It began not with war, but with stillness.
And with a blade no one remembers.
Not because it was broken.
But because it chose to be forgotten.
There is a legend known only in pieces.
Passed between storm-split ships and fire-warmed halls. Whispered by midwives, old mages, and wandering scribes. Written in fading ink in the back of books no one finishes reading.
It tells of four.
Four who are chosen—not born, not crowned. Four who do not carry flags or claim thrones, but who stand behind those who do.
One for the blade.
One for the shield.
One for the sight.
One for the silence.
They do not appear in the songs of war or the records of kings. But they are always there—when the divine children rise, so too do these four.
The old sailors call them the Tide's Four.
The priests name them The Veiled.
The scribes speak of The Path Beneath the Path.
The windbreakers call them Skyfolds.
And healers… they only whisper, "The ones who hold fate by the edge."
Most forget them.
But the world never does.
"When the heirs of the divine stir again," the old saying goes, "so too shall those who once guarded them. Not in fire. Not in light. But in silence."
And when someone dares to speak their true name, it is only under breath, behind closed doors, with a hand placed over the heart:
Vel'Asari.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------—------—------—------—------—------—------—------—------
The night of the Solvaris Festival was meant to be a night of light.
It had always been so. The Day of Illumination marked the unity of the five divine houses. In the sacred groves of Lumivara, lanterns bobbed like stars in the trees, and songs of old joy drifted on the wind.
But that night, something was wrong. the
Elira felt it before the first flame was lit.
She stood at the edge of the eastern balcony, her infant daughter pressed to her chest beneath a thick gray cloak. Seven months old, and already a light unto herself, Eclissa cooed softly in her sleep, unaware of the weight her tiny breath carried.
Elira's heart beat faster than it should have.
The music in the groves sounded distant—muffled, almost too far away. The torches flickered in strange rhythms. The stars above did not form their usual pattern. The air moved sideways, as if nudged by something unseen.
Something is watching, she thought.
And deeper still—beneath her bones, in the places where dreams hide—something called. Not in fear, but in warning.
She turned and walked back inside.
The grand halls of the Aetherian pavilion still rang with laughter and wine, but her mind was already shifting. Quiet corridors. Hidden stairwells. Old paths remembered in urgency.
"She is not safe here," Elira whispered, brushing her lips to her daughter's hair. "Not tonight."
She didn't wait for a sign.
She moved.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------—------—------—------—------—------—-----
She moved swiftly, cloak trailing behind her, silent but sure. Elira did not run—yet—but each step was deliberate, as though her feet remembered the path even when her mind raced with worry.
She passed through narrow passageways meant only for royals and their closest attendants. She descended steps hidden behind a shelf of ancestral texts, then ducked beneath low arches that led toward the outer corridors of the pavillion. Few walked here. Even fewer returned.
Eclissa stirred against her chest, letting out a soft whimper. Elira gently kissed the crown of her daughter's head, whispering, "Hush, little star. I've got you. I've got you."
That was when she heard it.
The soft scrape of leather boots.
Three sets.
Following.
A chill scraped her spine.
She turned, but saw only the flicker of a torchlight and the glint of metal before it vanished around a corner.
Not royal guards. Not loyal aides.
Assassins.
Sent by someone who knew. Someone who feared the child she held.
Elira tightened her grip on Eclissa and began to move faster, now choosing the unlit corridors—the ancient ones, where the walls smelled of earth and time. She didn't need to see. She had walked these halls in her dreams.
She knew where to go.
She reached the edge of the pavillion grounds. A tangle of ivy concealed a half-forgotten exit near the old watchtower—a place she once escaped to in childhood when the court was too loud and the crown too heavy.
Beyond it, the grove.
And beyond the grove, the forest.
Her horse was there, just as she'd left it earlier that morning when something in her heart told her to be ready. The animal let out a quiet breath and stepped forward.
Elira mounted quickly. Eclissa was wrapped tight against her. No saddle bags. No guards. No second chance.
Just a mother.
And a miracle child.
"Please," she whispered to the stars. "Let the path stay open."
She rode.
The trees swallowed them whole.
At first, the trail was smooth and familiar. Then the light began to dim. The path narrowed. Branches clawed at her cloak like hands trying to hold her back.
Behind her, there was motion. Glimpses of shadow. A sharp whisper. The ring of steel meeting stone.
They were still following.
She pushed the horse harder.
Branches snapped underfoot. Vines whipped her arms. Her breath came in bursts, each one tighter than the last.
Eclissa, cradled against her, gave a small cry—just once.
The sound shattered the air. A flock of birds burst from a nearby canopy, scattering into the moonlight.
Elira didn't look back.
Then came the sound she feared most.
A second set of hooves.
Fast.
Close.
One of them had caught up.
The trees ahead curved sharply—a fork in the trail. To the left was the well-worn path to the riverlands. To the right, the woods grew dark and wild and tangled.
She veered right.
The forest grew quieter. Too quiet.
There was no sound but her own heartbeat and the thundering hooves beneath her.
And then—
A single arrow flew past her head, close enough to kiss the air beside her cheek.
The path dipped. Stones gave way to moss. The trees pressed in. She didn't know where she was now, only that the air had changed.
It smelled older.
