly, not looking up.
"Your mother?" Liceriana asked, her voice kind.
He gave a small nod. "She said she'd stay close today."
Thalassia leaned in a little. "But the nursemaid came back alone."
"Maybe she's just resting," Kai said, though even she didn't seem sure.
Lilith glanced up, her expression thoughtful. "Or maybe... something happened."
Etheron blinked. "What do you mean?"
Lilith's eyes drifted toward the swaying treetops. "The wind feels different tonight. A little... eerie."
The others fell quiet, listening. The breeze that brushed past their cheeks wasn't cold, but it carried something unusual—like a whisper too soft to hear.
No one said it aloud, but they each felt it: something had shifted. Not in a frightening way... just enough to make their hearts beat a little faster.
Thalassia reached for Etheron's hand beneath the table, and he didn't pull away.
The music faltered. A servant hurried toward the Emperor, his steps uneven.
He leaned in and whispered something quickly.
Emperor Edmund rose from his seat. At once, the grove fell into silence.
The nursemaid had returned. But she was alone.
No Empress. No child.
Her arms were scratched, her braid undone, her lips trembling as if trying to form words and failing.
Gasps fluttered through the gathering. A few nobles rose, their chairs scraping softly against the earth. Others froze, goblets paused mid-air.
"Where is she?" Edmund asked, his voice calm—but it carried weight.
The nursemaid's mouth opened, but no sound came.
"Where is Elira?"
She dropped to her knees.
No one moved. No one spoke. Even the leaves above seemed to still.
Far above them, a single star slipped silently across the sky.
But the moon… never rose.
Etheron tilted his head back, eyes wide. "It was supposed to be a full moon tonight," he whispered. "She said… she wanted Eclissa to see it."
The hush deepened.
Then the trees stirred—not from the wind, but like the forest itself had exhaled.
The quiet that followed wasn't peaceful. It was the kind that made the night feel too still.
Like the breath the world takes… right before something breaks.
No one dared speak her name again that night.
The lanterns were never relit. The feast grew cold. The stars kept watching.
And somewhere deep in the forest, where moonlight should have touched the trees, shadows stretched just a little too long.
The Solvaris Festival had ended. Not with celebration. But with a question.
One that would echo far beyond Lumivara.
Where is the Empress?