Chapter 1
The Royal City of the Arasia Empire lay beneath the pale embrace of dawn. Towering obsidian walls encircled the capital like silent guardians, while gilded spires pierced the early morning mist, catching the first fragile rays of sunlight. The city, usually vibrant and commanding, rested in rare stillness.
At its heart stood the Royal Palace.
Vast. Ancient. Majestic.
Its marble corridors and towering pillars remained wrapped in the quiet hush of early morning, as if even time itself dared not disturb its slumber.
Within one of the innermost chambers—far from the noise of servants and soldiers—Lyra lay peacefully upon her bed. Soft golden light filtered through silk curtains, painting gentle patterns across her delicate features. Her breathing was slow and steady, her expression calm, untouched by the burdens of royalty.
Beyond the palace walls, the world had begun to stir.
Merchants prepared their stalls. Guards changed their shifts. The empire inhaled the promise of a new day.
Unaware that this day would refuse to remain ordinary.
A faint movement broke the stillness.
Lyra stirred.
Her lashes trembled—then her eyes opened.
In that instant, sleep vanished completely.
A bright spark of excitement ignited within her gaze, chasing away the final traces of drowsiness. It was not the reluctant awakening of a princess bound by duty… but the eager rise of someone anticipating something extraordinary.
A radiant smile curved her lips.
She sat upright in one smooth motion, as if she had been waiting for this very moment.
Energy pulsed through her veins.
Today… was not just another day.
She stretched her arms high above her head, fingers reaching toward the ceiling as a soft, satisfied sigh escaped her lips.
"Mm… today's the day," she murmured to herself, her voice light and cheerful—like she had been waiting for the sunrise personally.
As if summoned by her words, a faint rhythm of approaching footsteps echoed from beyond her chamber doors. Measured. Orderly. Familiar.
Lyra tilted her head slightly, listening.
"The maids are coming," she whispered under her breath.
But instead of annoyance, her smile only widened.
Without hesitation, she slipped from her bed and made her way toward the bathing chamber connected to her room. The polished marble floor felt cool beneath her feet, but she hardly noticed.
Moments later, warm water cascaded over her body.
Steam curled gently through the air as the heat chased away the final remnants of sleep clinging to her skin. Lyra hummed softly, an upbeat, half-formed melody, her movements quick and efficient. There was no laziness in her actions—only barely contained excitement.
Today was important.
Very important.
She finished swiftly, drying herself without delay before reaching for her clothes. Instead of an elaborate royal dress, she chose something far more familiar—her training suit.
The fitted attire hugged her frame comfortably, flexible and practical. It was worn from years of use, yet meticulously cared for. The moment she pulled it on, something in her changed.
Her posture straightened.
Her expression sharpened.
The princess vanished.
In her place stood a warrior.
Her bright eyes gleamed with anticipation, as though sleep had merely been a temporary inconvenience before returning to what she truly loved.
Lyra stepped out of her chamber, the door closing behind her with a soft click.
The palace corridors were still quiet, bathed in the gentle glow of early morning light filtering through tall arched windows.
Instead of walking with composed royal grace, she moved forward in light, almost skipping steps—her boots barely brushing the polished floor. Each step carried restrained joy, as though she were holding herself back from sprinting down the hallway purely out of habit and dignity.
If anyone had seen her now, they might have doubted she was the empire's refined princess at all.
Today, she wasn't royalty.
She was simply Lyra—eager, alive, and ready.
Her expression was bright and unguarded, excitement written plainly across her face. The long palace hallway felt shorter beneath her skipping strides, her energy spilling out in a way no rules or walls could fully restrain.
Lyra continued down the palace corridors, her skipping steps drawing quiet attention. A few maids paused in their work, exchanging brief glances and small smiles as she passed, clearly accustomed to her unusual energy yet unable to ignore it completely.
Turning a corner, she nearly collided with her sister. Lyra stopped just in time, then laughed and reached out, spinning Elera around without warning.
"Sister, today's a big day," Lyra said brightly. "I'll talk to you later."
Before Elera could respond, Lyra had already moved on, her steps light as ever.
Elera watched her go, shaking her head with a fond smile. "Go carefully," she called after her. "Don't fall."
Lyra's boots barely touched the polished floor as she sped down the corridors, her excitement almost vibrating in the air. The walls blurred around her, but she barely noticed. Today felt different—alive, promising day.
Then she came to a halt. Ahead, a massive gate loomed, taller than any door she'd seen before. Its polished bronze panels gleamed in the morning light, intricate patterns carved into its surface—but it was closed.
Lyra's golden eyes sparkled. "Huh… this can stop me?" she muttered under her breath, a grin spreading across her face.
