The first thing Rowen noticed was the light. Eversnow Glade shimmered in ways that didn't seem possible, as if every surface held a secret glow. The cobblestones underfoot looked as if they'd been carved from frost, catching the faint glimmers of magic that floated in the air. Above them, crystalline spires reached skyward, humming faintly with an energy she could feel in her bones. Snowflakes fell lazily, not from the sky, but from invisible currents of magic, dissolving before they touched the ground.
Rowen stopped walking, her breath catching as she took it all in. This wasn't just a city—it was alive. The streets thrummed with an energy she didn't understand, and every corner seemed to hold another marvel waiting to be discovered. A trio of street performers had gathered a crowd, their synchronized gestures weaving a flock of firebirds into existence. The creatures swooped through the air, leaving trails of golden embers, before bursting into showers of light. Across the square, an artisan sculpted a towering figure of ice, the shards rearranging themselves into intricate shapes as if alive.
Among the crowd, she caught glimpses of creatures unlike anything she had seen in Za'thik. A towering troll lumbered past, its stone-like skin etched with glowing lines that shifted as it moved. An elven woman with silver-blue hair and elongated ears glided by, her eyes glowing faintly as she murmured to a floating orb that followed her like a pet. Nearby, a dragonfolk merchant, his scales glinting like polished copper, gestured animatedly as he argued with a customer cloaked in shadow.
Rowen shivered, a thrill of excitement coursing through her. She could hardly believe this place was real. Za'thik's quiet streets and modest homes felt like another lifetime.
She glanced at Dryanden, who stood a step ahead, his posture rigid and his crimson eyes scanning the streets. There was a tension in his shoulders that hadn't been there before, and when her gaze lingered, she caught the faintest twitch in his jaw.
"You've been here before," Rowen said, studying the tension in his shoulders.
Dryanden didn't answer, his sharp gaze sweeping the crowd.
Rowen caught sight of a shop across the street, its door flanked by shimmering lanterns. Through the open doorway, shelves lined with glowing artifacts beckoned, their faint hums and flickers too enticing to ignore. Without thinking, she tugged at Dryanden's sleeve.
"Can we go in?"
He frowned. "No. We don't have time—"
"Please?" she cut in, her voice softer. "I've never seen things like this before. Just for a moment?"
His jaw tightened as if weighing the risks, but her wide-eyed expression must have worn him down. With a resigned sigh, he nodded. "Fine. One moment. But don't touch anything."
Rowen ducked inside before he could change his mind. The air within the shop was warmer, tinged with the scent of old parchment and something metallic. Shelves were crammed with oddities: vials of swirling liquid, amulets that glimmered like captured starlight, and delicate clockwork figurines that moved on their own. One artifact in particular caught her eye—a crystalline orb that pulsed faintly with a deep blue light, almost in rhythm with her heartbeat.
"What is all this?" she murmured, running her hand close to, but not touching, a pendant shaped like a crescent moon.
"Magic," Dryanden said flatly, his arms crossed as he hovered near the door. His eyes never stopped scanning the street outside, as if expecting trouble at any moment.
"No kidding," Rowen shot back, her voice tinged with awe. She leaned closer to the crystalline orb, its glow reflected in her eyes. "It's just… I've never seen anything like this before. Not in Za'thik. Not anywhere."
Dryanden's voice softened, though his gaze remained distant. "You're not in Za'thik anymore."
A faint hum filled the air as an elderly shopkeeper appeared behind the counter, her eyes glittering with the same crystalline quality as the orb. "You've good taste," the shopkeeper said, her voice lilting and layered. "That one's been calling to you since you stepped through the door."
Rowen blinked, stepping back instinctively. "Calling to me?"
"Enough," Dryanden cut in, his tone brooking no argument. "We're leaving."
Rowen opened her mouth to protest, but something in his expression silenced her. Reluctantly, she followed him back into the crowded street, casting a final glance at the orb as its light dimmed behind her.
"Stay close, Rowen." His tone was sharp, cutting through the noise of the street around them. He turned his head just enough to glance at her, his gaze hard.
