The morning light slanted across the breakfast table, warming the edges of my parchment as I unfolded it with slightly trembling fingers. The scent of fresh bread and simmering tea filled the room, but my attention was elsewhere—entirely absorbed in Cassian’s handwriting, looping and deliberate, as if he’d pressed care into every stroke.
“Kira,” it began, “I have to share something remarkable I discovered during the last council review. I only just received word from a Drakenvyre scholar—they’ve been studying old archives, maps, and prophecies, and something struck me immediately.”
I took a sip of tea, the warmth of it failing to chase away the flutter of anticipation in my chest. My eyes skimmed faster, hungry for whatever discovery my brother had stumbled upon.
“Apparently, there are repeated references to a figure called Maerial,” he continued. “Not in Theros alone, or Valara, but across Drakenvyre and Solvayne as well. Legends suggest she had influence over certain royal bloodlines, and there are mentions of her presence in ceremonies, councils, even battles in all four kingdoms.”
My hand stilled on the table. Every instinct in me prickled with shock and curiosity. All four kingdoms? Could it be possible? Could Maerial, the goddess mother told me about in stories and whispers, really have left such deep traces? Drakenvyre—Sylas’s homeland—had always been shrouded in shadows and rumor, yet here was Cassian claiming something tangible.
“I know it sounds incredible,” the letter went on, “but the Drakenvyre archives are meticulous. There are paintings, seals, and descriptions of a figure whose symbols mirror those in Valara’s old temples. This is a line worth watching, Kira—if my hunch is right, Maerial’s influence may have shaped the very path of these kingdoms, especially the politics of war and succession. I wanted you to know first; you understand these matters better than anyone I trust.”
I leaned back in my chair, the letter trembling slightly in my hands. Breakfast sat untouched before me, the smell of warm bread now almost oppressive against the whirlwind of thoughts racing through my head. Could it be true? Had Maerial’s hand guided the fates of kings and generals alike, even here in the lands embroiled in our war?
The last lines of his letter were softer, almost brotherly: “Stay careful, Kira. And remember, sometimes knowledge is a burden, but it’s also our weapon. I wish I could be there to discuss this with you in person. Until then, trust your instincts as always.”
I folded the parchment slowly, laying it beside my plate. My mind spun, weaving threads of Drakenvyre, Theros, Valara, and Solvayne together, imagining Maerial’s shadow stretching across them all. The tea had gone cold in my cup, but I barely noticed.
All four kingdoms. Every decision, every battle, every alliance—it suddenly felt as though they were pieces on a chessboard she had long ago designed, and I was just discovering the edges of the board.
I pressed my fingers against the wood of the table, breathing through the swirl of anxiety and awe. Sylas. Drakenvyre. Maerial. I had to understand more. And somehow… I had a feeling Cassian’s letter was only the beginning.
I tucked Cassian’s letter carefully into my sleeve, letting the edges brush against the warmth of my arm as if holding onto it could steady my thoughts. The weight of the revelations pressed on me, but the morning carried on around me—sunlight spilling through the tall windows, the quiet hum of servants in the corridors, and the soft clatter of breakfast dishes. I could linger over the letter for only so long before duty called.
Sliding from my chair, I carried my unease with me, threading through the hallways with a careful grace. I hadn’t planned to go far—just to check on the ledgers in the archives—but my mind was elsewhere, chasing the threads of Drakenvyre, Maerial, and the secrets Cassian had unearthed. The palace was unusually quiet, the hush almost encouraging me to wander further than I should.
“Your Highness!”
I jumped slightly at the sudden voice, turning to see a maid rushing toward me, her hands clasped tightly as though holding back breathless news. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said, bowing quickly. “But the rider… the herald has arrived. He insists I let you know your father is not far behind him.”
My heart lurched. Relief and anticipation collided in a sharp, dizzying twist. My father, home after so long, almost within reach. I wanted to move, to run, to throw open doors and feel the reassurance of his presence—but I forced myself to remain calm, nodding.
“Thank you,” I murmured, my voice steadier than I felt. “I’ll be ready.”
