About two million years ago, two brothers were forged in the womb of the universe. They were made the epitome of power and balance — light and darkness, creation and destruction, life and death. Together, they shaped a world left bare, claiming it as their own.
The unity of these two contradicting brothers gave rise to a world, a civilization. The Flame of Dawn, Aureon, breathed Solara into being from pure essence, while the Sovereign of Silence, Tharion, wrought Noxmere from the ashes. And together, they brought forth Aetherion — the first harmony, the crown of all creation.
With this came the crowning of two great rulers who would not only lead the two kingdoms on Earth but maintain peace between them, ensuring that Aetherion was not a fleeting moment. To Solara, Elyonar Aureonis, Flame‑Heir of Dawn, Son of Aureon, was crowned, and to Noxmere, Nytheris Tharionis, Sovereign of Ashes, Daughter of Tharion.
King Elyonar Aureonis ruled Solara with the strength of light and fire, while Queen Nytheris Tharionis governed Noxmere with shadow and silence. Together, they maintained peace and balance across the land. Solara became the realm of the living, and when life ended, the dead crossed into Noxmere to face judgment.
As their first order of business, the rulers forged three crowns to represent Solara, Noxmere, and ultimately, Aetherion:
- The Dawnflame Diadem: A band of gold set with a crystal that holds real fire, flickering and alive inside the stone. It was worn by Solara's rulers to show their bond with light and creation. The diadem symbolized warmth, vitality, and the power to guide the living.
- The Deathshroud Helm: A heavy black iron helm lined with ash and shadow. It was worn by Noxmere's rulers to mark their dominion over silence and death. The helm symbolized judgment, secrecy, and the passage of the dead into the afterlife.
- The Twinborn Crown: A circlet forged from both gold and blackened steel, set with a stone that shifts between light and dark. It was remembered as the mark of unity, created when Solara and Noxmere were still one. The crown symbolized balance, the joining of opposites, and the origin of civilization.
The Dawnflame Diadem was to be worn by the ruler of Solara at all times, a constant sign of his power. The Deathshroud Helm served the same purpose for the ruler of Noxmere, marking dominion over silence and death. The Twinborn Crown, however, was kept in the Soulbourne Academy — not only because it was said to be hand‑made by the gods, but because that was where Aetherion was most unified where it was untouched.
Together, King Elyonar Aureonis and Queen Nytheris Tharionis ruled Aetherion for eons until their final breath, urging their descendants to keep the peace and unity between both kingdoms for there was a fine line between them.
Years passed and the responsibilities grew as the population increased on both sides but the rulers did not strife, they continued the good work of their ancestors until the unexpected flipped the story.
The heavens turned blood‑red, the earth trembled, waters split apart, and the air grew poisonous. Thunder rolled without end, and the stars themselves dimmed. The cause was clear: the gods had vanished without a trace, leaving creation to shudder in their absence.
Confusion had clouded the land as everyone paraded their respective palaces demanding answers from their rulers.
That is when it began.
…
Princess Nyreal and Lucen sat in the back row as the lesson continued. It had already been three weeks, and the students had finally woken up. One could say that they had changed exponentially; they were awfully quiet, they barely spoke to their friends, and they cowered whenever they saw Princess Nyreal, making sure that there was not even a microsecond of eye contact.
It was a combined lecture, peasants and Talent bearers seated side by side, for this was Professor Maedra-Quill's class: Foundations of Magical History — or simply History, as the students preferred to call it whenever they were trying not to yawn.
Princess Nyreal's voice cut through the quiet. Arms crossed, she asked, "So, Professor Maedra-Quill, with all your historical knowledge and prowess, what do you think happened to the gods?"
The professor's gaze was steady, her tone clipped. "When it comes to the subject of History, Princess Nyreal, we do not think or assume. We deal with what happened."
Princess Nyreal tilted her head, lips curling faintly. "I see. Then you agree — according to 'History' — that the gods disappeared without a trace, correct?"
A pause. The professor nodded once.
"Yes."
Princess Nyreal leaned forward, her voice sharper now. "And what started the first war between Solara and Noxmere, which destroyed Aetherion?"
The professor's eyes narrowed. "Princess Nyreal, you are a smart young lady, but do not twist history as you see fit."
Nyreal's brow arched. "Twist? I only asked a question. Or is it that the Academy fears the truth — that the war was not born of Noxmere, but of betrayal?"
A murmur rippled through the students. Some peasants shifted uncomfortably; Talent users' interests peaked at the princess's boldness.
Professor Maedra-Quill's voice hardened. "History is not a weapon for your suspicions. It is a record. The war began with disputes over dominion, not whispers of treachery."
Princess Nyreal's tone was cool, almost mocking. "Dominion? That is the word you choose? Convenient. Yet dominion is only the mask. Beneath it lies rot — and you know it."
Professor Maedra-Quill's jaw tightened. "Enough. You will not stand in my class and accuse history itself of deceit."
Princess Nyreal's eyes gleamed, unyielding. "Then perhaps history is guilty of silence. And silence, Professor, is the loudest lie of all."
