In the far reaches of the grand Kingdom of Meredica, where swords gleamed like stars and magicians whispered ancient tongues into the wind, lay a forgotten corner of the empire—Ravelinora.
Ravelinora was the poorest of the subkingdoms, a modest realm nestled among the ever-expanding borders of richer, greedier territories. Its villages were simple, its people humble, and its army if one could call it that was scarcely more than a gathering of loyal swordsmen with rusted steel and old boots. Yet, despite its poverty and isolation, Ravelinora was a land of peace.
That peace stemmed from one man: King Zaren Ravelline, a ruler both beloved and respected. A man of deep compassion, unwavering justice, and a voice that calmed quarrels like a gentle stream on a quiet night. The people adored him not for his power, for he had little but for the fairness of his heart and the weight of his word.
His brother, Lord Cricus Ravelline, stood by him like a pillar of stone, loyal and fierce in both blood and spirit. The bond between them was legendary, a symbol of unity in a kingdom surrounded by threat. Many subkingdoms surrounding Ravelinora had long since violated borders, slowly encroaching with fences, farms, and settlements. Zaren, unwilling to bring harm to innocent civilians, allowed peace to reign even as his borders shrank.
But this day was not about borders. This day was about birth.
The sun had barely begun to rise over the misty hills when cries echoed through the stone halls of Ravelline . The queen, Veronica Ravelline, was in labor. Her screams, though pained, rang with strength.
Outside her chamber, King Zaren paced silently, hands clasped tightly behind his back. The usual calm in his face now quivered with nerves. The muffled voices of maids, midwives, and healers filtered through the heavy wooden door.
And then—a sound. A cry, high and bright. A new voice had entered the world.
Moments later, the door creaked open, and a maid stepped forth, her arms wrapped around a bundle of cloth and new life.
"A son, Your Majesty," she whispered, smiling.
Zaren stepped forward, his eyes wide with awe. He took the child in his arms, and for a moment, the weight of kingship vanished. The boy's tiny fingers grasped at the air, and a sudden stream of golden light from the morning sun struck his face.
Zaren laughed.
Just as he held his son for the first time, a loud cheer echoed from the adjacent chamber. His brother Cricus, too, had been awaiting a miracle of his own. The doors swung open, and Cricus stepped out, beaming. In his arms was a newborn girl, wrapped in violet silk.
"A daughter," Cricus said proudly, his voice thick with joy.
The two brothers met in the center of the corridor, holding their newborns, their faces smeared with tears—and, quite suddenly, baby pee. Both infants, in perfect unison, had chosen that very moment to relieve themselves.
The corridor roared with laughter.
In that moment, two lives began. Two stars emerged in the poorest sky of the kingdom. And though they were born in a land forgotten by politics and fortune, the children were bathed in love and hope.
Zaren gazed at his son and spoke softly, "Lyriq Ravelline. That shall be your name."
"And you," Cricus said to his daughter, "shall be called Isabel Ravelline."
The babies cried, their tiny lungs singing into the stone walls. But their fathers only smiled, knowing these cries marked the beginning of something greater.
In the heart of a kingdom ruled by peace and surrounded by envy, two children were born—not just heirs to a poor land, but the seeds of a legend yet to unfold.