She took a small step back, coiled her body, and with a single, decisive kick, she struck the gate. The hinges groaned and protested, metal grinding against metal—but the gate shuddered and slowly swung open, revealing what lay beyond.
Lyra's laugh rang out, bright and triumphant, as if the gate itself had been nothing more than a toy.
The sound of Lyra's footsteps announced her arrival louder than any trumpet could. Morning light flooded the throne room, slipping across polished floors and massive pillars, casting the King in a glow that made him seem even more immovable than usual.
There he sat, right in the center of it all, the great-great-grandfather of the young princess. The Obsidian Throne of Arasia seemed to mold itself around him, as if the stone itself had grown to fit the man. His silvered scars, the heavy gold bands coiled around his arms—they were meant to intimidate. To anyone else, perhaps. But to Lyra, they were just part of him.
Even the pajama pants he wore did nothing to lessen the impression of authority. Only he could sit there in bare feet, a crown atop his head, radiating power yet somehow… oddly human. The crown itself was a different matter. Nine massive gems pulsed gently, as though alive, their faint light holding secrets Lyra had spent years trying to guess.
The King's eyes remained closed. Likely a "deep meditation," as he always claimed. Lyra, however, knew better. He was avoiding her, and that fact alone made her grin.
She marched forward, her steps echoing off the walls, each one loud enough to announce her presence to the entire hall. The King did not move. Statue-mode: activated.
"Great-Great-Grandfather!" Her voice rang out, shattering the quiet. One of his eyelids twitched. A small, silent victory for her. "Today is your birthday! You must give me a gift!"
She planted her hands firmly on her hips at the base of the dais, waiting. Finally, the amber eyes of the Unyielding met hers. They were sharp, tired, and unyielding, as if carved from glass that had survived centuries of storms.
He allowed the silence to stretch. The weight of it pressed down on the throne room, trying to make her wilt. But Lyra never did.
"Girl," he said at last, his voice gravelly, carrying the weight of time itself, "how many times have I told you not to kick open the throne room doors? it's a disrespectful to me.
Lyra rolled her eyes, just as she always did. "Oh, that? The door was heavy! Didn't I tell you to oil the hinges already?"
"You… just forgot to open them properly," the King grumbled, but there was the faintest hint of exasperated amusement behind his centuries of authority.
Lyra hid her smile behind a triumphant grin. "Fine. You win. Damn it all," the King continued, sighing, a sound like dust stirred from centuries past. "Other people receive gifts on their birthdays. You… you always demand them. Last time, you took my Nine Revolutionary Circular Method. If you have not reached the ninth level of foundation, do not even think of asking for anything this time, little girl."
This was the moment she had been waiting for. Lyra's grin widened, and her eyes sparkled. "Oh, that? Already done. I broke into the Blood Sea Level months ago."
The King's gaze did not waver. His expression remained unreadable, but the air around him… it had gone still, as if the entire room were holding its breath.
"Your Nine Revolutionary Circular Method," Lyra continued, her pride barely contained, "I reached the ninth circle two months ago. The consolidation period is over. I now stand firm at the second level of the Blood Sea Level."
The room fell silent again, the only sound the faint pulsing of the crown's gems, as if even they were weighing her claim. The King shifted ever so slightly, the first movement in what felt like an eternity.
---
For a heartbeat, nothing. Then he gave a single, slow nod. A gruff hum escaped him.
"It's acceptable. When I was your age, I also reached such a level."
Lyra nearly snorted. Liar. A smooth, practiced, grandfatherly lie. She'd read the histories. She knew exactly when he'd forged his foundation. It wasn't at her age. Still, the thrill of her achievement burned brighter, mixed with the sweet taste of knowing she had shocked the unshockable.
He's impressed, she thought, her inner voice crowing. Absolutely, royally impressed. And he can't admit it!
A strange, fleeting expression crossed his face then. Not pride, not exactly. Something deeper, sadder, fiercer. His gaze drifted over her shoulder, past her, to some distant point in the sky. For a moment, he looked less like a king and more like… a man. A very old, determined man carrying a weight she couldn't even imagine.
It was gone in an instant, replaced by the familiar, weathered mask of authority. But Lyra had seen it. And she knew, in that way you just know things about family, that it had something to do with her name—Lyra. His mother's name. A name he'd given her with a gravity she was only beginning to understand.
The moment passed. He was just her unreasonable, barefoot grandfather on a throne again.
Lyra tapped her foot, letting impatience mask the sudden, weird swell of feeling in her chest.
"Well? The gift? You can't use my progress as an excuse! I surpassed your condition!"
He looked back at her. And then, something rare happened. Rai, the Ruler of Arasia, smiled. A real one. It softened the harsh, scarred lines of his face, reaching his eyes and making the amber in them glow warm like honey in the morning light. The gems in his crown flickered, as if sharing the joke.