The morning of Elara's twenty-fifth birthday dawned with a sky that was beautiful and terrible.
She stood on the cliffs above the harbor, watching the sun rise over Cinderhall. The city was magnificent. 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 Elara saw something else.
A shadow. Faint. Flickering. At the edge of the weave. It was small, almost invisible. But it was growing.
The sword hung at her hip. The blade was silent. Peaceful. Complete. The legacy had been carried by twenty-six generations. She was the twenty-seventh.
