The sky above the plains shimmered with heat, a silver haze blurring the distant hills that marked the edge of House Helion's domain. Wind whistled through golden fields, bending stalks in waves like a breath sweeping across the earth. Beneath the rolling grass and forgotten stones, bones of a kingdom long dead slumbered — the Elyari Empire, once the jewel of the world, now spoken of only in warnings and old songs.
Elarion, the great island realm, had not known true peace in over two centuries. Not since the Calamity, when the Elyari mages, in their hunger for immortality, ruptured the veil between life and death. The capital fell in a day. The rivers ran black for a week. Magic turned strange — wilder, untamed — and the peasants were cursed with Fast Lives, condemned to grow, wither, and die within twelve years. Children became adults in weeks. Elders faded in months. Villages mourned as often as they celebrated.
From the empire's ashes rose fifty sovereign houses, each claiming a shard of Elarion, each tracing bloodlines to the wreckage of old nobility. Some ruled from deserts and sand-wrapped cities; others held snowy mountain passes, or swamp-wrapped strongholds, or cities built into cliffs. Most were young — barely into adulthood — but born to reign.
In the heart of the great plain, where the land rolled like ocean waves and the rivers forked like veins, House Helion had rebuilt. And standing atop the newly-carved balcony of a watchtower overlooking fields of golden grain was Alexios, its young ruler, his cloak snapping in the breeze.
He was twenty, with sun-darkened skin and hair the color of midnight. A thin circlet of bronze rested on his brow, unadorned, practical. Behind his eyes, something burned — not ambition, but something older. Something restless.
"The rivers held steady this season," said a voice behind him. "The crops should yield enough to trade with Wyrmroot and Vedanta."
Alexios turned slightly. His sister Niharika, clad in the white robes of a field healer, stood at the threshold. Her dark hair was braided, hands stained faintly with green from poultices and herbs. She was younger, though sharper in some ways. She noticed what others didn't. Like the tension in his shoulders.
"They'll yield," Alexios said. "But how many more will we bury before snow falls?"
She stepped forward, resting her hands on the balcony's edge beside him. "The curse isn't yours to bear."
"Isn't it?" he murmured.
He looked out again. From here, he could see the village of Virellen, nestled like a small heart among the golden fields. Smoke curled from cooking fires. Children — already with adult limbs, barely five years old — carried buckets, stacked stones, mended fences. In Elarion, time was cruel.
He watched a girl laugh as her friend splashed water from the well. Both wore the simple tunics of field hands, but their eyes — those eyes carried weariness far beyond their years. Life was lived fast, because it had no choice. And yet, they laughed.
"Ramses says he'll have the new irrigation channels ready by next moon," Niharika said. "Adonis is building homes faster than we can fill them. The builders want you to visit."
Alexios nodded distantly.
"We can feed our people. Trade with others. Raise children before they fade."
"We can't stop it," he finished for her.
She said nothing. There was no need to.
A rider approached from the north, cutting across the fields, leaving a trail of dust. The flag he bore shimmered blue and gold — House Myrian. Isis's house.
Alexios squinted. "She sends another message."
"Or a challenge," Niharika said dryly. "Her brother's army has been drilling along our border. Again."
"She's testing our will. Or our patience."
"Perhaps both."
The rider arrived at the tower's base, dismounted, and handed a sealed scroll to the steward before turning away, dust still clinging to his boots.
Alexios broke the seal. His eyes skimmed the letter, lips tight.
"Well?" Niharika asked.
"She invites us to a gathering in Maralis. Wants to speak of shared defense against northern raiders," he said. "But the last time we met, she accused our merchants of hoarding iron."
"And yet you'll go."
"Yes," he said, folding the scroll. "Because someone must speak before swords do."
Niharika studied him. "You sound like Father."
He looked toward the western hills. "He died before I was ready."
"He died before any of us were."
A silence settled between them. The wind shifted. Somewhere far away, a bell rang — a funeral bell, soft and distant.
"You still believe," she said quietly.
Alexios didn't answer at first.
"I believe the curse can be broken," he said. "I believe this island isn't meant to be a graveyard for children. I believe... there's a reason we were born into this."
He glanced at her. "Don't you?"
Niharika's eyes softened. "I believe in you, brother. Even if the gods have long gone silent."
He placed a hand on her shoulder, firm. "Then we'll make them listen again."
Far to the south, the central volcano — Mount Kal'Sar — loomed like a shadow on the horizon. Its slopes, black and lifeless, hadn't breathed fire in decades. But the old tales said it was once the heart of Elyari power — and the place where the world had cracked.
Alexios didn't know why his thoughts turned to it now.
But deep within, something stirred.
He didn't know it yet, but this season's harvest would be the last simple one. The alliances of grain and stone would give way to ones made of steel and blood. The flags would change. The thrones would tremble. And the dead would rise again.
But for now, the sun dipped below the plains. The wind carried warmth.
And the Caesar of House Helion watched his people laugh — and dared to hope.