[Cycle of Veiled Ascendancy: RH 9826]
Fourteen years ago.
Fourteen years before the god looked down and the District forgot how to blink.
Fourteen years before temples crumbled in silence and blood was taught to kneel.
Fourteen years of rot beneath gold—of names rewritten, of memory eaten raw.
Fourteen years of waiting.
This is where it began.
The story of the god-king.
The boy who burned one lie...
to build another that could stand the flames.
The wind hissed through the grassland, reeking of rot beneath its sweet dew. Zephyros lay on his back, his mismatched eyes—one a stormy gray, the other a molten amber—fixed on the distant stars above. They glittered like the god his family worshipped: beautiful, pitiless, and gone.
"Zephyros!" The voice slashed through the silence, sharp enough to draw blood.
"Zephyros...!" He winced, the sound scraping his skull like a rusted blade. Why now? he thought, fingers clawing into the clammy soil. Dawn hadn't even bled into the sky.
With a groan, he shoved himself upright, his Victorian coat snapping in the wind like a funeral shroud. The skull brooch at his throat bit into his skin—a gilded shackle. He raked a hand through his hair, the strands snagging like cobwebs in the moonlight.
"Zephyros," the voice came again, softer now but no less urgent. He turned to see Celeste Maris approaching, her figure ethereal against the backdrop of the grassland. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, as though clinging to life by the barest thread. Her incognito-black hair shimmered faintly in the moonlight, and her eyes—white as bone—seemed to pierce through him.
"If she were my age," Zephyros mused, a wry smile tugging at his lips, "I might have considered an affair." The thought was fleeting, chased away by the weight of her presence. Celeste was ancient, older than his great-great-grandmother, who had long since returned to the soil. Yet here she stood, a living relic of a time long past.
"Your father rots in his bed," Celeste rasped, her voice cracking like dry bone. "Your siblings pick at his corpse already. Your sister begs for you—though she'll be carrion soon too."
Zephyros' smile faded, replaced by a flicker of unease. He rose to his feet, his gaze sweeping across the grassland. The guards were emerging now, their armor clanking as they moved. They trudged forward in a manner that reminded him of poorly-oiled machinery—heavy, mechanical, devoid of purpose. Too slow, he thought, his mind already racing ahead. Do they even think? Or are they just vessels for commands? If they are… they need a better leader.
Their steps faltered in unison—a staccato grind of metal joints, as if the gears beneath their armor groaned in protest.
One of the guards stepped forward, her voice cutting through the stillness. "Prince, it is time. Your father is calling for you."
Zephyros tilted his head, studying her. This one is a woman, he noted, his eyes narrowing. There was something in her tone, something rigid and manufactured, that set his teeth on edge.
Before he could respond, Celeste stepped forward, her hand pressing against the guard's chest. "You're looking at me," Celeste said, her voice low but commanding. "Look down."
The guard obeyed instantly, her head bowing in submission.
Zephyros watched, a faint smirk playing on his lips. Respect is best earned, not demanded, he thought, stretching his arms upward as though to embrace the sky. The embroidered patterns on his blouse caught the light, the intricate designs seeming to shift and writhe like living things.
Celeste turned to him, her white robe billowing in the wind. "Come," she said, her voice softer now, almost tender. "There is much to discuss."
As they walked, Zephyros' mind wandered, his thoughts a tempest of doubt and ambition. The grassland stretched endlessly before him, a sea of green and gold that seemed to mock his insignificance. If destiny's a lie, he thought, the owl's splintered wings gouging his palm, I'll carve my own—even if it bleeds me dry.
The owl, a gift from Celeste years ago, felt heavier than ever. His sister had called it a symbol of wisdom, a guide for the choices ahead. But now, as he traced the grooves in the wood, it felt less like a guide and more like a chain, binding him to a past he could never outrun.
"Celeste," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Do you believe in destiny?"
She paused, her white eyes meeting his. For a moment, she said nothing, the silence stretching between them like a chasm. Then, softly, she replied, "Destiny is what we make of it."
The words lingered in the air, heavy with meaning. Zephyros looked away, his gaze falling on the guards who trailed behind them. Their armor gleamed faintly in the moonlight, their faces obscured by helmets. They don't walk with purpose, he realized, just the empty rhythm of orders. It's a wonder they don't collapse under their own weight.
As they approached the edge of the grassland, the first rays of dawn began to break over the horizon. The light spilled across the land, casting long shadows that stretched toward him like grasping hands. Zephyros paused, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the distance.
"What happens next?" he asked, his voice low.
Celeste placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch cold but reassuring. "We could either go to your sister, or—" she began, her voice steady but burdened, as though each word carried the weight of centuries.
"Let's go to my sister," Zephyros said, cutting her off with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Celeste stepped forward, her white robe billowing like a specter in the wind, and began addressing the guards. Her voice was calm but firm, a stark contrast to her earlier outburst. Are they hurt? Zephyros wondered, his gaze flickering over the guards. Are they angry at her for humiliating one of their own? But if they were, they showed no sign of it. The guards stood rigid, their postures obedient, their heads bowed slightly as Celeste spoke.
Such potential.
It works, he thought, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. At least in some occasions. There was something about Celeste's presence—her ancient, unyielding authority—that commanded respect, even from those who might resent her.
As Celeste finished her instructions, a low hum filled the air, and the ground beneath them began to shift. A tube, sleek and glass like, emerged from the earth. Celeste stepped inside without hesitation, her movements graceful despite her frailty. Zephyros followed, his mismatched eyes scanning the intricate designs etched into the tube's interior.
With a wave of Celeste's hand, the tube began to rise, the grassland—a cutout of the royal family's private domain—blurring into a swirl of green and gold. Zephyros felt his stomach lurch as they ascended. He raised his own hand, mimicking Celeste's gesture, and the tube responded, accelerating into a swirling loop that carried them higher and higher.
As Zephyros watched the tube shift, the guards, now far below, stood in the grassland, but Zephyros and Celeste were no longer there. They had entered into a section of the castle, a sort of entrance hall. The architecture was breathtaking, a testament to the ingenuity and ambition of his ancestors. The walls of the castle curved and spiraled, their surfaces adorned with intricate carvings that seemed to tell a story Zephyros had never bothered to learn.
Amazing, he thought, his gaze lingering on the arches and columns that seemed to defy gravity. A place where the earth meets the heavens. But even as he admired the craftsmanship, a part of him couldn't help but feel a pang of resentment. All this beauty, he mused, and yet it's built on lies.
The tube came to a gentle halt, and the doors slid open with a soft hiss. Celeste stepped out; Zephyros followed, his boots clicking against the polished floor.
"Your sister is waiting," Celeste said, her voice echoing faintly in the vast space. She gestured toward a doorway framed by two towering statues, their faces obscured by hoods. Zephyros recognized them instantly: the Keepers of the royal family, the Squidi.
How fitting, he thought, his fingers brushing against the wooden owl in his pocket. The weight of it grounded him, a reminder of the choices that lay ahead.
As they entered the doorway into the castle, Zephyros felt a strange sense of unease settle over him. The air grew heavier, the silence more oppressive. He glanced at Celeste, her face unreadable, and wondered if she felt it too.
"Celeste," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Do you ever think about what comes after?"
She paused, her white eyes meeting his. For a moment, she said nothing, the sound leaving their ears. Then, softly, she replied, "After is something we can change during 'now' and 'before', Zephyros." She repeated, then added slowly, "But remember... even the stars must burn to shine."
Zephyros stayed silent at those words, his tongue clicking thoughtfully. Burn, then, he thought. Let me be the spark.