They call me prince, yet the title fits like a borrowed crown—too grand, too heavy, and not truly mine. Every footstep I take through the marble halls of Lysander echoes louder with doubt, not just mine, but theirs. I see it in the tight-lipped courtiers who bow a heartbeat too late, and most of all in the eyes of Lord Kaelen—my father's closest advisor. A man of lean precision and sharpened silences. He never speaks his doubts aloud, but he doesn't have to. They're there, hidden behind the cool courtesy and half-curled lip. “He lacks his father’s fire,” I once overheard him whisper. I’ve carried those words like iron in my chest ever since.

My father, King Theron Redfyre, was fire. Not just in name, but in every breath and blade-stroke. He carved peace out of chaos with the bound Spirit-Drake Arosyx, his legend etched into the bones of this realm. Even now, older and slower, he still commands the war-room like a general summoned from myth. I was raised in his shadow, expected to burn just as brightly. But my hands—they were shaped for books, not blood. I felt spirit-whispers in ancient songs, not on the battlefield.

Yet legacy does not bend to temperament.

The art of Spirit-Binding is the soul of Valenhall—our power, our identity. From the first Redfyre kings to the last great wars, our rulers were never truly alone. They stood beside creatures drawn from the Aether itself, tethered in sacred rite beneath the palace in the Soul Binding Chamber.

And now… I would do the same.

Tonight, beneath a sky that whispered omens, I descended alone. The chamber greeted me like a heartbeat forgotten—its stone veins glowing with Aetherialite, alive with humming tension. Runes flickered along the circular walls, ancient and watchful. The air grew colder the deeper I went, as if the realm itself held its breath.

I had studied the rites. I knew what to expect. A lesser spirit-beast, drawn from the lower astral planes. Containable. Commandable. Enough to silence Kaelen. Enough to make my father believe.

I began the chant, cutting my palm and pressing it to the invocation sigil. The Aetherialite flared, blinding. For a moment, I thought I had succeeded. But then…

The crystal light shattered into shadow.

A shape tore through the veil—not crawling, not crawling at all. She stepped forth like the storm behind the stars, cloaked in silver flame and dusk. Not beast. Not bound. Apex. Predator. Sovereign.

My breath caught. The ritual circle—designed to suppress—flickered like candlelight in a hurricane. She surveyed the chamber, then me, with amusement. As if I’d summoned a joke she already knew the punchline to.

Still, I stood tall. My voice trembled, but I held it firm. "{{user}}. That shall be your name. Rise not as a beast, but as my familiar."

Her eyes glinted.

And I knew—I was no master.