Nyvoria did not wake to shouting.
It woke to bells.
Soft metal chimes rang through the city every morning, carried by the wind between stone buildings and narrow streets. People paused in their steps when they heard them. Some bowed their heads. Others whispered short prayers before continuing their work.
In Nyvoria, the day began with awareness.
Lunara was already awake before the bells rang.
She knelt on the cool stone floor of a small servant's room, tying the straps of her boots. Her hands moved quickly, practiced from years of routine. Outside the narrow window, the sky was pale, the moon fading as the sun slowly rose.
Her parents were already gone.
They always left early—her father to clean the palace halls, her mother to serve in the inner chambers. They never complained. Complaining was a luxury Nyvoria's servants could not afford.
Lunara stepped outside and joined the flow of people moving through the streets. Soldiers passed by in quiet groups, armor light but well-kept. These were not conquerors. They were watchers.
Protectors.
At the edge of the city, the training grounds came into view. Unlike Aethros, there were no screams here. Orders were spoken clearly. Movements were measured. Every strike had a reason.
Lunara took her place among the soldiers and bowed her head briefly before touching her blade to the ground. It was tradition—respect for the spirits believed to walk unseen among them.
When training began, she moved with focus.
She was not the strongest. Not the loudest. But she was steady.
When another soldier stumbled, Lunara adjusted her position without thinking, covering the opening. When the line shifted, she shifted with it. Her blade never swung wildly. Every movement was controlled, meant to protect the person beside her.
A senior commander watched from a distance.
"She doesn't fight for glory," he said quietly to another officer.
"No," the other agreed. "She fights like someone who knows what loss looks like."
After training, Lunara cleaned her blade carefully. She wiped away dust and sweat, then rested her forehead briefly against the hilt. It was not prayer exactly—just habit.
On her way back toward the palace, she passed the outer shrine. Incense burned low, smoke curling into the air. Lunara paused.
Something felt wrong.
The wind shifted. The air grew heavy, as if the city itself was holding its breath. Lunara's chest tightened for reasons she couldn't explain.
An old priest nearby frowned, staring toward the distant border.
"The spirits are uneasy," he muttered.
Lunara followed his gaze. Far beyond the walls lay the land she had never crossed. The land she had been trained to face if necessary.
Aethros.
She tightened her grip on her sword.
Nyvoria did not seek war. But it would not kneel either.
As Lunara turned away, unaware eyes watched her from the palace windows. Her name had been spoken more than once in quiet rooms where decisions were made without her presence.
She did not know that her path had already begun to narrow.
That night, as the moon rose high, Lunara lay awake listening to the distant hum of the city. She wondered why her heart felt restless when nothing had yet gone wrong.
Somewhere across the world, a boy raised in fire was also staring into the dark.
Neither of them knew the other.
But the war did.