At dusk in a world forged from ash and forgiveness, the gods' breath still lingered on the rich plains of Peloponnesus. It was a continent redeemed but never entirely unblemished, a continent seared with memory—carved like aged marble, cracked, beautiful, and sacred.
The skies here were richer than elsewhere—bluer, older—like they held the memory of the first fire, the first grief, the first vow. The land never forgot. Even in its silence, it resonated with what had been.
In ancient times, the world hung on the brink of destruction, and it was Celesthine, daughter of the heavens, guardian of the sacred harmony, who came down to stem the collapse.
She was not created for war, but she fought one.
To prevent her boundless power from falling to corruption, she divided her nature into four elements of spirit—eternal shreds of her divinity—and encased each in a hallowed relic. These were not baubles of expediency, but containers of her soul. Flame, water, air, stone—constricted and consecrated.
The relics were not weapons.
They were verdicts.
They carried judgment. Not just for the evil, but for the exhausted. The tainted. The bereaved. They did not accept the touch of those who had twisted themselves toward self-will, however good the cause appeared. Only the innocent of heart, those who asked nothing for themselves, could rouse their light.
And then—only at the designated time.
Celesthine's last action was not victorious.
It was sacrificial.
Her mortal body, which was born of divine grace and starlight, fell under the blood-red eclipse of the War's closure. Her wings dissolved to wind. Her tears to tides. Her heart to flame. Her bones to stone.
Her voice was lost.
The world breathed whispers of her, but never spoke her name aloud for fear of calling down judgment upon itself.
The relics melted into myth.
Her legend went from lips to quill, from quill to silence.
But silence wasn't forgetting.
It was waiting.
⸻
Four thousand years went by, trickling away like sand in the palm of eternity.
Empirial—the mighty empire that once soaked its banners in blood across the whole continent—collapsed under its own weight. Not in famine or flame, but in grief. The gods it once worshipped were deaf. The cities it constructed became too vast for their souls. Marble palaces fell. The aqueducts ran dry. The high courts turned upon themselves like wolves in a cage.
What had once governed all from salt shore to mountain peak now slept under moss and decay.
Its story—a hymn of devotion unmade, of love converted to war, of a sword too great for the hand that held it—remained only in temple dust and scholar's dreams.
New kingdoms emerged from its embers.
Aethelgard, land of light and legend, where scrolls were held in higher esteem than scepters.
Adamthial, where warlords pledged their steel to honor alone, and mountains rang with training chants older than age.
Deciathos, where priests and judges stood alongside farmers and thieves alike, all equal in the sight of the divine.
Together, they were a fragile trinity. Not joined, but conscious. Not belligerent, but cautious. Tied by ancient pacts and older recollections.
They did not seek conquest anymore.
They desired balance.
Their altars were no longer for power alone, but for harmony. They called the names of the new gods: Gladius, master of light and shield. Helena, dispenser of justice and rebirth. Ethima, softer than tides and mercy. Arvrak, silent father of stone and time.
And above all of these—Celesthine.
Her face still lingered in cathedral glass, not as conqueror or queen, but as mother. Hands open. Eyes shut. Not commanding, but enfolding. Her temples were peaceful places, lit with candles and tears. Not victory, but yearning.
There had been no peace without suffering. But finally, it held.
And yet...
Under the guise of calm, the world waited. For the time when memory would wake, and the divine would select once more.
Not kings. Not tyrants. Not gods.
But children.
⸻
In the heart of the continent, where marble libraries towered like ziggurats of old and temple bells whispered across the hills, two boys spent a languid summer afternoon in the shade of a neglected cloister.
Once, this garden had been the property of the Sisters of the Burning Veil—a silent order marked by their sorrows. Now the convent was deserted. Its stones warmer with age, its archways shrouded in ivy. Roses spread through the crevices like bloodstains muted by time.
And in its shadow, the boys dreamed.
Caspian La Valemere—just ten, though he moved with an old soul's dignity—cross-legged on sun-heated stone, a too-large cloak slipping unevenly over his narrow shoulders. A book in his lap. Leather-bound, dog-eared, spine cracked from age. It reeked of ink and stale magic.
His purple eyes burned in the dim light as he read aloud, voice unflinching and pure.
And so it is said," he breathed, "that the ancient things shall wake again when the stars lean together in concord, and the heirs of the elements shall rise—flame, wind, tide, and stone—and a single spirit shall arise to unite them in divine concord..."
Before him, reclining idly on his side, lay Dante del Altovar.
Thirteen years old, already tall for his age, already beautiful in the way that princes are warned against. Golden hair fell over his eyes in careless waves. His red eyes—unusual, unsettling—reflected the roses above them.
He was not reading.
He was watching Caspian.
"Dearest Caspian," Dante drawled, "your voice is honey, but you're still preaching fairy tales."
Caspian blinked, not taken aback. "And you're lounging like a lazy saint under the shadow of a chapel ghost. Who's the bigger fool?"
Dante smiled and stretched with languor. "I'm not a fool. I'm an aristocrat. It's different."
Caspian rolled his eyes, yet the smile playing on his mouth gave away his affection. "Do you ever take anything seriously?
Dante's grin faltered—just a little. "In two months," he said quietly, "I leave for Adamthial. The Academy of Arms. Sword, strategy, survival. No more summer gardens. No more afternoon naps beside haunted abbeys."
Caspian's face fell. "You're really going."
"I must. It's the path laid out for me."
"Because of your family name," Caspian murmured. "Because you're the heir to Deciathos?"
Dante gazed at him then—long and odd. "No. Because something in me desires it. The steel. The trial. The glory. Or perhaps... because something within me is attempting to recall."
Caspian leaned his head to one side, interested. "Remember what?"
"I don't know."
Both fell silent for a space.
The garden hummed with stillness. A bird's song. The wind did not move.
Caspian set the book aside. "When you're dead... will you remember me?"
Dante's breath stopped.
He came up slowly. "Never."
Caspian's smile was gentle as twilight. "Then if I discover a relic," he breathed, "will you accompany me?"
Dante's heart pounded once—hard and sure. "Yes."
"To confront gods?"
"Yes."
"To remake the world?"
Dante paused... then nodded. "Yes."
They locked eyes as the light changed through the vines. The stillness between them stretched—not uncomfortable, but holy. Ancient. Unspoken.
High above, clouds assembled. The wind picked up—finally. And somewhere, far off, a tide turned. A stone splintered. A spark flared.
The world waited.
The gods stirred.
These were not ordinary boys.
Not merely friends. Not merely heirs. Not merely dreamers under a shattered sky.
They had been selected before birth.
And although they did not yet sense it, the stars were curving around them.
Soon, the relics would arise.
And when they did—
The legend's children would stir.