The room fell into a tense hush. Students held their breath, waiting to see who would yield first — the princess or the archivist of truth.
"I suggest that you go back and verify your claims, for they do not add," Princess Nyreal said, her voice steady, cutting through the lecture hall like a blade. "Earlier, you mentioned that the war was caused by the gods' disappearance. Now you say dominion. And then there is what has been fed into the minds of Solarans — that Noxmere had something to do with it. Do you think that is fair? To take the blame for your insecurities, your uncertainties, your confusion, simply because you have painted us as villains to justify your stupid resolve?"
Princess Nyreal's words hung in the air, heavy and unrelenting.
"Death…" Princess Nyreal continued, her tone flat, "…is only wanted when it befalls your enemy. Then you rejoice, celebrate, and make merry because they are no more. But once it finds its way into your own cloth, you shoo it away as if it were something repulsive. I understand — man is a hypocrite. But must hypocrisy be passed down like inheritance? Must the innocent suffer because of your baseless accusations?"
The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the scratching of quills stopped.
Princess Nyreal's face remained expressionless, her tone emotionless, but the weight of her words pressed against every chest in the room. The peasants who had come for their first lesson with her — expecting arrogance, spoiled laughter, and brattish dismissal from her — now shifted uneasily. They had second guesses. She did not sound like a pampered princess. She spoke like a victim, like one who had carried wounds too deep to show, one who had held in so much pain that even this eruption was only a fraction of what remained bottled inside.
A boy in the back whispered, "She speaks like she's lived it," and the murmur spread, hushed but undeniable.
Professor Maedra-Quill adjusted her spectacles, composure faltering for the first time. She opened her mouth, closed it, then finally said, "Princess Nyreal, history is not a stage for grief. It is a record."
Nyreal's gaze did not waver. "Then perhaps your record is incomplete."
The hall erupted in whispers again, louder this time, the tension stretching like a bowstring ready to snap.
Princess Nyreal simply got up and left, hating the atmosphere she had created herself, her steps sharp against the stone floor.
Lucen remained stunned and speechless, as did the rest of the hall. He felt the weight of her words pressing on him, not because he was fragile or overly emotional, but because in that moment he caught a glimpse — a shadow — of what Princess Nyreal endured on a daily basis.
She did not only bear the judgment of others. She carried the screams of the weak, the pleas of the forgotten, and the sight of innocence collapsing in the blood of its own naivety.
Lucen's chest tightened. He realized that her silence was not arrogance, but armor. Every word she spoke was sharpened by pain, every pause filled with echoes no one else could hear.
"Are you okay?" a boy asked softly from beside him.
Lucen snapped back to reality. "Yeah, I'm okay… just lost in thought," he said quickly, brushing it off even though his voice betrayed a slight tremor.
"Because of what Princess Nyreal said?" the boy pressed, lowering his tone. "Everyone is thinking twice about it." He nodded toward the front, then leaned in to whisper, "Even the professor."
Lucen's eyes widened. "Really?"
He glanced up at Professor Maedra-Quill. The professor was still teaching, still pacing, still gesturing with her usual dramatic flair — but now Lucen noticed the cracks. The professor's voice faltered at the end of certain sentences. Her fingers tapped the edge of the lectern, but it was barely noticeable.
"How can you tell?" Lucen asked.
"Professor Maedra-Quill is always sure of what she teaches," the boy said. "Now she looks… hesitant. Like she's afraid she might have left something out."
A long pause settled between them before the boy continued, quieter this time. "Do you believe what the princess said?"
Lucen opened his mouth — but nothing came out. Something inside him tightened, stopping the words in his throat. Why was he hesitating? He knew the answer, didn't he? He didn't just believe what Princess Nyreal said — he supported it, defended it, felt it in his bones. So why now, when asked aloud, did doubt creep in like a shadow?
Was it that he didn't truly believe Noxmere was innocent? That maybe, just maybe, they had something to do with the gods' disappearance? Or was it something else entirely — something more personal?
What was happening to him?
His thoughts tangled, pulling him in different directions. Maybe staying by the princess's side this long had started to cloud his judgment. Maybe her pain had become his lens, her anger his compass. Or maybe — and this thought frightened him most — he was finally seeing the world the way she did, and it was far uglier than he ever imagined.
Lucen swallowed hard. "I… I am not sure," he whispered, though the truth was far more complicated than that.
The boy studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly, as if he understood more than Lucen had said. Around them, the lecture hall buzzed faintly with murmurs, but Lucen felt strangely distant from it all — caught between loyalty, truth, and a growing fear that he no longer knew where he stood.
"I am Eiran." The boy introduced.
"Lucen, nice to meet you." Lucen responded with a managed smile.
…
Meanwhile, as Princess Nyreal walked to her chambers, she was intercepted by a student.
Princess Nyreal raised a brow. "And who might you be?"
The student bowed before continuing. "I listened to what you said in Professor Maedra-Quill's lesson, and just like you, we believe that the gods' disappearance had nothing to do with Solara or Noxmere's interference." The student explained.
Princess Nyreal's interest was finally piqued. "We...?"