The maid inclined her head and hurried off, leaving me alone in the corridor. I pressed a hand to the wall, letting the smooth stone ground me. The air seemed to hum with expectation, and my thoughts flitted to Sylas, Cassian’s letter, and the swirl of secrets threading through the kingdoms. Yet, despite it all, a small kernel of joy ignited in my chest—the war-weary tension of the last year would finally see a comforting presence return.
Taking a deep breath, I straightened my back and started walking toward the main courtyard, my mind half on preparations, half on the letter still tucked against my side. Whatever waited beyond those gates—my father, the herald, or the secrets still unfolding—I would face it. And for the first time in a year, hope felt almost tangible.
I took a step toward the herald, my boots echoing softly against the marble of the courtyard. The morning sun gleamed off the polished edges of the gates, and for a fleeting moment, I allowed myself to imagine my father riding through them, returning at last. My hand lifted, almost instinctively, to straighten my sleeve, my heart hammering with anticipation.
Then, a soft sob reached my ears. I froze.
“Your Highness…”
Fennie stumbled into view, her usually composed posture collapsing under the weight of her emotion. Tears streaked her cheeks, and her hands trembled as she reached for mine. “Princess… I… I can’t let you go yet.” Her voice was breaking, strained and choked with grief I hadn’t expected to see so openly displayed.
“Fennie?” My brow furrowed, confusion twisting in my chest. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
She shook her head quickly, trying to regain composure but failing. “It’s… it’s the Queen. Your mother… she’s asking for you. She… she wants to see you immediately.”
My stomach turned cold. A flurry of emotions swept through me—relief that she wanted me, dread for what might have changed, and guilt for every moment I’d spent away from her side. I had been so caught up in letters, war news, and Cassian’s revelations, I hadn’t fully realized the fragility of the world waiting just behind the palace doors.
“Now?” I whispered, my voice barely audible, though it felt like a scream inside me.
Fennie nodded, her grip tightening on my arm. “Yes… she said it’s urgent. She… she wants you.” Her sobs shook her frame, and I felt the heat of tears pricking my own eyes. The weight of the last year—of battles fought from afar, secrets kept, and moments missed—settled over me like a stone.
I nodded slowly, trying to anchor myself. “Thank you, Fennie. I… I’ll go. I’ll be there.”
She gave a shaky breath, stepping back and bowing her head slightly, though her eyes never left mine. “Go carefully, Your Highness. I’ll… I’ll be right behind you if you need me.”
I swallowed, my throat tight, and began moving again, my boots dragging slightly over the courtyard stones as I forced myself to focus. Every step toward my mother’s chambers felt like moving through a fog—each one heavy with anticipation, fear, and the years of weight I carried within me.
As I reached the familiar corridor, familiar doors looming ahead, my chest tightened further. I could hear the soft rustle of tapestries and the faint scent of lavender she favored. My hand hovered just above the door handle, hesitating for a heartbeat, and I swallowed hard, bracing myself for whatever I would find inside.
Fennie stayed just behind me, her presence a small comfort against the storm of worry and uncertainty that churned in my chest. The quiet seemed almost sacred, the palace holding its breath with me as I raised my hand to knock—or enter.
The chamber was dim, the curtains drawn to soften the morning light. I stepped inside slowly, my heart pounding in my throat. The air smelled faintly of herbs and lavender oil, but underneath it lingered something heavier, the sharp, metallic tang of sickness.
My mother lay propped against a mountain of pillows, her once-bright eyes now dulled with exhaustion, her body frail beneath the weight of silks that seemed far too heavy for her. She turned her head toward me, a weak smile lifting her lips.
“Kira… my darling girl.” Her voice was thin, barely a whisper, but the warmth in it pierced me straight through.
I hurried to her side, taking her cool hand in both of mine. “I’m here, Mama. I came as soon as I heard.” My chest constricted, my words breaking as tears already pricked my vision.
She smoothed her thumb against my fingers with what little strength she had left. “I didn’t want you to see me like this… I had always hoped you would leave for another kingdom by now. That you would not have to watch me fade. I wished… you could remember me strong.”
