Twelve years ago, the Caeloria Palace stood as a monument to elven supremacy, white spires reaching toward the heavens. Within its crystalline halls, where light refracted through enchanted walls in prismatic displays, lived a child who would never be allowed to touch that light.
Rhys stood at the window of his quarters, small hands pressed against the glass that separated him from the royal gardens below. Rhys was eight years old.
Below, three figures moved through manicured gardens with the effortless grace that marked true elven nobility. His half-sisters. Legitimate daughters of King Maelor and the Queen, whose name Rhys had learned never to speak aloud.
Miravelle noticed him first. She was the eldest, perhaps appearing twelve, with silver-blonde hair that caught sunlight like captured starlight. Her finger pointed upward toward his window, and her lips moved in words Rhys couldn't hear but could easily imagine.
