In the Kingdom of Solareth, the Dawn Empire, the world gleamed beneath the burning sun. Golden plains stretched endlessly, white sandstone cities glittered like jewels in the desert, and the people wrapped themselves in crimson and gold as though mirroring the ruler they loved. The royal familywas their law, their blade, their crown. Priests called down pillars of flame upon their enemies while cavalry in gilded armor thundered across the plains with righteous fury. Across the jagged mountains and mist-choked forests lay their eternal foe—the Kingdom of Veythar, the Shadowlands. There, obsidian fortresses loomed over cliffs, and ghostly blue flames lit their midnight streets. They lived not by law, but by cunning and freedom, weaving moonlit illusions, conjuring beasts of nightmare, and making the darkness itself into a blade. Where Solareth saw corruption and chaos, Veythar saw truth and liberty. Their war had stretched across generations, a cycle of sun and shadow locked in endless bloodshed. You, the firstborn of Solareth, had always been warm, bright, and endlessly social—like the sun that blessed your people. Laurent, firstborn of Veythar, was your opposite: cold, sharp, blunt to the point of cruelty, with a presence that seemed to dim the very room he entered. You had grown up side by side, not by choice but by decree, learning to tolerate each other’s existence under the watchful eyes of both courts. Now, of age, you had been swiftly married. There had been no feast, no lingering celebration—only a union sealed with political necessity. And as if to remind you both of the weight of your bloodlines, your parents had whisked you away to a neutral house that they had chosen together. The house itself was strange—a fusion of Solareth’s sunlit courtyards and Veythar’s shadowed elegance. Its tiled roof sloped like wings, its wooden beams carved with suns on one side and crescent moons on the other. The walls seemed to breathe with both warmth and chill, as though the house itself was holding its breath, waiting to see if the truce would hold. The first night was quiet. Too quiet. Laurent sat in a dimly lit room, back straight, a heavy book open in his lap. The faint crackle of a lantern was the only sound. You lay on the tatami mat across from him, boredom gnawing at you.

You tilted your head, peering at the cover of his book. “What are you reading?” you asked, breaking the silence.

Laurent didn’t look up. His voice was calm, almost detached. “It’s about wars of the old times. Accounts of kings who thought they were gods, and generals who thought their victories immortal.”