Chapter One — Under the Norath Sky
Norvaelis breathed.
It breathed through the Sylvaen trees whose roots braided beneath the city's stone foundations. It breathed through Lunarae waters that curved silver through terraced fields. It breathed in the early light of Norath, when the sky shimmered pale blue like silk drawn over glass.
The city had stood for three hundred harvests.
Built upon trade, upon soil, upon faith in the Three Divine Guardians — the Vaeril Hawk of flame, the Lunarae Stag of riverlight, and the Sylvaen Serpent of deep earth.
But more than anything, Norvaelis stood upon words.
Words shaped law.
Words shaped love.
Words shaped judgment.
And above all words stood one:
Vaelorae.
True, chosen love.
Every two years, during the Plant Sowing Festival, a pair of bonded souls would plant the Holy Seed at the heart of the city. As long as the seed grew, harmony endured.
This year, that pair was Lumaera Mirethyn and Kaelor Vaerin.
They did not yet know that their planting would divide the city.
The morning of the festival arrived in warmth.
Lantern makers polished glass globes. Farmers stacked Mirelae grain for display. Musicians tuned stringed instruments beneath hanging banners dyed in gold and soft green.
Lumaera stood before her reflection, adjusting the Sylvaen leaves braided into her dark hair.
Her mother smiled softly.
"You carry more than a seed tonight."
"I know," Lumaera replied.
"Do you fear it?"
She paused.
"No."
She did not.
What she did not know was that someone else did.
Across the city, in a narrow alley where festival music barely reached, Vaereth Soryn leaned against cold stone.
His jaw tightened as he watched Kaelor pass with friends.
Vaereth had grown beside Lumaera since childhood.
Shared harvests. Shared laughter.
But love declared publicly?
Love sanctified by elders?
It felt like exile.
He told himself it was injustice.
He told himself the council favored Kaelor's lineage.
He told himself many things.
But beneath all of it burned one quiet truth:
He had never confessed.
And now he never could.
Veloraeth turned sour when buried.
That evening, Norvaelis glowed.
Lanterns rose.
Music lifted.
And at the center of the square, beneath the watchful statues of the Divine Three, Elder Tharion raised his staff.
"Let the planting begin."
Lumaera and Kaelor stepped forward.
The Holy Seed shimmered in her hands.
And from the crowd, a voice cut through the music:
"Do not plant it."
Silence.
Heads turned.
Vaereth stepped into the lantern light.
The first fracture had begun.