Her excitement dimmed, replaced by a flicker of unease. She followed reluctantly, her earlier awe tempered by the sense that she was being watched. The crowd pressed in closer as they walked, and the murmur of voices grew louder.
For the first time, she noticed the sharp edges beneath the city's beauty—the way shadows stretched too long in the alleys, the occasional flash of steel beneath cloaks, the predatory glances exchanged in the crowd. The Glade might have been a marvel, but it wasn't safe.
Still, Rowen couldn't stop herself from looking. Every step revealed something new: a shop displaying glowing jars filled with swirling storms, an illusionist conjuring fleeting visions of ancient battles, a vendor offering a box of tiny, fluttering lights that sang like birds.
She noticed a pair of centaur-like creatures striding through the crowd, their equine lower halves gleaming with metallic hues, while their upper bodies held an elegant yet formidable grace. A hulking figure with crystalline antlers passed close enough for her to see the faint shimmer of magic coursing through its translucent skin.
The crowd thinned as they moved deeper into the city, the noise of the bustling streets fading to a low hum. The air grew colder, sharper, as though they'd crossed an invisible boundary. Rowen slowed her steps as the towering silhouette of the Eldorath Mansion came into view.
It was unlike anything she had ever seen. The structure loomed against the skyline, its exterior carved from a dark, obsidian-like stone that seemed to drink in the light around it. Intricate runes glowed faintly along the walls, their shapes shifting subtly as though alive. Spires jutted upward at sharp angles, their tips radiating a pale, otherworldly light.
Rowen's crescent mark warmed against her wrist. She glanced down at it, her brows knitting together as she saw the faint pulse of light beneath her skin. The sensation grew stronger the closer they came to the mansion, and she pressed her hand against her wrist as if that might stop it.
"What… is this place?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"The Eldorath Mansion," Dryanden replied, his tone unreadable. His steps slowed as they neared the rune-carved gates.
The gates themselves were a masterpiece of design, wrought from twisted black iron and etched with more glowing runes. The symbols pulsed faintly, in perfect sync with the warmth of her mark. Rowen stopped in her tracks, transfixed.
"It's reacting to me," she said, lifting her wrist for Dryanden to see.
Dryanden's gaze sharpened, and in a single stride, he was at her side. He grasped her wrist, not roughly, but firmly enough to command her attention. His crimson eyes narrowed as they locked onto hers.
"Do not touch the wards," he said, his voice low and measured. "They'll recognize the magic in you, but they won't care who you are."
Rowen swallowed, nodding. "Understood."
Dryanden released her wrist but lingered close, his expression darker than usual. He tilted his head toward the gates, gesturing for her to follow. As they stepped closer, the runes on the gates shifted again, the faint hum of magic filling the air.
Rowen's curiosity prickled at the back of her mind. "These wards… What are they for?"
"Protection," Dryanden replied simply. He paused, glancing at the mansion looming above them. "They've guarded this place for centuries, long before Selene claimed it. They're older than anyone alive, and far more dangerous."
Her eyes widened as she studied the glowing symbols. "Dangerous how?"
"They don't forgive curiosity," he said. His gaze lingered on the runes for a moment longer before he turned and gestured for her to keep moving. "Stay close."
The weight of his words hung in the air as they passed through the gates, the faint hum of magic settling into her skin like a warning. Rowen cast a final glance at the glowing runes as they stepped into the shadow of the mansion, her unease growing with every step.
The rune-covered doors of the Eldorath Mansion loomed before them, their intricate carvings glowing faintly in the fading light. Rowen paused as Dryanden stepped forward, his hand raised as if to knock.
Before his knuckles could connect with the dark, polished surface, the doors swung open, soundlessly and deliberately, as though the mansion itself had been waiting for them.
Rowen froze, her pulse quickening as the faint hum of magic washed over her. The air inside the mansion felt heavier, charged with an energy that prickled against her skin. She glanced at Dryanden, who stepped inside without hesitation, his expression unreadable.
"Come," he said over his shoulder, his voice low.
