The morning of Aurelia's eighteenth birthday dawned with a sky that was too perfect.
She stood on the cliffs above the harbor, watching the sun rise over Cinderhall. The city was transcendent. Spires of white stone and crystal reached toward the heavens like prayers made manifest. Gardens bloomed on every terrace, cascading with flowers that seemed to glow with their own inner light. The streets were filled with people from every corner of the realm, their faces bright with hope and purpose.
But Aurelia saw something wrong.
The weave was too perfect. Too ordered. Too controlled. The threads that connected all things were beautiful, but they were also... rigid. Stiff. As if someone had frozen them in place.
The sword hung at her hip. The blade was silent. Peaceful. Complete. The legacy
