In the capital city of Vaelore, where spires touched the mist and chandeliers were made of sun-gathered crystal, lived a girl who had everything.
Calla Virelle.
Heiress to House Virelle — second in power only to the ruling family. A name that moved tongues at court like a charm. Daughter to a father who sat on the High Council and a mother who hosted salons where alliances were spun like lace.
Calla was seventeen.
No one suspected her.
No one questioned the perfect daughter who played harp in the sunroom and recited history in five tongues. She was elegant, soft-spoken, always smiling. Her gowns were the latest cut, her tutors the finest, and her life—immaculate.
But beneath the satin and pearls, behind every smile and curtsy…
Calla was haunted.
She had dreams.
Strange ones. Dreams of rain turning to blood. Of five shadows standing on a cliff, wind in their hair. Of a place with twin moons and a golden gate swallowed in fog.
She never told anyone.
How could she? In her world, dreams were indulgences, not warnings. Power was not mystical; it was political.
She told herself they were just nightmares. Stress from pressure. Stories absorbed from books and forgotten paintings in the hall.
But one morning, on the day of her eighteenth birthday, she looked into the grand hallway mirror…
And for a single breath—
Her reflection smiled back before she did.
Not maliciously. Not cruelly.
Just… knowingly.
Like it had been waiting for her to notice.
Then it vanished.
The palace was alive with celebration that week. The Festival of Dawn. A three-day gala for nobles and foreign dignitaries. Fireworks, masked balls, river banquets. Calla played the part beautifully — dancing, laughing, sipping from jeweled goblets.
But inside, something in her was unraveling.
At the masquerade, she wore a silver mask with a lace veil and danced with a dozen eligible heirs, each eager to charm her. One — a dark-haired diplomat's son named Arien — lingered a little longer. His touch was confident. His gaze thoughtful.
"You always look like you're hiding something," he said lightly.
"Even behind the mask."
She smiled politely.
"Aren't we all?"
But inside, her heart thundered.
That night, alone in her chamber, Calla ran her fingers over her skin and felt heat beneath. Her palms glowed faintly in the dark — golden tracings like old runes beneath the surface.
She tried to scream but no sound came.
When she touched the crystal lamp, it flickered before exploding into harmless sparks.
A sudden gust of wind blew open her balcony doors — though the night was still.
And outside, in the courtyard, a single white rose had bloomed from the stone.
There had never been a garden there.
Over the next few days, Calla searched the family archives. Secretly, obsessively. In old journals and forgotten ledgers. Her family had always claimed "pure noble lineage." But she found inconsistencies:
A grandmother whose portrait had been removed.
A branch of the family tree scratched out with golden ink.
An ancestor once called "The Flame's First Daughter", then stricken from every record.
Why?
She confronted her father at dinner, her voice carefully neutral.
"Do we have… magical blood?"
He laughed. Dismissed her question as poetic fancy.
But later that night, she overheard him whispering in his study.
"The bloodline… it's awakening. The seal was never meant to break."
"She can't know who she is. Not yet. Not before the school."
"We swore to keep her hidden."
The next morning, a letter arrived.
Official. Stamped with a black wax seal bearing a crescent and flame.
Glaethwyn Academy.
All citizens born on the 14th Moon of Ember Year were required to attend — an old law, rarely enforced. But this time, it was.
Calla's name was on the list.
So were hundreds of others.
She was to report within three days.
Her mother acted surprised. Her father offered a cold smile.
"It will be good for you. Time among… commoners."
But Calla had already decided.
She would go.
Not because she wanted to.
But because she had to.
Something inside her — older than her body, deeper than memory — wanted to wake up.
On the morning she left, the sky bled red at the horizon.
A red beam — thin, blinding — pierced the clouds from the north.
The city paused.
Some whispered of omens.
Others claimed it was the reflection of war.
But Calla knew better.
It was a calling.
As her carriage rolled out of the marble gates, Calla looked back only once — and saw Arien standing at the upper window.
He raised a hand in farewell.
She almost waved.
But something in her wouldn't let her.
She wasn't the girl he thought she was.
Not anymore.