The sky had turned silver by the time the procession of banners reached the Vale of Veilfire, where the Feast of Shadows was to be held. High above, the eclipse moon loomed like an eye half-lidded by prophecy, casting a dusklit sheen upon the sacred amphitheater carved into the mountain's embrace. Bioluminescent vines coiled along the crescent-shaped stone, glowing in hues of violet and green, while hundreds of skywicks—lanterns imbued with ancestral Echo—floated above the gathering like suspended stars.
Each year, the seven great Clans of Vharenthia gathered here beneath the eclipse. It was more than celebration—it was rite. A binding of blood, fate, and future. The shadows cast beneath the moonlight were not merely absence of light but reflections of legacy. Here, under the watching sky, young bloods of noble descent were unveiled before the realm. This year, seven stood at the edge of that ancient threshold. And at the heart of them stood Saviik StormCrown.
He stood tall beside Xala Veyne, both clad in ceremonial finery that paid homage to their lineage. No gilded stiffness marred their garb—only purpose and heritage. Saviik's half-cloak, pinned with the StormCrown insignia—a silver wyrm coiled around a crescent blade—rippled gently in the wind. Xala's fiery hair was braided with crimson thread and set with jade beads that caught the lanternlight with every motion.
"Don't scowl," she whispered, eyes dancing. "You'll frighten the harpist."
"I'm not scowling," he muttered. "I'm observing."
"You're brooding."
"Same thing."
She laughed, and something in the air around them warmed, even as the first horns of heraldry echoed through the Vale.
The heirs arrived one by one, each more distinct than the last. Seranyth of Clan Myrrenhal descended like frost, her silver-white hair braided into a circlet, eyes the color of ancient ice. She moved with a stillness honed over years of expectation and austerity. Her gaze met Saviik's, and her words were cold but clear.
"Dragonborn," she said. "May your shadow be longer than your flame."
"May your blade speak before your tongue," Saviik returned, matching her edge with his own. A faint curve lifted the corner of her mouth—not a smile, but something like approval.
Next came Vaelyra of Fenraeth, armored in midnight leathers that shimmered like oil and starlight. She strode with the surety of command, her boots echoing like pronouncements across the stone. She stepped between Saviik and Xala without hesitation and threw her arms wide.
"So this is the boy destined to shake the stars? I claim him."
"You what?" Xala snapped, her hand twitching near the edge of her sash.
"I said I'm going to marry him."
"You don't even know my name," Saviik said, blinking.
"I know enough," Vaelyra said with a smirk.
Laughter rippled through the gathered elders. Before Saviik could reply, Lira of Clan Elaren approached, serene and moon-pale, a harp slung across her shoulder. She bowed in fluid grace, her voice musical even when speaking.
"May I play you a melody, Saviik of StormCrown? One that outlasts even prophecy?"
"Only if it ends with a sword duel," interrupted Aralya of Clan Thandor as she approached, all iron sinew and broad grin. She clapped him hard on the shoulder, nearly sending him off-balance.
"Tomorrow morning," she said. "First light. First blood."
"Ah," Xala sighed. "Courting through bruises. How charming."
"You prefer poetry?" Aralya raised a brow.
"Please don't," Xala muttered.
Then the wind changed.
And with it came Nysera of Clan Vaelora.
She didn't walk like the others. She glided, as though the shadows themselves parted before her. Her gown was woven of night-silk and threads of Echo that shimmered with starlight. Around her, silence grew reverent. Even the skywicks dimmed slightly, as if to let her presence shine.
She said nothing at first. Her gaze found Saviik's—and did not stray. Finally, in a voice softer than wind but sharper than fate, she spoke.
"The sky sang when you were born. I've heard its echo ever since."
A hush fell across the Vale. It was not awkward. It was sacred.
Saviik opened his mouth to answer, but found no words. Not yet.
The seven were led to the High Circle dais, seated before a thousand eyes as the Feast began. Firefruit, embermead, smoke-seared meats and leaf-bread filled the tables, but none of the heirs seemed to eat. Their gazes crossed in glances sharp and strange, in nods and smirks, in half-spoken words that meant everything and nothing.
Something had shifted.
And it would never unshift.
Later that night, they were summoned again—this time to the Hall of Vows.
The spiral paths of the StormCrown estate burned with golden torches, casting dancing shadows across the snow-laced stones. Beyond the public halls, behind sealed gates etched with sigils too old to name, lay the chamber where vows forged fates. Lady Ilrana StormCrown stood before the gates, robed in storm-threaded silver. Beside her towered Yngvara—silent, armored, and steady as the mountain.
The heirs approached. Saviik led, Xala beside him, their steps in tandem. Behind came Seranyth and Aralya, then Lira and Vaelyra, with Nysera in quiet grace at the rear. The gates opened with a sigh of old magic.
Inside, the hall was a sanctum of Echo resonance. The banners of the seven clans shimmered with color-shifted light—gold, frost-blue, dusk-red, mist-silver, ember-green, ivory flame, and twilight indigo. Seven pedestals stood in a ring, glowing faintly. In their center, runes lay etched in a spiraling pattern.
Lady Ilrana's voice rose like storm-song.
"Here, the First Pact was sealed. Here, you take your first step into legacy."
One by one, the trials began.
The Trial of Flame and Frost. Xala and Seranyth stood opposite. Between them, a ring of conjured fire and ice shimmered, alive to their intentions. Xala's flame danced in flowing arcs, hot and hungry. Seranyth answered with cold precision, forming crystalline mirrors of ice. Sparks flared. For a heartbeat, flame and frost clashed. Then—they intertwined.
No victor. No defeat. Only recognition.
The Trial of Insight followed. Lira and Vaelyra faced the mirrored Echo orb. Questions flickered. Illusions whispered riddles of memory and choice. Lira laughed her way through, nimble and clever. Vaelyra saw straight through—cutting illusion with clarity, never blinking.
Next came Strength and Will.
Aralya faced Nysera within a labyrinth of Echo-born force. Aralya charged through with raw power, kicking down walls and leaping platforms. Nysera? She never ran. She glided through the maze like shadow and breath, letting it unfold for her.
When they emerged, both were breathless. And smiling.
Then came Saviik.
He stood alone.
The circle did not flare with illusion. No flame. No riddle. No visible challenge.
Just silence.
Then the runes underfoot blazed gold. The floor hummed. A deep tone, felt in the bones. The air shifted. Ancient words—forgotten languages—whispered across his skin.
Something awakened.
And then, just as fast, it faded.
The Echo fell silent.
He staggered back.
Yngvara said nothing. Ilrana's eyes narrowed—but not in fear. In knowing.
The final part of the rite led them to the Echo Grove, a silver forest where trees hummed softly with memory. There, the seven were left alone—no elders, no watchers. Only moonlight and each other.
Around a fire, the conversation turned strange.
"I'll marry him," Aralya declared. "When I come of age."
"You'll wait behind me," Lira replied sweetly.
"One day," Vaelyra mused, "he'll choose."
Seranyth scoffed. "As if he'd tolerate any of you."
"I think he already has," Nysera murmured.
Xala said nothing. She simply looked at Saviik.
And Saviik?
He looked at them all.
Allies. Rivals. Friends. Threats. Lovers. Prophets. He did not yet know what each would become.
But the circle was formed.
And the prophecy had begun to breathe.