The evening sky stretched endlessly above the kingdom of Ivanova, painted in shades of molten gold and fading crimson. The last rays of the sun lingered over the distant mountains, casting a warm glow across the marble towers of the royal palace.
High above the bustling city, on the palace's grand eastern balcony, stood Princess Ariana Vranov.
A gentle breeze moved through the air, stirring the silken curtains behind her and whispering through the roses that climbed along the palace walls. It also played softly with the long strands of Ariana's hair, lifting them like delicate flames in the golden light.
Her hair was a breathtaking shade of red—deep and radiant like a sunset caught in silk. It flowed freely down her back, reaching her waist in soft waves that shimmered whenever the light touched them. Many poets in the kingdom had tried to describe it in their verses. Some said it resembled fire. Others compared it to the dying glow of the evening sun.
None of them had ever truly captured it.
Ariana stood quietly at the marble railing, her slender fingers resting gently against the cool stone as she gazed out over the kingdom that stretched far below her. From this height she could see the winding streets of Ivanova, the lanterns beginning to flicker to life one by one as evening settled over the city.
The people looked like tiny moving figures from here, yet she knew their lives, their struggles, their joys were as vast and real as the kingdom itself.
A soft expression rested on her face as she watched them.
Her beauty had been praised since the day she was born. Courtiers often whispered that the princess looked as though the gods themselves had carved her from starlight and flame. But Ariana had never cared much for such praises.
Still, it was impossible not to notice.
Her skin was smooth and pale, almost luminous beneath the fading sunlight, like untouched ivory kissed gently by warmth. Against it, the fiery red of her hair seemed even more vivid, framing her face like a crown of living flame.
But it was her eyes that people remembered most.
They were a deep, endless blue—clear and tranquil like the open sea beneath a summer sky. Anyone who looked into them felt an odd sense of calm, as though they had stumbled upon a quiet ocean untouched by storms.
Those eyes now gazed thoughtfully at the horizon.
The soft wind brushed against her delicate features, causing a few loose strands of hair to fall across her face. Ariana lifted a graceful hand to tuck them behind her ear, the movement slow and unhurried.
She wore a flowing gown of deep crimson silk, its fabric rippling gently in the evening breeze. The color mirrored the rich shade of her hair, making her appear almost like a living flame standing against the fading sky.
Yet despite the richness of the gown and the jewels resting lightly at her throat, there was nothing arrogant or proud about her posture.
Instead, there was something gentle.
Something calm.
A quiet maturity that seemed far beyond her years.
Ariana leaned slightly forward against the railing, her gaze drifting to the distant horizon where the sun was slowly disappearing. The world below was beginning to dim, but the sky still burned with color, reflecting faintly in her sea-blue eyes.
For a moment, she allowed herself to simply breathe in the quiet.
The kingdom of Ivanova had always called her their beloved princess. To them she was a symbol of hope, kindness, and grace.
But standing there alone beneath the vast evening sky, Ariana looked less like a royal figure and more like something far rarer.
Something ethereal.
Like a fleeting dream the wind had decided to shape into a woman.
And yet, despite the serenity surrounding her, an unspoken feeling lingered in the air—as though fate itself had already begun something darker than her imagination.
**********************************
Faraway in the North.....
The chamber was sealed.
No guards.
No witnesses.
Only those permitted to stand in the presence of what did not belong to the living.
The royal priests of Draco formed a circle, their voices low, steady, rising and falling in practiced rhythm.
Each word carried weight, each syllable shaped with care, drawn from a language older than the throne itself.
At the center—
Silence.
Not empty.
Waiting.
"Begin," the High Priest said.
The others obeyed without hesitation.
Their voices aligned, threading together into something unified, something deliberate.
The air grew heavier with each passing breath, pressing against their chests, settling into their bones.
"We call upon the Holy Oracle," one intoned.
"We call upon the dragon spirit," another followed.
"We seek what has been chosen by the Heavens O Divine Oracle," the High Priest finished, his voice firm, unwavering.
"Reveal the one bound to the throne of Draco."
The chamber responded.
A shift.
Subtle at first.
Then deeper.
The air trembled—not violently, but with presence.
Something ancient stirred within the silence, something vast enough that even the priests, trained and stripped of fear, felt it brush against the edges of their minds.
It was listening.
The chanting slowed.
Softened.
Then stopped.
No one moved.
No one dared.
The High Priest lowered his head slightly.
"The time has come," he said quietly.
"Divine Oracle "
For a moment—
Nothing.
Then—
A voice.
Not from a mouth.
Not from a direction.
But from everywhere at once.
Layered.
Ancient.
"The chosen queen… is—"
The chamber cracked.
The sound did not echo.
It snapped.
The air collapsed inward, as though something unseen had seized it, twisting, tightening, forcing silence where sound had just begun to form.
The High Priest's head snapped up.
The voice tried again.
Strained now.
Distorted.
"She is—"
Cold.
Sharp.
Violent.
It tore through the chamber without warning.
The torches flickered wildly, shadows bending in unnatural directions as the pressure shifted—no longer sacred, no longer controlled.
"Hold the formation!" the High Priest commanded sharply.
But something was wrong.
The presence they had called—
Was being pushed back.
"Divine One," one of the priests said, his voice tightening.
The air twisted again.
Harder this time.
A second force pressed into the chamber.
Not vast like the oracle.
Not ancient in the same way.
But deliberate.
Intruding.
Watching.
"No…" another priest whispered, the word slipping before he could stop it.
The High Priest's voice cut through sharply.
"Silence. Maintain—"
The voice returned.
Weaker.
Strained.
"The chosen...queen..."
It broke.
Completely.
Gone.
The chamber dropped into stillness.
Not the sacred silence from before.
Something else.
Something wrong.
The priests did not move.
For the first time—
They hesitated.
"What… just happened?" one of them asked, his voice no longer steady.
No one answered.
Because no one understood.
The High Priest stared ahead, his expression hardened, his breathing controlled—but his eyes had shifted.
Something had interfered.
Not delayed.
Not weakened.
Interfered.
"That was not a failure," he said quietly.
"No," another replied, his voice low, uneasy.
"It was stopped."
Silence settled again.
Heavier now.
Watching.
"The Chosen Queen is..."