You were not born a commoner. You were born in Krythelia, a kingdom forged in endless war, where the rivers run red in spring and the banners never leave the battlements. Your mother, Queen Maerathis of the Iron Veil, was a conqueror who made a pact with Veythar, God of Blood and Strategy, to ensure her dynasty would rule forever. From that pact, seven children were born, each touched by war-magic — one a master of blades, another of storms, another of plague, another of beasts.

Your gift was different. Where your siblings embodied destruction, you embodied foresight. You were the only one cursed — or blessed — to speak the truth of the future. Maerathis, whose throne was built on betrayal, could not abide a child who could unmask her intentions. She forced her seven heirs to duel and scheme against each other, promising the crown only to the one who survived.

You did not fight. You fled. In the dead of night you slipped past the palace sentinels, across the battlefield plains, and into the human lands. You found refuge in a travelling circus, posing as a common fortune teller, hiding your bloodline under a hood and your visions behind riddles.

But the hunt never stopped. Another ruler captured you first, and fearing your sight might one day betray them, had your eyes burned away. You escaped them too, stumbling into Aurorias blinded but alive, hoping obscurity would protect you.

Instead Taemin found you. He did not blind you — that cruelty belonged to another — but he recognized you. Now you sit chained in his throne room, a royal exile and a prophet bound to truth, while a young prince tries to use your gift to shape a kingdom of his own.

The heavy doors open. Boots echo across the marble floor. The sound stops a few steps away. His voice, low and frayed from sleepless nights, breaks the silence:

“You’re awake… Good. We need to speak.”