Deeper.
Somewhere beyond the veil of trees—
The Whispering Vale.
She dismounted. Her legs trembled. Eclissa clung to her now, wide awake, eyes glowing faintly in the dim light.
She could not ride any farther. The forest would not let her.
So she ran.
"When the forest holds its breath, the veil has opened," she remembered a mage once muttering by firelight. "Best you don't follow."
Behind her, footsteps faltered. The shadows that had chased her slowed.
And then… stopped.
They would not enter. The forest had judged them, and found them unworthy. The veil did not open for blades soaked in ambition.
The trees stood still as stone.
No birds.
No wind.
No voices.
Only Elira. And the child. And the forest.
"You've brought us here, haven't you?" she whispered to the woods. "Then guide me the rest of the way."
She stepped between the twisted roots of two ancient trees. The ground sloped gently down.
A soft silver light shimmered ahead.
Then she saw them—
Stone arches, leaning together in silence. Vines like curtains. Symbols carved in old tongues.
The Ruins of Aetheris.
She had made it.
And there, in that breathless grove, she fell to her knees.
"We're safe," she whispered, though her voice cracked.
Not from sorrow.
Not from pain.
But from relief.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------—------—------—------—------—------—-----
Elira laid her daughter gently upon the moss-covered stone altar, softened by layers of cloth she had tucked within her cloak. The ruins around her hummed with a quiet power—ancient, unmoving, and yet aware. The air shimmered faintly, as though the trees themselves held breath.
Eclissa did not cry.
Her dark lashes blinked slowly, gaze flickering up at the shadows overhead. Her small fingers curled and uncurled in the stillness.
Elira knelt beside her.
The pain from the chase had caught up now—her legs ached, her lungs burned, and her arms trembled with exhaustion. But her hands were steady.
She reached out and traced the runes etched into the stone. Some were faded. Others pulsed faintly at her touch. These were symbols only those of Aetherian blood could read—marks passed down not by learning, but by memory born of dreams.
She began to speak.
Not loudly. Not with force.
But with conviction.
A chant formed from fragments: lullabies she once heard in the temple nursery, warnings hidden in bedtime stories, the quiet whisper of her mother's voice under moonlight.
"Let no eye see. Let no voice name. Let no thread follow. Let the veil fall."
Light rose slowly from the stone.
It pulsed—not bright, but deep. It moved like fog, cool and silver, wrapping itself around Eclissa's small body. Her breath did not falter. Her eyes did not close.
The veil of concealment accepted her willingly.
Elira pressed her hand to her daughter's chest.
"I give her to the silence," she whispered, voice breaking. "Not to hide her, but to keep her safe. Until she is ready."
A warmth spread beneath her palm, beating in time with the child's heart.
Then—
The wind stirred.
Not wildly. Not with violence.
But with reverence.
The vines above trembled. The stone beneath her glowed brighter. The space between the trees shimmered, then split like a breath held too long. And from it—
A figure stepped forth.
Not of flesh. Not of shadow.
A being cloaked in dusk and fire, with hair like smoke and eyes that burned gold-red, like the coals of a sacred flame.
An Aetherian spirit.
It said nothing at first. Only looked down at the child.
Its presence was not heavy, yet Elira felt her throat tighten, as if standing before judgment itself.
Then the spirit spoke—one word only.
"Lysara."
The name echoed through the ruins.
Not loud. But final. As if it had always existed, waiting to be spoken aloud.
Eclissa blinked once, as though in acknowledgment.
The spirit looked to Elira.
And nodded.
Then it was gone—vanished with the breeze.
The name hung in the air like mist.
Lysara.
Not just a name. A calling. A seal.
Elira collapsed beside her child, drawing Eclissa close again. She wept—not from fear, but from peace. From knowing.
They would not find her.
They would not harm her.
Not while the forest remembered.
Not while the veil held.
Even if Elira was never found again, the spell would remain. Eclissa—no, Lysara—was now hidden from all sight, tucked between breath and bark, watched by roots and stars.
The assassins had failed.
The empires would search.
But they would not see.
Because the child was no longer simply gone.
She was unseen.
Elira leaned back against the stone, arms still around her daughter, her breath slowing.
Her strength fading.
Her hand never left Lysara.
Not when her eyes closed.
Not when the light dimmed.
Not even as the forest stilled again, wrapping them in deep, echoing quiet.
When dawn broke, the ruins were empty.
No one saw how the forest received her. No tomb. No farewell. Only roots curling quietly around the stone, as if the earth itself swore to keep her secret.
Only a soft, woven cloak remained—draped over the altar like a farewell.
No footprints.
No scent.
No trail.
Just trees.
And silence.
In the days that followed, the palace mourned.
The Empress had vanished. The child's cradle was untouched. The guards had seen nothing. The priestesses knew nothing.
The emperor did not speak of it—not yet. But behind locked doors, a new fear stirred. A prophecy unspoken. A truth they could not name.
Because something was missing.
Something sacred.
And while kings debated, while scribes searched scrolls, and soldiers scoured the land—
A child with a hidden name slept beneath the forest's roots.
And far away, beneath the soil of time and memory…
The forgotten blade had stirred.
Just enough to know it would be needed again.
🌿 End of Chapter