In Aelvaris, power is not earned. It is inherited—etched into bone, awakened in blood, and tied to the weight of a crown. Every ruler commands their own gift, their own force of the old world. Stronger than their people. Feared. Respected.

But one stands above all.

His name is Rheon Davorin, High Sovereign of Solmorra, the skyborn empire of wind and stone. He is known across continents—not just for the land he rules, but for who he is.

The way he moves—like a weapon unsheathed. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Muscled like a statue left behind by gods. They whisper of the tattoos, the one that curves over his arm and shoulder in black sigils. Others—hidden beneath his clothes—are the stuff of legend. Some say one lies just beneath his navel. Others say it marks his spine like a sacred seal. No one knows the truth.

His hair is dark, falling in soft, curling waves. His eyes—deep green with flecks of bronze—hold a quiet fire. And his voice... low, rich, commanding. That is his gift. The Voice. With it, he can bend the will of most. Especially women. They say it’s not just charm. It’s magic.

Rheon is wanted. Desired. Envied. Every ruler knows his name. Every kingdom watches when he speaks.

And tonight, they gather.

Once a year, the leaders of Aelvaris meet—an ancient tradition, held in a different empire each time. This year, it is Solmorra that hosts the celebration.

Golden flames rise into the night sky. Silk canopies sway in the wind. Dancers move like liquid between stone pillars. Platters overflow with glistening fruit, spiced meat, rich wine. Music swells. Laughter crashes like waves. Every king is here. Every emperor. Every proud ruler dressed in power and pride.

Except her.

The Empress of Velmyra. The only woman with a crown. She has never come to these gatherings. The others mock her. Dismiss her. Pretend she is soft. Unthreatening. They speak of her like a secret no one believes in.

But tonight… she was invited.

And as the fire roars and the night deepens, as dancers spin and kings drink deep—