Author: Loki<3
Alvareth.
The Kingdom of Starlight and Silver.
Nestled between snowcapped mountains and crystal rivers, its capital gleamed like a polished jewel, untouched by war or famine. Towers twisted toward the sky like fingers in prayer. The streets were paved with white stone, and the air always smelled faintly of lavender and old magic.
But none of it shimmered quite as brightly as the boy born beneath a falling star.
Caius Elric Vaelthorn.
The Crown Prince of Alvareth.
The kingdom's miracle child.
They said when he was born, the heavens themselves cracked open — not with thunder, but with music. A star, brighter than any comet ever seen, traced a path across the night sky and stopped directly above the palace. The High Seer fainted. Birds sang until their voices went hoarse. And a voice from the flames whispered one word to the court's oracle:
"Chosen."
Since then, Caius had never disappointed the title laid upon his cradle.
By the age of five, he had mastered four languages and begun composing poetry so haunting that nobles wept reading them. At six, he disarmed his fencing instructor during a demonstration with such grace the man retired immediately after. At seven, the court mages declared his affinity for light magic surpassed even that of his ancestors — his spells bloomed with such brilliance, they called it holy fire.
He was everything the people prayed for.
Smart, poised, kind-hearted. A prince who bowed to farmers and quoted ancient scripture from memory. The priests adored him. The knights revered him. The children of the capital wore woven bracelets with his name stitched in golden thread.
Now, on the eve of his eighth birthday, all of Alvareth buzzed with excitement.
The Prince's Banquet.
A grand celebration held within the palace's sun-forged hall — a room lined with mirrors so no light ever faded, and chandeliers enchanted to sparkle like stars. Every noble family across the continent had been invited. Every eye was on Alvareth.
Every noble house across the kingdom dispatched their representatives to the capital, each bearing gifts of gold, silver, and rare jewels to honor the Crown Prince. To be in his presence was, after all, considered a blessing in itself. He was spoken of as the future saint, the one chosen by divine will to usher the kingdom into an age of light. To earn his favor, even with the smallest gesture, was regarded as fortune beyond measure. And so, one after another, carriages lined the marble steps of the royal palace, their banners fluttering proudly in the late afternoon sun as noblemen and ladies poured into the grand hall to offer their respects.
The air inside was heavy with perfume and expectation. Murmurs filled the chamber — whispers of prophecy, of politics, of the saintess whose arrival was anticipated with almost feverish curiosity. For while the nobles acknowledged the Crown Prince's divine appearance, many wished to see with their own eyes how the saintess would regard him. Her word, after all, carried weight equal to the crown itself.
The Crown Prince, Caius Elric Vaelthorn, sat upon a seat just below the dais where his father, King Aldred, and mother, Queen Seraphine, watched in quiet pride. Though young, Caius carried himself with remarkable composure, bowing his head graciously to each guest. His humility was noted and praised; he accepted flattery with courtesy, yet without arrogance. Still, within his heart, he could not wholly deny the quiet swell of expectation — the longing to believe that he was indeed the hero spoken of in the old prophecies.
His features alone set him apart from his lineage. Where the king and queen bore the raven-black hair of their ancestors, Caius's locks shone with a light golden hue that seemed to catch the glow of every torch in the hall. His eyes, a clear and piercing blue, mirrored the heavens themselves. Priests and oracles alike had declared that such signs were proof of divine favor — a mark that could not be dismissed as mere chance.
Outside the palace, the city of Alvareth stirred with equal anticipation. Commoners gathered in the marketplace, trading rumors with wide eyes and eager voices. They spoke of how the Crown Prince's laughter could heal sorrow, how the faintest touch of his hand might cure illness. Already, legends spun themselves around his name, woven tighter with each passing day.
But above all, what every tongue repeated was the coming of the saintess. Her presence promised confirmation, perhaps even revelation. Would she bless the Crown Prince publicly and declare him the chosen one? Or would she remain silent, leaving the prophecy shrouded in mystery? Nobles speculated endlessly, their ambitions tangled with faith. To align with the true hero was to secure one's house for generations; to stand on the wrong side of destiny was to invite ruin.
Thus, the palace held its breath. Caius, radiant yet uncertain, bore the weight of both devotion and envy upon his shoulders. And amid the swirl of banners, jewels, and hushed prayers, all awaited the saintess's arrival — the moment that might shape the kingdom's fate forever.
For tonight, the High Seer was said to deliver a divine reading.
A prophecy.
One that might confirm what everyone already believed: that Caius Elric Vaelthorn was the Chosen One.