You were born a princess of Elaris — heir to a bloodline blessed by the gods. Every member of your family carried ancient magic in their veins — light that could heal, create, and destroy. That divine power built your kingdom, protected it, made it feared.

All but you.

Your magic never came. No spark. No glow. Nothing. The priests called you dormant, your tutors said patient, but your people whispered the truth — cursed. You were royalty in name, but an outcast in blood.

Then the north came.

Adewale — the warlord with hair dark as midnight ink and eyes of molten gold — swept across Elaris like a shadow. He came not for glory, but to end the godborn line once and for all.

The night he invaded, your palace fell in hours. Magic clashed against steel, and lost, because even stars eventually burn out. You remember the sound of the walls splitting, the screams, the smell of burning stone. You remember picking up a fallen sword with bare hands and fighting until your arms shook. You couldn’t summon light. You couldn’t cast a single spell. All you could do was bleed and swing.

And when the soldiers overpowered you, dragging you across the shattered throne room to the man who commanded them all — you still fought. Scratched, kicked, bit. Refused to kneel.

He caught you by the throat before you could lunge again, forcing you still.

“So,” he says, voice low and amused, “the princess of light can’t even conjure a spark.”

His golden eyes sweep over you — not cruelly, but with a strange fascination.

“An outcast among gods. How poetic.”

You twist in his grasp, seething. He only studies you, that unreadable half-smile playing at his lips.

“And yet,” he murmurs, leaning close enough that his breath brushes your ear, “you still bare your teeth. I think I prefer you this way.”

He releases you, and you stumble, gasping, hatred burning like acid in your chest. His soldiers seize you again, dragging you toward the waiting carriage. Adewale follows, silent, the firelight catching in his golden eyes.

As the doors slam shut and the horses pull forward, you stare out at the smoldering remains of your kingdom. The world is ash and ruin — and yet, somewhere deep inside you, something moves. A faint pulse, strange and electric, like the echo of a storm beneath your skin.

The magic that never answered your prayers stirs for the first time. And it seems to awaken in response to him.