The dam inside me cracked. “Don’t say that,” I whispered fiercely, clutching her hand tighter. “You’ve always been strong. Always. And Father is almost here. He’s just outside the gates, Mama—he’s coming home to you.”
A soft, wistful laugh escaped her lips, followed by a shallow cough. Her gaze drifted past me, into memory. “Your father… oh, how I loved him the moment I saw him. A foreign princess, weak and trembling, given away like a pawn… and he looked at me as if I were the very heart of the world. He was my anchor, my strength. And Kai…” Her breath hitched, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. “My sweet boy, my mirror of you. You two were my light, my reason to endure. To see you both laugh together, grow together—it was more than I ever deserved.”
Her hand trembled in mine, and I pressed it to my cheek, my tears falling freely now. “You’ll see him again, Mama. You’ll see Kai again too. Just… just hold on a little longer. Please.”
Her eyes, clouded with pain, searched mine, and for a fleeting second I saw the woman I had always known—regal, fierce, unyielding. “I once was sick, Kira… so sick they said I would not live past my sixteenth summer. But I made a choice, a bargain of sorts. My health was given back to me, and I had years I should not have had. Enough years to meet your father. Enough years to have you and your brother. Enough years to love you as fiercely as I could.”
My breath caught, horror and confusion twisting inside me, but before I could ask what she meant, her hand cupped my face with what little strength she still held.
“I would choose it all again—for you.” Her voice cracked, her chest rising shallowly. “Promise me… promise me you’ll live, Kira. That you’ll love with all you are. That you’ll fight for this kingdom as you have already begun to. You are my heart, my strength. Stronger than you believe.”
I shook my head, sobbing openly now. “I can’t do this without you. I can’t—”
“You can,” she whispered. Her breath was growing thin, words slipping like smoke between her lips. “And your father will hold you. Tell him… tell him I never stopped loving him, not for a heartbeat. And Kai… tell him I carried him in my soul every day he’s been gone.”
The sound of hooves clattered faintly in the distance—my father’s arrival, too late, too far away.
Her gaze lingered on me, heavy with love, before the strength finally left her hand. Her lips shaped the words I love you without sound.
And then she was gone.
A sound ripped from my chest, raw and broken, as I clung to her still form, my tears soaking the silks of her gown. The world tilted, shattered, as the door behind me creaked and distant voices echoed—my father’s voice calling, desperate and anguished—but all I could hear was the silence where her breath should have been.
I knelt beside her, trembling, my fingers brushing over the familiar softness of her cheek, and then my gaze caught something I shouldn’t have noticed—a faint, pulsating glow just below her collarbone. The skin there shimmered unnaturally, golden yet ominous, twisting beneath her fragile flesh. My heart stopped. That mark—the Moonbrand.
“No, no, no!” I screamed, my voice tearing through the stillness of the chamber, raw and desperate. I pressed myself closer, clutching her lifeless form. “Mama! Come back! Please! Please don’t leave me!”
The wail tore from my lungs like a physical force, echoing off the walls and shaking the very air. Pain and grief collided inside me, and then—suddenly—light erupted. A golden radiance burst from my chest, blinding, searing, expanding outward in a wave that seemed to ripple through every corner of the room. It clawed at the walls, the floor, the air, and yet I could not stop it; it was as if my soul itself had fractured into pure light.
The room became a whirlwind of radiance, shadows burning away, and in the center of it all, on the other side of my mother’s still form, something began to take shape. A figure, faint at first, emerged from the brilliance, its presence sharp against the glow, as if pulled forth by the force of my grief.
The figure’s form solidified slowly, and through the blinding light, I could just make out its shape, standing across from her, waiting. My body shook, and my chest heaved with sobs as the golden explosion continued to pulse, as if it were alive with my pain.
I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe properly—only the desperate wish for her to return, for her warmth, for her life, poured out of me in waves of uncontrolled energy. The Moonbrand glowed more intensely, matching the pulse of the light erupting from me, and the room seemed to teeter on the edge of something dangerous, something beyond understanding.
