Siora was born into a storm.
Not the kind that passed with rain and wind—but a firestorm from another plane, a collision of Ether and thunder that split the skies and forced the sun itself to dim for a moment. Her first cry rang out like a warhorn across the stronghold, waking every soldier and sage within its walls.
Seraphina knew then: this child was not made to follow.
She was made to reign.
From the earliest days, Siora radiated heat. Blankets caught smolder. Cribs melted at the edges. The nurses learned to wrap her in fire-resistant silk, enchanted to stay cool. But even then, the rooms around her shimmered with heat distortion.
At three weeks old, she opened her eyes mid-dream and burned a sigil into the ceiling with her breath. The mark pulsed for days, then disappeared—but nev
