Chapter 2: The Solvaris Festival Begins
The sacred groves of Lumivara were alive with color.
Long silk banners danced on the breeze, each marked with the sigil of one of the Five Great Houses. Gold-threaded streamers caught the sunlight and scattered it in fragments across the marble paths. The scent of blossoms—wild moonflowers, blue bellvine, and phoenix-root—filled the air. Children ran barefoot through the petals, their laughter echoing under the canopy of ancient trees.
It was the Day of Illumination, the first day of the Solvaris Festival.
A festival of unity. Of divine heritage. Of peace.
Long ago, before kings and crowns ruled Luneth, five goddesses walked the world in mortal form. Each carried a gift and a burden: Luceria, the light of wisdom; Aetheris, the cycle of rebirth and destruction; Pyrrha, the soul of flame and stone; Indoria, the grace and fury of water; and Zephyra, the voice of change and wind. They shaped the lands, raised the thrones, and blessed five mortal lineages to guard their sacred domains.
The Solvaris Festival honors their departure—and their lasting presence. Every decade, the Five Houses gather in Lumivara, the place where the goddesses once stood side by side. Ceremonies are held. Blessings are invoked. And peace, however fragile, is renewed.
Preparations for the Solvaris Festival had begun days earlier. Each house sent delegates, supplies, and ceremonial items to Lumivara. Colored fabrics were chosen with care to reflect each element: white and gold for Light, crimson and ash for Fire, green and silver for Wind, deep blue for Water, and black-gold for Rebirth.
The Blessings of Light, Fire, Wind, Water, and Rebirth were not just symbolic—they were sacred rites that echoed the powers of the goddesses themselves.
The Blessing of Light was held at sunrise. Clerics of Luceria read from ancient scrolls beneath a great crystal obelisk. As golden rays broke through the trees, children in white scattered reflective petals into the air, casting sparks of sunlight across the clearing.
The Blessing of Fire followed at noon. Warriors and dancers from House Pyrrha performed a ceremonial flame spiral, weaving burning staffs in synchronized motion. At the height of the dance, a circle of fire blossomed outward, then sank into ash—symbolizing purification and power.
The Blessing of Wind took place mid-afternoon in Zephyra's grove. Bells and ribbons were strung high in the trees, and children released flocks of birds into the breeze. The High Voice of Zephyra delivered a prayer for renewal and unseen strength, her words lifted by the wind itself.
The Blessing of Water came as the day cooled. Priests from House Indoria guided attendees to the sacred spring, where music and soft chanting invited calm. Guests placed floating lanterns in the stream, each carrying a personal wish. The water glowed faintly, as if remembering.
The Blessing of Rebirth was held in silence, just before sunset. Attendants of House Aetheris wore ash robes and circled a ring of white lilies. One by one, the petals were burned, and their smoke rose into the evening air. No words were spoken, but many wept.
This was not just a celebration—it was a remembrance of power and legacy. And for some, the beginning of something greater.
Empress Elira of Aetheris had arrived earlier that morning, dressed in pale lavender and silver, with Eclissa cradled close to her chest. The baby had been quiet as ever, her frost-like eyes wide and watchful.
The Empress had smiled politely, bowed to her fellow rulers, and then stepped back into the shade of the pavilion with the child. She was present for the opening rites, her presence dignified yet distant, like a cloud passing briefly across the sun.
It was her first public appearance since Eclissa's birth.
No one knew it would be her last.
Later that afternoon, the younger heirs were gathered in a smaller garden just beyond the main festival square. It was tradition for the children of the Five Houses to meet, play, and take part in the symbolic lighting of the lanterns—a gesture of peace and shared future.
Etheron Damien Aetheria, crown prince of the Aetherian throne, stood at the center of the garden. At five years old, he already carried the quiet strength of his father. His black hair was neatly brushed, and his silver ceremonial tunic shimmered under the trees.
He looked unsure.
Liceriana, already confident despite her age, stepped forward first. "You must be Prince Etheron," she said politely.
He gave a short nod. "You're Lady Lucerion?"
"Liceriana," she corrected with a soft smile.
Kai rolled her eyes from where she was crouched by the koi pond. "He's just a boy, Liceriana. He doesn't need a title."
Thalassia giggled, though she covered it with her hand. "Be kind, Kai. It's their first time meeting."
"I'm not being unkind," Kai said, standing and brushing off her tunic. "I just think we shouldn't all pretend we're grown-ups when we're not."
Etheron looked from one girl to the next, unsure whether to speak.
Then, the wind picked up slightly, and a soft laugh echoed behind them.
Lilith Sylwen Zephyrion skipped into the garden, her green cloak trailing behind her like wings. "You're all too serious," she chimed. "The festival's about celebration, remember?"
"Not all of us are born with the wind in our hair," Kai muttered.
"But we're all here," Lilith said, "and we should make the most of it."
Before anyone could reply, a nursemaid stepped into the garden, carefully cradling the smallest figure among them.
Eclissa.
She was barely seven months old, wrapped in soft silks, her pale silver eyes wide with quiet awareness.
The others gathered around her, drawn in by curiosity.
"She's so small," Thalassia whispered.
"She doesn't look like other babies," Etheron said softly, kneeling beside the nursemaid.
Liceriana tilted her head. "She doesn't feel like other babies."
No one could explain it. But in that moment, under the golden trees of Lumivara, something passed between them—a quiet understanding that this child was different. That she was important.
And though she could not speak, Eclissa looked at each of them in turn—her gaze steady, calm, knowing.
Just before the sun began to dip below the horizon, the children lit their lanterns.
One by one, they lifted the small glowing spheres into the air, each lantern representing a blessing of the goddess from whom their house descended.
Five lights rose.
Then, unexpectedly, the nursemaid helped Etheron light a sixth lantern—for Eclissa.
It drifted higher than the rest.
And somewhere in the trees, unseen by any of them, a dark figure turned away.
That evening, as the festival reached its peak, the nobles and rulers of Luneth gathered for the grand banquet. The night was warm, and the stars finally peeked through the fading clouds. Rows of lanterns floated above long tables adorned with gold-trimmed silks and platters of delicacies from every province.
Cups were filled with honey-wine. Musicians played softly on harps and lutes. Courtiers in embroidered robes moved between tables, laughing, exchanging toasts, and pretending—if only for a night—that the world beyond the grove was untroubled.
The divine heirs were seated together at a table near the main stage, carefully watched by attendants but free to speak among themselves.
Etheron was unusually quiet, occasionally glancing toward the Aetherian pavilion.
"She's not here," he finally said, frowning.
"Your mother?" Liceriana asked gently.
He nodded. "She said she would stay nearby. But the nursemaid came back alone."
"Maybe she needed rest," Thalassia offered kindly.
Kai leaned back in her seat, arms crossed. "Or maybe she didn't want to be here."
Lilith tilted her head. "I don't like this feeling."
"What feeling?" Etheron asked.
Lilith's eyes moved slowly over the pavilions, the guards, the shadows under the trees. "Like the wind's gone still."
It was then that a servant rushed to the Emperor's side, whispering something quickly and low.
The Emperor stood at once.
And in that moment, the music faltered.
The nursemaid who had been carrying Eclissa had returned to the pavilion—without the child. And without the Empress.
She was shaking.
The guards had seen nothing. There had been no sound. No sign of struggle.
The moon had still not risen.
And somewhere in the silence, a prophecy began to breathe again.