And there, across the glow, the figure remained—silent, watching, waiting—as if drawn to the intensity of what had just happened.
The brilliance dimmed just enough for me to see her clearly.
She was… breathtaking. No mortal flesh could have looked like that. Her skin shimmered with the faint sheen of moonlight, every curve of her face luminous, as though the stars themselves had carved her features. Her hair spilled like liquid silver down her shoulders, strands glinting with gold as though fire and moonlight warred for dominance. Her eyes—gods, her eyes—were pools of endless dusk, deep and fathomless, holding within them every sorrow and every joy of eternity. She stood draped in flowing robes of pale white and shimmering sapphire, fabric that seemed to be made of light itself, embroidered with shifting constellations that moved when she breathed.
For a long heartbeat, I could not move, could not speak. My tears still streaked hot down my cheeks, my sobs caught in my throat, but I stared at her with something that was not only grief—it was awe, bone-deep recognition.
Her gaze softened as it found me. “My child,” she whispered, and the sound was both thunder and lullaby. “You called to me, and I came.”
I swallowed hard, my whole body trembling, half curling around my mother’s lifeless form. “Who—who are you?” The words broke, jagged and trembling. “Why are you here? Why now?”
Her expression shifted, a smile tugging faintly at her lips—gentle, aching, eternal. “I was only fulfilling your mortal mother’s dreams,” she said, her voice carrying like wind through leaves. “And she, in turn, fulfilled mine… for she gave me the gift of seeing my children once more.” Her hand lifted, radiant fingers extending toward me. “My dear Seliora.”
The name struck me like a blade to the chest. I shook my head violently, my sobs spilling over again. “No—no, my name is Kira. My name is Kira!”
“And it always will be,” she answered, unshaken. “But beneath that name, beneath this life, you are Seliora—my daughter, my child of light. And your twin… my Caelith. You were once mine, and though time has moved, though life has changed, I see you still. I will always see you.”
I pressed my palm against my mother’s cooling hand, torn between two truths that could not possibly exist side by side. “You can’t—don’t say that like she wasn’t my mother. She is my mother. She loved me, she—she died—” My voice cracked, breaking under the weight of it.
Maerial’s form flickered brighter, her beauty cutting through the ache like a cruel kind of comfort. She lowered herself until her eyes met mine, a goddess kneeling to mortal grief. “She was your mother. She gave you love only she could give. I do not take that from her. I only add to it. You are of her heart and of mine, Seliora.”
Tears burned my vision until her shape blurred, but I couldn’t stop staring. My heart rebelled against her words, yet a piece of me ached at their truth, as if some deep part of my soul remembered her. Remembered being hers.
“I can’t lose her,” I whispered, my throat raw, my chest hollowing out. “I can’t lose anyone else.”
Maerial reached out, brushing her radiant fingers just shy of my cheek, as though a touch would sear me. Her eyes glistened, heavy with something infinite. “Then remember this, my daughter: I will always come back to you.”
The words were promise and prophecy, threaded with a grief I couldn’t understand.
And I hated her for them.
Because she wasn’t my mother—not the woman in my arms who had held me through nightmares and kissed my hair when I was small. Not the queen who had fought through sickness to see me smile. This goddess was something else. And yet… the way she looked at me, like I was the answer to prayers spoken across centuries, clawed at something buried deep inside my bones.
I turned my face away, pressing it into the cooling sheets. “I didn’t call for you,” I whispered hoarsely, though the golden light in my veins still betrayed me. “I called for her.”
And for the first time, Maerial’s expression cracked, sorrow softening into something unbearably human.
Her hand reached for me, fingers brushing through my hair with the gentleness of spring rain. “And she was me, Seliora,” she murmured, her voice carrying the weight of eternity and the tremble of grief. “I have always been her, and she has always been mine. Every breath she drew was laced with my essence. When you called, you called for both.”
