The morning sun bathed the ramparts of Solari Castle in a golden glow, illuminating the high white stone. A warm sensation emanated from the courtyard tiles, carrying the scent of dew-kissed leaves and the acrid smell of burned metal. The rhythmic clashing of flame-forged swords echoed across the royal grounds, akin to the thunder of a distant storm.
In the center of the training yard, a small girl stood still as stone.
Feet apart. Shoulders squared. Sword in hand.
She was only seven, slight of frame, wiry as a sapling, her brown braid—sunlit to the point of red—stuck to her neck with sweat. The wooden blade looked too heavy for her grip, but she didn't falter. Her eyes locked on the dummy before her—gray eyes, soft in color but hard with focus. There was no glow in them. No flicker of firelight. No trace of the magic that defined the Solari bloodline.
"Again," the King said.
His voice was steady and rich with command, neither cruel nor gentle.
Lyra moved.
The swing wasn't perfect. Her arms were too tight, the angle off. But the blade sliced the air with purpose and struck the target clean. The impact sent a tremor through her arms, and still, she didn't flinch. Just blinked once. Reset her stance. Waited.
Above, laughter rang from the terrace bright and clear like the ring of crystal.
"You did it, Lyra!"
Princess Thalia leaned over the balcony rail, her copper curls catching the sunlight like fireflies. She clapped, beaming. Lyra glanced up and smiled, a flicker of joy crossing her face like the sun through clouds. The two girls were inseparable. Sisters not by blood, but by bond.
King Darius Solari, the flame-crowned lion of Aurelia, gazed at her with an enigmatic expression. His crimson cloak billowed softly in the breeze, and his eyes, the color of molten gold, held a flicker not pride or disappointment, but something more subdued.
Most would have found it peculiar that Aurelia, the mighty king, was training a girl without magic. However, Lyra was unlike any other girl.
She was a princess, though adopted. Raised in fire, but never touched by it.
She had no magic. No reflection. No glow in her gaze. In a realm where magic stirred as early as birth and left its trace in the eyes—flashes of color, flickers of elemental light—she had none. No blue for water. No green for nature. No red, gold, or white for fire.
A mage could look into a child's eyes and know, more often than not, what magic lay within. But when they looked into Lyra's, they saw nothing.
Unremarkable. Unlit.
And to some, that meant unworthy.
Lucian stood just beyond the archway, watching from the shadows. At nine years old, the crown prince already carried himself like a grown man. Tall, precise, silent when it served him. There was an edge to him, even then like a sword that had never known rest. His own fire had not yet awakened, but everyone said it would be great.
It had to be.
She could feel his stare even without looking. Cold as the marble beneath her bare feet.
The King turned to speak with a nearby knight. And in that moment, Lucian pushed off the wall.
"You're wasting everyone's time," he said quietly, stepping into the sun.
Lyra didn't move. She'd heard it before.
"You're not a real Solari," he went on. "You don't have magic. You don't belong here."
She kept her eyes forward, but her knuckles tightened around the wooden hilt.
"I'm trying," she murmured. The words felt like stones in her mouth—small, heavy.
Lucian scoffed. "Try all you want. You'll always be just… a girl they found. A mistake Father keeps pretending is family."
From above, Thalia's cheerful expression vanished. "Stop it, Lucian!" she snapped. "She is family."
His lip curled. "You're pretending too. All of you."
He stepped forward again, dust kicking up around his boots. "I'm next in line for the throne. I'm the one with Solari blood. He should be training me."
Lyra turned to face him. Her arms trembled slightly, but her voice didn't waver.
"Then fight me."
Lucian blinked.
"If you think I don't belong," she added, "prove it. Don't whisper about me. Don't sulk in corners. Fight."
Something flashed behind his eyes rage or thrill or both.
Then he lunged.
They met in the middle of the yard, blades forgotten. They shoved, tripped, fell to the stones in a tangle of limbs and sharp breath. Lyra caught his arm. Lucian shoved her shoulder. They wrestled like wild things taught discipline too young.
Then Lucian reared back and raised his hand.
A burst of light exploded from his palm.
But it wasn't the golden-red flame of their house.
It was blue.
Hotter. Brighter. Wrong.
It hit her square in the back.
There was no time to scream.
Then pain. Searing, tearing, blinding pain. She fell. Smoke curled from her cloak. The scent of char and ash filled the air. Her knees struck the ground.
And everything went still.
Lucian stared at his hand like it wasn't his. The blue fire was gone. His face had drained of all color.
"Lyra?" Thalia's voice cracked with horror. "LYRA!"
The guards were already running.
But Lyra didn't move.
She slept for seven days and seven nights. They feared she would not wake.
The best healers in the kingdom were summoned. Even mages from other nations came. But none could heal the mark. It was not a simple burn. Not a wound made by any ordinary fire.
When she woke, the pain was still there. A quiet throb beneath her skin. Her vision swam with light. Sheets rustled as she shifted.
Beside her, Queen Elara sat with a cool cloth in one hand and prayer beads in the other. Her eyes were rimmed red.
Lyra opened her mouth, her voice barely a whisper.
"Is… is Lucian okay?"
The Queen's fingers trembled.
And then she cried not like a queen, but like a mother.
She didn't answer.