Rowen followed, her steps hesitant as she crossed the threshold. The grand hall unfolded before her like something out of a dream. Floating orbs of light hovered high above, illuminating the dark stone walls adorned with tapestries depicting ancient battles and rituals. Runes etched into the pillars shifted faintly, responding to some unseen rhythm. The air carried a faint chill, despite the warmth of the lights.
Her gaze was drawn to the grand staircase at the center of the hall, its polished black stone gleaming in the ethereal glow. Standing at the top, framed by the light of the floating orbs, was a woman who radiated authority. Lady Selene.
Her silver and blue robes shimmered like liquid starlight, catching every flicker of light as she descended the steps with deliberate grace. Her eyes, sharp and piercing, swept over Rowen and Dryanden, and her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile.
"Prince Dryanden of the Celestial Line of Vireth," she said, her voice smooth and commanding.
Rowen's stomach dropped. So Thistle hadn't been joking. And he wasn't just some minor royal from a tucked-away corner of Vireth—he was part of the bloodline that ruled the entire realm. Her chest tightened at the thought.
What did that make her? A bonded partner to high-born royalty? A peasant from a world barely anyone knew existed?
"And the one who stirs the seals." Her gaze fixed on Rowen, her voice pulling her from her thoughts.
Rowen's heart skipped a beat. This was no surprise to Selene—her arrival had been expected.
"You've made quite the impression," Selene continued, her tone neutral but her eyes calculating. "Channeling raw magic without training is… rare." She paused, letting the silence draw out before her voice turned colder. "Rare, and dangerous. Even the brightest flames burn uncontrolled."
Rowen opened her mouth to respond, but no words came. The comment lingered like a blade hanging above her, and she couldn't tell if it was a warning or a challenge.
Rowen shifted under Lady Selene's piercing gaze, her words about raw, uncontrolled magic sinking deep into her chest. Rare, dangerous—Rowen didn't need reminding. She'd already felt the edges of that danger. But knowing someone like Selene had noticed made it worse. Like her mistakes were written across her skin for the entire room to see. Her hands twitched at her sides as she tried to keep her expression neutral.
Was she even supposed to be here? What would someone like Lady Selene think if she knew the truth—that Rowen had stumbled into this world, completely untrained, and now shared a bond with the prince of Vireth?
Wait, did she know?
It felt wrong, like she was pretending to be something she wasn't.
Selene's expression didn't change, but her gaze swept to Dryanden, her tone shifting slightly. "You've brought her here. That much of the prophecy, at least, is holding true."
Prophecy? Rowen's stomach churned at the word. She didn't want to be part of any prophecy, much less one that involved failing protections and awakening forces. She glanced at Dryanden, searching for reassurance, but his face was as unreadable as ever.
Selene gave her no chance to question it. She continued descending the staircase, each step echoing faintly in the massive hall until she stopped just a few feet above them.
As Selene addressed Dryanden, Rowen couldn't help but notice the subtle deference in her tone—respect, even. It hit her then, like a blade to the chest, that Dryanden's quiet authority wasn't just habit; it was bred into him. He wasn't just royalty. He was Vireth's royalty. And here she was, standing next to him, barely knowing how to control her magic, let alone how to navigate this world.
"Aldren's disappearance is no coincidence," Selene said, her voice quieter now but no less commanding. "The protections that hold Vireth together are unraveling, one thread at a time. Should they fall completely, the forces they bind will awaken—and they will not care about our survival."
The words sank into Rowen's chest, heavy and ominous. She couldn't stop herself from glancing at Dryanden.
How had she ended up here, bonded to someone like him? She didn't belong in this world, let alone by the side of a prince who carried the weight of an entire realm on his shoulders. She swallowed hard, forcing the thought down.
This was too big for her.
She was too small for it.
Selene's gaze lingered on Rowen for another moment before she gestured gracefully to a waiting steward. "We will speak more over dinner. There is much you must understand about your role in what's to come."
Without another word, she turned and ascended the staircase once more, the faint shimmer of her robes trailing behind her like a veil of light.
Selene's words carried the weight of inevitability, and Rowen felt her chest tighten. The idea that the protections of Vireth were failing was terrifying enough, but the way Selene looked at her—as though she were part of the solution—made her want to sink into the floor. She wasn't part of anything. She was just… Rowen.
