The morning of Anya's twentieth birthday dawned with a sky that seemed to hold its breath.
She stood on the cliffs above the harbor, watching the sun rise over Cinderhall. The city had become something truly magnificent. Spires of white stone and crystal reached toward the heavens like prayers made manifest. Gardens bloomed on every terrace, cascading with flowers that bloomed in every color imaginable. The streets were filled with people from every corner of the realm, their faces bright with hope and purpose.
The sword hung at her hip. The blade had been silent for years. Peaceful. Complete. The legacy had been carried by fourteen generations. She was the fifteenth.
But she knew it was fragile.
Her mother Seraphine appeared beside her. Her hair was streaked with silver now, but her e
