In Solthera, steel was only half the battle. The other half was the blood—the ancient Drazhin magic that pulsed like a second heartbeat in the veins of the royal and noble houses.
One afternoon, the training grounds were silent, save for the crackle of raw energy. Azeal stood at the center of a stone circle, his eyes closed. He was trying to summon a Luminarspark, a simple ball of pure light used for guidance. It was the most basic of spells, yet for Azeal, it felt like trying to hold a handful of lightning.
Vaelora sat on a nearby wall, tossing a small pebble and catching it with effortless boredom.
"Focus, Azeal," Lord Kaelor commanded from the sidelines. "The magic doesn't follow your command; it follows your intent."
Azeal grunted, his forehead beaded with sweat. He felt the warmth in his chest, the spark jumping from his heart to his fingertips. With a sudden shout, he pushed the energy forward.
Instead of a steady glow, the magic sputtered like a dying candle. It let out a sharp pop and flew backward, striking Azeal square in the face. A cloud of harmless silver soot exploded over him.
The silence lasted for exactly one second.
Then, Vaelora's laughter broke through the air—a clear, ringing sound that echoed off the palace walls. Even Lord Kaelor couldn't hide the twitch of a smile, and the guards nearby coughed to hide their amusement.
Azeal wiped the soot from his nose, looking like a disgraced chimney sweep. "It's not that funny," he muttered, though a reluctant grin tugged at his own lips.
"You're right," Vaelora gasped, trying to catch her breath. "It's not funny. It's a masterpiece. You've mastered the art of self-sabotage, Prince."
"Enough," Kaelor said, though his eyes were kind. "If you cannot control the spark, perhaps you can control a spirit. It is time for the Luminars."
They walked toward the high meadows where the Luminarsteeds grazed. These were not ordinary horses; they were creatures made of starlight and muscle, their manes flowing like liquid silver. To ride a Luminar was to bond with a living piece of Solthera's soul.
Azeal approached a massive white stallion with eyes like molten gold. He felt the creature's mind touch his own—a wild, ancient consciousness. Beside him, Vaelora had already mounted a smaller, swifter mare, her hands light on the glowing reins.
"They don't care about your soot-covered face, Azeal," Vaelora called out, her horse trotting in a circle. "They only care if you're brave enough to run."
Azeal climbed into the saddle. As the Luminar let out a thunderous neigh, the ground beneath them seemed to vanish. They weren't just riding; they were flying across the golden grass, two streaks of light against the setting sun. For a moment, the weight of the crown and the sting of the sword were forgotten. They were just two shadows chasing the wind, bound together by a magic that was older than their lies.