The steward's soft footfalls echoed in the vast hall as they led Rowen and Dryanden away from the grand staircase. The air grew quieter as they passed under a series of glowing archways, the faint hum of magic following them like a whisper.
Rowen trailed behind Dryanden, her mind buzzing. Every step took her further into this world she barely understood, and Selene's piercing gaze still lingered in her thoughts. The prophecy, the mention of unraveling protections, and the raw truth of Dryanden's lineage churned together in her chest. Prince of the Celestial Line of Vireth. She swallowed hard, glancing at him.
He walked with his usual measured calm, his crimson eyes flicking briefly toward the shifting runes etched into the walls. If the title weighed on him, he didn't show it. That fact only made her more uneasy. How could someone carry that kind of responsibility and act like it was just another day?
The steward stopped before a heavy wooden door set with inlaid silver patterns. "Your room," they said, bowing their head slightly. The runes on the door pulsed faintly before fading as the steward stepped back, leaving them alone.
Rowen shifted awkwardly, unsure of what to say as Dryanden opened the door and stepped inside. She followed reluctantly, her boots clicking softly against the polished floor.
The room was lavish, far more than anything Rowen had ever imagined. A grand four-poster bed dominated the center, its canopy draped in shimmering fabric that seemed to catch and refract the light. The walls were lined with bookshelves, each filled with tomes bound in leather and marked with runes she couldn't read. A mirror on the far wall glowed faintly when her crescent mark came into view, and a wardrobe in the corner hummed softly as though alive.
Rowen let out a low breath, her fingers brushing against the edge of the bed. "This is… a lot."
Dryanden didn't respond immediately. He moved to the balcony, pushing open the glass doors to let in the crisp night air. The city stretched out before them, its lights twinkling like stars scattered across the horizon.
Rowen hesitated before stepping closer. "So… is this normal for you?" She gestured to the room. "Because this makes Za'thik look like a hay barn."
Dryanden leaned against the railing, his gaze distant. "It's nothing compared to the places I grew up."
Her stomach twisted at his casual tone. Of course it wasn't. This was probably a downgrade for him. Prince of the entire realm, she thought again, her discomfort bubbling to the surface.
"I don't get it," she said finally, crossing her arms. "Why didn't you tell me? About who you are."
Dryanden's crimson eyes flicked toward her, but his expression remained neutral. "What difference would it have made?"
Rowen's jaw tightened. "A lot, actually. You're not just some prince of a backwater kingdom—you're part of the bloodline that rules everything. I'm…" She trailed off, her voice faltering. "I'm just some peasant who stumbled into this world. It's different."
His gaze softened, just slightly. "You think that matters?"
"It should," she muttered, turning away to stare at the room again. The shimmering canopy, the glowing mirror—it all felt like it belonged to someone else. "This isn't my world."
Dryanden sighed, stepping back into the room. "You're here now, and that means it is. What you were before doesn't matter."
Rowen opened her mouth to respond, but the weight of his words settled over her, cutting off her argument. She turned swiftly, moving toward the bed, exhaustion pressing heavily on her. But just as her fingers grazed the shimmering fabric, a sudden jolt shot through her wrist. She gasped, clutching at the crescent mark that now glowed hot against her skin. The light pulsed, erratic and brighter than it had ever been.
Dryanden's head snapped up, his crimson eyes narrowing as he crossed the room in an instant. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know," Rowen whispered, her voice shaky. The glow spread, creeping up her arm like liquid fire. "It's… doing something. It won't stop."
The mirror on the far wall flickered, its surface rippling as though alive. Rowen turned toward it, fear blooming in her chest as a shadowy figure began to take shape within the glass.
Dryanden stepped in front of her, his hand instinctively reaching for his blade. The figure's outline sharpened, its eyes glowing a deep, unnatural red.
Then, a voice—low, cold, and laced with power—resonated through the room.
"You don't know who you are… but you will."
The light from the crescent mark surged one final time before extinguishing, plunging the room into silence.