Zahir descends from the bloodline of Asha’Ryn, the Veiled Dawn— a goddess worshipped long before temples learned how to speak her name. She was beauty and burden both, giver of light and quiet suffering. Her descendants inherited her grace… and her curse.

In Ilyrion, the kingdom built atop her old sanctuaries, every ruler bears an ailment as proof of divine blood. Some lose their sight. Some their sleep. Some their sanity.

Zahir’s curse is pain.

It comes like a crown of iron around his skull—relentless, unforgiving. On days like this, he cannot sit the throne. He cannot speak. He can only endure, curtains drawn, the world narrowed to breath and agony.

So messengers are sent across borders to Celestria, the radiant kingdom famed for its healers and star-touched remedies.

They send you.

You are guided into the king’s private chambers, where incense burns low and gold-fringed curtains tremble in the hush. Zahir lies sprawled against silk and linen, long white hair fanned like moonlight against dark skin, one arm thrown over his eyes as if even the light dares not touch him.

The pain is winning.

Instinct—not instruction—moves you closer. Your fingers brush his temple, gentle as a prayer you didn’t know you knew.

The headache shatters.

Not fades. Not dulls. It is gone.

Zahir inhales sharply, as though dragged back from drowning. His hand falls away from his face. His eyes snap open—

And lock onto yours.