The early morning mist clung softly to the Moon Clan palace, silver light filtering through the silk-draped windows of the heir's chamber.
Inside, Kane Vaelion, only seven years old, sat upright on a velvet-cushioned bench–his posture regal, unnerving calm. He wore a dark moon-blue tunic stitched with threads of starlight, the insignia of the Moon Clan etched in silver at his chest. Around him, scrolls lay scattered–some ancient, their corners frayed by time, others newly inked with military formations, genealogy, and philosophy. The boy's mind devoured them all.
Servants moved around him with quiet precision, combing his dark brown hair and adjusting his cloak's silver clasp. Kane said nothing. His hands held tightly to the Ancient Scroll of Vaelion–the sacred text passed down through generations of Moon Clan rulers. Only one thing held his attention now: why had his mother–the stoic and iron-willed High Lady Nymera–looked…shaken.
He remembered her eyes last night. She tried to hide it but they carried something cold. Something afraid.
"Why now?" Kane thought.
"What changed?"
His mother had stood like a statue after the assassins never returned. Not even a trace of them. And worse–Rhys, son of Grandmaster Solarius, had come back from the mission alive…while Kael and the child of prophecy were declared dead.
But Kane wasn't convinced.
He was young–but not blind.
"Mother never flinched…not when Father died," he whispered to himself, flipping the scroll open to a page about spiritual fates and celestial balance.
"But this…this unsettled her."
He traced the old glyphs of destiny and war.
"If she fears something, then it must be bigger than war."
The day passed, the palace echoing with whispers and urgency. But that night, when the moon hung high and pale over the towers of the Moon Palace, Kane slipped from his bed in silence. He wore a plain tunic, no royal crest, and moved with calculated grace, like he had studied the paths of shadows.
He had overheard the guards. A passageway used by the old caretakers. It led straight to the chamber wall, where a thin slit remained–enough to see, to hear.
Inside, the glow of floating moon crystals lit the tense room.
"My lady," one officer said grimly,
"If Solarius chooses vengeance, then we must strike first."
"Reckless," another barked.
"We don't even know the child survived."
Then came High Lady Nymera's voice, sharp as ever–yet it trembled.
"Rhys lies. I know it in my bones," she said.
"He came back too clean. Too early. The child of prophecy…he's not dead."
Murmurs filled the chamber.
"If that boy lives," she continued,
"He'll become the spark that tears down everything we've built. Rhys likely knows this. He may already be planning to use the child–to reshape the clans in his image."
Kane's breath caught his throat.
The child of prophecy alive…?
His mind raced.
He turned, silent as a ghost, returning to his chambers before the guards began patrol.
Back in his chambers, Kane stood still–scroll clutched tight to his chest. His small fingers gripped the fabric of his robe as he tried to still the storm within.
His mother's voice echoed in his mind
"The child of prophecy…he's not dead."
"He become the spark that tears everyone down"
A threat.
And yet…why did it feel like the opposite?
He sat by the edge of his bed, the moonlight cutting across his face, revealing the turmoil in his eyes. His mind raced.
"If he's alive…then maybe all this–this hatred, this fear–it could finally end."
But what if his mother was right?
What if the child of prophecy was too dangerous to be allowed to live?
Kane's fists clenched.
"He could destroy the Moon Clan," he muttered.
"But…what if he saves it?"
For the first time, doubt wrapped itself around his loyalty like a shroud. His young heart felt the weight of two paths–loyalty to blood, or loyalty to balance.
He looked at the scroll once more, and for a fleeting second, he saw not ink and paper, but possibility.
Kane stood, walked toward the window, and looked out into the night, the stars burning like a map only he could read.
"I have to find him," he whispered.
"Whether he brings peace…or…destruction the world needs him back. And I need to know what side he stands on."
High above the mortal noise of kingdoms and ambition, the Spirit Clan's sanctuary rested in solemn silence. Perched atop mist-laced peaks, the stone terrace where Elder Zephyr stood was ancient–worn smooth by centuries of winds. The mountain air was cold and thin, but the silence was colder.
He stood unmoving, robes of deep gray embroidered with spirit sigils, billowing gently in the wind like a dying memory.
His silver-white hair swept across his brow as he stared into the horizon. Beyond the jagged ridgelines, the sun was beginning to dip–a golden blade cutting across the clouds.
"She's gone quiet," Zephyr murmured, his voice like gravel smoothed by time.
"Liora…why?"
For days now, he hadn't felt her. The connection between had severed.
He gripped the carved railing, knuckled pale.
Then came the memory–Rhys standing before the leaders, cloaked in blood and pride, recounting a story too neat to trust. A battle survived, A mission failed. But Rhys' eyes…
"There was ambition…behind that gaze," Zephyr muttered.
"Ambition…or fear."
His brow furrowed, and the mountain winds stirred harder around him–almost echoing his unease.
He slowly turned and walked toward the sacred brazier in the center of the terrace–a shallow stone bowl filled with cold ashes. With a gesture, pale blue flame ignited with a sigh of spirit energy.
He stared into it.
"Solarius…you fool. You believe your son still follows your light, but Rhys has cast his shadow long and deep."
Zephyr's reflection danced in the spirit-fire, eyes glowing faintly with inner light–the light of ancient truths and unspoken knowledge.
"This war…" he whispered, "...is not just blood and banners. It is a knife carved by prophecy, and now wielded by liars."
He reached to the fold of his robe and pulled out a delicate, rune-etched feather–Liora's. It had once burned with vibrant spiritual energy. Now it was dull. Quiet.
His hand trembled.
"The child lives…the child of prophecy lives. I feel it–like a flicker buried beneath the ash."
"And if he lives…"
"Then so does the prophecy."
A silence fell again–but it was a heavy, thunderous one.
"But Rhys…what are you hiding?" His voice dipped lower, gritted.
"Is it conquest? Is it revenge? Or is fear that the child of prophecy may rise and eclipse you?"
"You wish to spark war?" Zephyr growled, eyes narrowing.
"Then I'll be the wind that dares snuff your flame."
He turned to the temple doors behind him.
"Solarius may no longer listen to reason," he said to the wind.
"But I will not stand idle. The Spirit Clan will not be dragged into the fires of another man's broken pride."
He took a deep breath–sharp, cold, resolute.
"I will go to him."
He stepped forward, flamelight gleaning in his eyes like a storm yet to fall.
"Let the sun and moon clash if they must. But before the fire consumes the world.."
"...someone must remind the sky what it looked like before the burning."