read more ahead on patreon
patreon.com/tejaschoudhary275
In an age when the heavens still answered prayers and gods walked masked among mortals, the Empire of the Golden Dawn reigned supreme. Aurethia, the jewel of the world, stretched from storm-lashed fjords to sun-drenched deserts, its banners catching the light like shards of dawn itself. Cities crowned in sunstone glittered upon high cliffs. Legionnaires in phoenix-gold armor marched in perfect unison, their standards blazing with the mark of the flamebird.
At the heart of it all stood the throne of Solaris, and upon it sat a man born to blaze.
Emperor Valerian Aurion III, the Solaris Rex, ruled with the majesty of a sun god. His was no ordinary kingship—his blood shimmered with celestial fire, his gaze seared truth from lies, and when he spoke, even dragons bowed. Wreathed in living flame, he wielded the legendary power of Lux Ignis, dominion over both light and fire, branding his name into the annals of eternity.
Beneath him knelt all nations, but closest to his flame were six daughters—each a blazing star in her own right. Princess-Commanders, High Arcanists, Mistresses of War and Wisdom—named by Valerian himself, molded by his hand, they were both his pride and his instruments. From the walls of the North to the palaces of the East, their deeds wove legends into the Empire's growing myth.
Yet even a sun bears shadow beneath its brilliance.
In the gilded chambers of the Flame Court, whispers festered like embers beneath ash. Despite the brilliance of his daughters, the Emperor's heart hungered for a singular legacy—a son, a scion, a living inferno to inherit the eternal flame of empire.
The six queens of Aurethia vied for this favor, but it was Aurelia of the Third Moon, quiet and radiant, who stirred destiny. When her womb quickened, the empire itself erupted in exultation. Bells rang from the snow-capped bastions of Caelondria to the sapphire towers of Delmara. Priests claimed the sun burned hotter. Prophets danced in flames, claiming the child would eclipse even Valerian's might.
The skies themselves seemed to listen. And they answered.
On the seventh day of the seventh moon, under a sky set ablaze by auroras and falling stars, the seventh child of Solaris Rex was born. A boy. A prince. His cry split the air like thunder across a battlefield, and for a moment, all of Aurethia held its breath.
The Naming Rite began beneath the great dome of Solara Sanctum. Thousands gathered. Flames danced in glass spires. The Emperor, crowned and resplendent, lifted the infant high before the sacred pyre.
And then, silence fell.
From the blaze emerged a form—radiant, ineffable—a woman woven of starlight and flame. It was Auriona, goddess of light, flame, and fate, veiled for a thousand years, now unveiled before men.
All dropped to their knees. The Emperor alone stood unbowed, pride and awe warring in his gaze.
She spoke, her voice a thousand choirs and a funeral dirge:
"By the birth of this prince, the King's destiny burns ever bright.He shall conquer all foes, and make an empire unmatched in might.Yet beware—this prince, in final breath,Shall also bring the empire's death."
Then she vanished, and the flames guttered low.
No sound stirred in the sacred hall. No breath. No word.
Only the wind—cold, trembling—moved through the golden banners.
And thus was born the Seventh Flame, both savior and scourge of the Golden Dawn.
The curse had begun.
Fate had spoken, but Valerian Aurion III—slayer of titans, builder of empires—had never bowed to fate. Standing beneath the still-settling embers of prophecy, he laughed. Not cruelly, nor in denial, but as a father drunk on the blaze of love.
"Let him be my dawn and my dusk both," declared the Solaris Rex, his voice echoing through the hallowed chamber. "If he brings me glory, let him also bring my end. I name him heir still."
In that moment, awe overtook fear. The court cheered. Priests chanted. The flames roared anew. And yet, not all hearts shared the Emperor's defiant joy.
Far above the mortal tumult, veiled in the folds of starlight, the goddess Auriona lingered for but one heartbeat more. Moved by the unseen strands of fate—the sorrow he would bear, the legend he would become—she bestowed a gift none would witness, none would remember.
A True Name, whispered only to the soul:
Sylvanor, Lord of the Forest.The child of flame who would walk the path of leaf and shadow.
It was a name of old power, binding and secret, spoken in the tongue of the gods. And with it, destiny sealed itself around the child like a crown no eye could see.
But as the Seventh Flame grew in grace and brilliance, so too did the cold ambitions in the palace's gilded shadows. The First Queen, Lysanna, high priestess of the Sun Temple, and the Second Queen, Meridiane, blood-tied to the War Houses of Solrend, watched in silence. Their wombs had never borne sons. Their line, once favored, now withered beneath Aurelia's light.
In Sylvanor's rise, they saw not a child—but a threat. A boy whose name was spoken with reverence, whose smile charmed the stone-faced guards, whose fire already burned brighter than their own daughters'.
And so, the poison was poured.
On the prince's seventh nameday, a feast was held in the Sapphire Hall. Gold chalices shimmered with honeyed wine. Musicians played songs of ancient glories. And upon the high dais sat the Emperor and his shining son, side by side.
A servant placed a jeweled cup before the child.
Sylvanor, radiant and unknowing, reached for it.
But Valerian, ever fond, took it in jest.
"You must learn to share," he said with a chuckle, and drank.
Before the last note of laughter faded, he fell. A gasp swept the chamber. His crown hit the marble with a sound like thunder.
And by sunset, Solaris Rex, Light of the World, was dead.
The empire mourned. Aurethia wept. But justice never came.
The First and Second Queens—shielded by blood, by temple, by time—stood untouched. No finger dared point. No tongue accused.
Instead, the whispers returned, crueler now.
"The prophecy…"
"He was the cause…"
The Seventh Prince, once hailed as salvation, became the face of doom. No longer child. No longer innocent. Merely a harbinger of ruin foretold. And the name Sylvanor, once sacred, was never spoken aloud again.
Nine years passed beneath the cold shadow of suspicion. Sylvanor grew—tall, solemn, flame-kissed and silent—unclaimed by sisters, unloved by the court. He bore the weight of destiny like armor no child should wear.
And then came the night of exile.
At the turning of his sixteenth year, beneath a moon veiled in crimson mist, he was summoned not to a coronation, but a condemnation. No banners flew. No trumpets sang. Only robed voices, hidden faces, words cloaked in ritual and cowardice.
Stripped of title. Cast from the Flame Court. Denied even the right to speak his name.
Without a blade, without a crown, without a final embrace, the boy who should have been king was led to the edge of the Cursed Wood—a realm of wild magic and forgotten gods.
There, amid the swirling fog and whispering trees, he turned once to look at the empire he had loved.
No one watched.
No one wept.
And with that, Sylvanor, the Unnamed, vanished into legend.
read more ahead on patreon
patreon.com/tejaschoudhary275