My chest ached as though something inside it were breaking apart, splintering in slow, merciless pieces. “No,” I shook my head, tears falling freely now. “She was my mother. She sang me lullabies when I was afraid of the dark. She held me when I was fevered. She kissed my brow when I cried. That was her… not you.”
A flash of pain shadowed Maerial’s eyes, as if my words pierced deeper than any blade. “And I envied her those moments,” she whispered, her divine poise faltering, grief threading every syllable. “I envied the touch, the laughter, the love she gave to you and Caelith. For centuries I carried only silence, only the memory of what it was to hold you. When fate spun her thread into mine, I clung to it, desperate to live again through her.”
I wanted to turn away, to deny her, yet her words settled in me like stones in a riverbed, impossible to dislodge. My hands clenched in the sheets. “You let her die,” I spat, though my voice broke midway. “You let her fade while you stayed.”
Maerial’s luminous features trembled, tears—if they could be called that—slipping down her cheeks in radiant streaks of silver. She knelt fully at my side, lowering herself until she seemed less like a goddess and more like a woman who had loved too fiercely, too selfishly. “I did not let her fade. She was fading long before. The sickness of her youth never truly left her, only slumbered. I gave her borrowed time, child. I gave her years she would never have seen. But every gift has its price. Every dream fulfilled carries its shadow.”
The words struck me like a cruel bell. Borrowed time. My mother’s laugh, her stories, the way she brushed my hair—borrowed. My throat tightened until I could hardly breathe. “Then give her back,” I whispered, hating the way my voice shook. “Please. If you have the power—bring her back.”
Maerial pressed her forehead to mine, and for a moment I felt her warmth, her sorrow, her impossible, timeless love flooding through me. “I cannot. Not as she was. That thread has been cut. But listen to me, Seliora—listen with your heart. She never truly left you, and neither will I. I will come back to you, again and again. You are my child of light. You will never be without me.”
The golden glow around us pulsed, wrapping me in its warmth, but it was not enough. It could never be enough. My tears blurred her face, turning her divine beauty into something fractured, unreachable. I wanted my mother’s hands, my mother’s laugh—not this, not her.
Still, Maerial cupped my face and whispered like a vow, “I will always come back to you.”
And then the light began to withdraw, like sunlight sinking beneath the horizon, leaving me in the dim, echoing silence of my mother’s chamber.
The chamber door burst open with the echo of boots striking marble, and for a heartbeat I thought my cry had summoned her back. But it wasn’t her—couldn’t be.
It was him.
My father.
His figure filled the doorway, still in his battle-worn cloak, dust and ash clinging to the edges of his armor. His breath came hard, ragged from the ride, and his eyes—his sharp, emerald eyes—swept the room, searching, desperate.
“Kira—” His voice fractured on my name as he stumbled forward. “Where is she? Where’s your mother?”
I couldn’t answer. My lips trembled, but no sound came. My hands, still glowing faintly with that cursed light, pressed against the linens that no longer held warmth. He followed my gaze, and when his eyes fell upon the bed, all strength seemed to drain from him.
“No…” The word tore from him like a wound reopening. He reached the bedside in a single, staggering step, dropping to his knees. His hands, the same ones that had once lifted me high into the air as a child, now trembled as they brushed over my mother’s hair, her lifeless cheek. “I was too late…”
I wanted to tell him about the light. About Maerial. About the truth that had cracked my world open in two. But I couldn’t—not yet. All I could do was watch as his shoulders shook, his forehead pressed against my mother’s still face.
“I promised her,” he whispered, his words breaking apart like glass. “I promised her I would come back to her… and I—” His voice failed him, swallowed by grief.
I leaned into him then, my tears soaking into his cloak. For a moment, there were no crowns, no kingdoms, no wars. Only a father and daughter, broken beside the woman who had been their heart.
The golden glow in my veins flickered once, then dimmed. I buried it deep, hiding it from him, from the world.
“Papa,” I managed at last, my voice a thread. “She wanted you. She waited for you.”
He pulled me tighter against him, his hand cradling the back of my head, as if shielding me from a world that had already stolen too much. His tears fell into my hair as he whispered again, “I know, waterbug I know.”