The Kingdom of Elarion was not supposed to exist.
At least, that was what every map insisted.
Maps, after all, were honest things usually. They showed mountains where mountains stood, rivers where rivers flowed, and oceans where sailors vanished dramatically. Yet between the Ember Coast and the Frostreach Isles, there was nothing. Just pale parchment. Just emptiness.
And yet, Elarion breathed.
Morning arrived with silver sunlight spilling across floating bridges, drifting towers, and rooftops carved with runes that glowed faintly when people laughed beneath them. The sky shimmered in layered blues, as if reality itself had been painted twice and forgotten to dry. Airships hovered lazily, their sails catching wind that no one had ever managed to explain.
On the western edge of the capital city Lunareth, a girl sat on a stone railing, swinging her legs over a drop that went down far longer than it reasonably should have.
Her name was Lyra Fenwick, and she was late.
Again.
Lyra squinted at the sun, then at the clocktower across the plaza. The tower blinked back at her,literally.its enchanted face yawning before snapping awake and chiming the hour.
"Of course," Lyra muttered. "Of course it's noon."
She hopped down, boots hitting the marble with a clack, and took off running. Her satchel bounced wildly at her side, stuffed with scrolls, half-eaten honey bread, and one very illegal object wrapped in blue cloth.
She darted through the market, weaving between shouting vendors and strolling nobles.
"Fresh sky-apples!"
"Protective charms! Mostly tested!"
"Absolutely legal potions!"
Lyra nearly collided with a man juggling flaming knives.
"Sorry!" she called, ducking as a blade whizzed over her head.
"Watch where you—oh," the man paused, grinning. "It's you."
Lyra groaned. "I don't have time, Jax."
"Running late to disappoint the Academy again?"
"Running late to survive the Academy," she corrected, skidding around a corner.
The Grand Arcane Academy of Lunareth loomed ahead, all ivory spires and glowing sigils, floating a few feet above the ground as if even gravity respected it too much to touch it. Students streamed inside, robes pristine, faces confident.
Lyra slowed, suddenly aware of her scuffed boots and wind-tangled hair.
"Fake it," she whispered to herself. "You belong here. Probably."
She slipped through the gates just as they sealed shut behind her with a decisive thrum.
Inside, the main hall buzzed with magic. Crystals floated overhead, projecting illusions of ancient battles and heroic figures. Professors glided between groups, correcting spell forms and muttering about destiny.
Lyra took her seat at the back of the hall just as Archmagister Thalen appeared on the dais.
Tall. Silver-haired. Annoyingly calm.
"Today," he said, voice echoing without effort, "we begin advanced field studies. Those selected will be sent beyond the kingdom's borders."
A ripple of excitement moved through the room.
Lyra leaned forward.
"Beyond… as in beyond?" she whispered to the girl beside her.
"Yes," the girl replied dreamily. "Where legends are real."
Lyra's fingers tightened around her satchel.
Thalen continued. "Selection will be based on skill, discipline, and—"
A pause.
"—fate."
Lyra grimaced. Fate had never been particularly fond of her.
"Students," Thalen said, "place your assigned maps upon the table."
Groans followed. Maps. Everyone hated maps—except Lyra.
She hesitated, then unwrapped the blue cloth.
The map inside was old. Older than the Academy. Its edges shifted subtly, lines rearranging themselves when she wasn't looking. It had no title, no legend, and no business being in her possession.
The moment she placed it on the table, the room went silent.
The map pulsed.
Light burst outward in a wave of gold and violet, knocking students back from their desks. The crystals overhead shattered into sparks. The floor cracked beneath Lyra's feet.
"By the Stars—!" Thalen shouted.
The map unfolded itself violently, stretching far larger than it should have been, symbols blazing like living fire. The blank space between the Ember Coast and Frostreach Isles burned white-hot.
And then—
Lyra fell.
Not down.
Not forward.
Into.
The world twisted. Sound vanished. Laughter -someone's, maybe hers echoed strangely as darkness rushed up to meet her.
She landed hard.
Grass. Real grass. Damp and cool beneath her palms.
Lyra groaned and rolled onto her back, staring up at a sky she had never seen before. It was deep violet, streaked with slow-moving constellations that rearranged themselves like gossiping stars.
She sat up.
She was not in Lunareth.
She was in a clearing surrounded by towering trees with silver bark and leaves shaped like crescents. Fireflies drifted lazily, humming soft melodies.
"Well," Lyra said weakly. "This is new."
A rustle came from the bushes.
Lyra froze.
Another rustle. Heavier this time.
Her hand slid instinctively to the dagger she definitely was not allowed to carry.
From the trees stepped a young man.
He wore light armor etched with strange symbols, a sword slung casually over his shoulder. His dark hair was tied back messily, and his eyes sharp, amused, far too confident—locked onto her.
He looked her over slowly.
"…You fell out of the sky," he said.
Lyra blinked. "I get that a lot."
He raised an eyebrow. "No, you don't."
She stood, brushing dirt from her clothes. "Okay, maybe not a lot. But it's been a weird day."
The man smiled, and something about it felt dangerous.
"Welcome to the Uncharted Wilds," he said. "You're either incredibly unlucky—"
He paused, gaze flicking to the faintly glowing map now hovering behind her.
"—or you just changed the fate of this world."
Lyra stared at the map. Then at him.
She laughed.
A short, breathless, completely inappropriate laugh.