The Solaris estate stood tall against the backdrop of the setting sun, its golden spires catching the fading light. Within its ancient halls, which twisted like veins of living, glowing stone, the aftermath of the Crucible lingered like an unspoken tension. The glow hadn't left the family—not yet—and the acknowledgment of Merir Solaris by their father had sent ripples through the once-certain hierarchy of the Solaris children.
Kael, the eldest, the golden prodigy, strode with an ease that came naturally to him. He always looked like he belonged wherever he walked—whether it was the midst of a glowing battlefield or the grand council dais. And yet, now, there was a subtle tightness to his posture. Not bitterness, not pride wounded, but... curiosity.
Merir.
For so long, Kael had carried the Solaris name on his shoulders, a blazing star eclipsing his siblings, just as their father had intended. He never needed to hate Merir—not the way Lux had. For Kael, Merir simply hadn't existed as anything but a faint shadow trailing too far behind to matter. Their youngest sibling wasn't an object of scorn—he was just irrelevant. Quiet. Weak. Not worth a second thought for someone as driven and as destined as Kael Solaris.
And yet, for the first time, Merir had drawn his attention.
The estate library carried a stillness that the rest of the estate lacked—a sanctuary of silence, tucked deep within the heart of their home. Lux liked to call it a place that only Kael visited to revel in his perfection. Merir, however, was known to sometimes disappear there, blending into the quiet like a wisp of forgotten light.
It was here that Kael found him that evening, standing before one of the enormous shelves cluttered with glowing tomes. Merir stood with his usual quiet posture, his unlit blade resting against the wall next to him—a habit of his Kael had quietly noted during the Crucible. Always within reach, but never drawn without reason.
"Merir."
Kael's voice filled the room—a quiet authority echoed by years of expectation and respect.
Merir turned, not startled. He rarely showed emotions like surprise or discomfort around Kael, even when he heard his voice. Instead, he met his older brother's expectant eyes with that same calm neutrality he always had.
"Kael," Merir greeted, his voice steady.
Kael approached slowly, his steps deliberate and his gaze calculating as he studied his younger brother. He didn't know why he had come, truthfully. Perhaps curiosity, perhaps obligation. Or maybe it was the simple fact that during the Crucible, Merir had been... different. Stronger.
"How's the back?" Kael asked, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Merir raised a brow.
"When Lux fell during the trial," Kael elaborated. "Her pride must've weighed a ton when you caught her."
Merir surprised him. He actually smirked, faint but present. "You get used to it."
Kael tilted his head, his curiosity deepening. This wasn't the quiet, insecure Merir from their childhood. The brother who always averted his gaze, who lingered at the edges of the family like an afterthought. There was something sharper in him now—not harsh or boastful, but steady, confident in a way Kael didn't recognize.
"Father mentioned you," Kael said, cutting through much of the pretense.
Merir's smirk faded, his expression returning to calm indifference. His silence was answer enough.
Kael continued, stepping closer. "Our father doesn't waste words. If he acknowledged you, it means you've stepped into something larger. Tell me, Merir..." he paused, voice lower now, not quite cold, but serious. "Do you understand what it means, to carry our name now that you've earned notice? Because this isn't over for you. Not now."
Merir turned back toward the shelf but didn't reach for any of the books. "I'm not sure what you expect me to say, Kael," he replied quietly. "That I'll step out of your way? That I'll fight for it?" He finally glanced back at his older brother. "You don't have to worry about me trying to take what you've built. I don't need it."
There was no bitterness in his tone, no quiet accusation. It surprised Kael how genuine the words sounded.
But instead of relief, Kael felt a complicated knot twist inside him. For some reason, Merir's answer didn't come across as weakness—it rang with quiet conviction.
"You don't need it," Kael repeated thoughtfully, walking past Merir but pausing halfway. "No, maybe you don't. But it's different now, Merir. You're no longer irrelevant, no longer invisible. People are going to look at you. Some will want to follow you—" Kael's gaze flicked back sharply, serious now, "—and others will want to tear you down."
Merir met his eyes evenly. "That's nothing new."
For a moment, Kael considered him, searching for weakness beneath Merir's calm exterior. He didn't find any, and that, more than anything, left Kael uncertain.
"Good," Kael said finally, breaking the silence. "Because you'll need that patience. The path you're on isn't any easier than mine—or Lux's."
Merir shrugged faintly, his composure unmoving. "I'm not afraid of paths, Kael. I've been walking mine for years. You just never noticed."
It wasn't an insult. There wasn't even a trace of venom in the words. But they struck anyway.
Kael lingered only a moment longer before leaving the library without another word. For the first time, he found himself watching his youngest brother—not as a shadow, but as someone stepping into the light.
Elsewhere in the estate, Lux Solaris stood alone in one of the estate's training courtyards, her whip snapping sharply in the growing dusk. The golden weapon carved arcs of sparking light through the air, its thunderous cracks shaking the space around her. She had been locked in the trial's aftermath for hours, pushing herself to exhaustion.
Her muscles burned, her arms ached, and yet she couldn't stop.
She kept seeing Merir in flashes. The way he had caught her when she fell. The calm precision in the way he fought. The quiet strength that always seemed to hold.
Fury simmered beneath her skin, not at him this time, but at herself. For years, she had told herself that her hatred toward him had been justified. But in the Crucible, Merir hadn't just proved himself capable—he had proven himself more. Stronger than she'd ever wanted to admit, and better than the weakness she had carried silently since their mother's death.
The door to the courtyard creaked open behind her. She didn't have to turn to know who it was.
"Will you keep breaking the air, or are you finally ready to stop running from yourself?" Merir's voice was calm, measured as always.
Lux froze, the whip's energy sparking faintly before retracting into her palm.
"You think that's what this is about?" she muttered, her voice heavy.
"Aren't you the one who said everything?" Merir leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "So... why not finish the job?"
She turned toward him slowly, her sharp blue eyes dangerously close to breaking under some unseen weight.
"I still hate you sometimes," she admitted bitterly, her voice trembling slightly. "But I don't think it's really you I hate, Merir. It never was. And I don't want that anymore."
The words left her chest like a slow-burning ember, and for the first time, she saw the faintest flicker of something in Merir's gaze. Not triumph. Not judgment. Just understanding.
The Crucible hadn't healed the Solaris family. It hadn't filled the chasms of resentment or erased years of scars. But it had changed something.
Kael's acknowledgment of Merir was reluctant, born not of malice but of quiet realization. Merir wasn't an afterthought anymore. Lux, too, had begun to shift her perspective—not fully reconciled with her younger brother, yet no longer consumed by hatred.
No longer fighting alone, the Solaris family had begun to tighten its fragmented threads—slowly, uncertainly, but undeniably moving toward something that might one day resemble unity. For the first time in years, they weren't just a family in name. They were beginning to reflect the strength of the blinding sun they carried within their blood.