Night settled softly over the Dentica Empire, its silver glow falling like cool breath upon the palace grounds. The Golden Bloom Palace, ever radiant even in slumber, shimmered faintly beneath the moonlight—its gardens stretching wide like a dream sculpted from perfume and polished marble.
Beneath the arching branches and sleeping blossoms stood Lauora Celeste.
Her golden hair caught the moonlight like molten silk, cascading down her back in long, luminous waves. Where sunlight made her glow, moonlight made her ethereal—delicate yet untouchable, like a figure painted upon celestial canvas.
She wore a sleeveless, snow-white training robe that clung lightly to her graceful form. The fabric moved with her breath, subtle, disciplined, regal. In her hand rested her sword—a slender blade polished to a mirror sheen, almost too elegant to belong to a weapon.
But Lauora held it with practiced intimacy.
She exhaled slowly.
And then she moved.
A step forward—soft, precise.
Her bare foot brushed marble lightly, like a whisper.
Her wrist tilted.
A line of silver traced the air.
Her golden hair lifted, spilling sideways in a slow arc, each strand shimmering as though catching fragments of starlight. She turned her body in an elegant sweep, hips rotating with controlled fluidity, her entire form following the rhythm of an invisible melody.
Her movements were not those of a soldier.
They were the steps of a dancer—one she had carved herself in nights just like this.
Her blade traveled a perfect crescent through the sky, splitting a drifting petal with no force, only precision. Her breath aligned with every shift of her stance; her fingers balanced the hilt with both gentleness and mastery. Even her shadows moved gracefully, sliding over the garden tiles in long, delicate lines.
She spun.
Her hair unfurled behind her like a golden veil.
Her robe fluttered softly, tracing her silhouette.
And when the blade stopped, it hovered an inch above a fallen leaf—unmoving, unwavering.
Not even a tremble.
Her chest rose only slightly as she lowered the sword, moonlight sliding down its length in a slow gleam.
Stillness returned.
A softness entered her eyes, their usual sharp gleam replaced by something quieter—thoughtful, almost wistful. She touched her wrist lightly, where Azura's strike had marked her earlier that morning. No wound remained, yet Lauora remembered the precision, the timing, the calm presence behind it.
"She held back," Lauora whispered to the moon.
Not out of pity.
Out of understanding.
Lauora lifted her sword again, but another voice drifted through the garden.
"Your Highness…"
A soft, steady voice—warmer than the night breeze.
Mira stepped into the moonlight, her steps soundless out of habit, not secrecy. Lauora's personal maid since childhood—her shadow, her caretaker, her silent protector. Mira's hair was tied neatly, her face composed as proper palace etiquette demanded… but her eyes, always, betrayed her warmth.
Even now, they softened with unmistakable concern.
"Princess Lauora," Mira said gently, bowing, but not lowering her gaze too far. "You have not rested since the evening meal. The night grows colder."
Lauora smiled faintly—gentle, teasing, affectionate.
"It seems even the moon cannot hide me from you," she said with a soft laugh, twirling the sword once before sheathing it.
Mira stepped closer, her hand rising almost reflexively—as though to brush Lauora's hair from her cheek—before she stopped midway, remembering the boundary of their stations. Her fingers curled back slowly.
"You practiced too hard again," Mira said softly, her voice filled with warmth she could never voice directly. "Your hands… they must ache."
Lauora looked at her, eyes bright with a fragile fondness.
"You worry too much, Mira."
"And you care too little for yourself," Mira replied before she could stop herself.
Their gazes met—Lauora's soft and amused, Mira's flustered but earnest.
"I am perfectly well," Lauora murmured. "Truly."
But Mira stepped forward anyway, reaching carefully—her touch cautious, gentle as dew—taking Lauora's hand and turning it palm-up. The faintest redness bloomed along her skin from practice.
Mira's breath tightened.
"Your Highness…"
Her voice trembled just slightly—only slightly—but Lauora heard it, felt it, breathed it.
"Mira," she said softly, "if you continue looking at me like that, I may start believing I am fragile."
"You are," Mira whispered
Loud enough to be heard
A soft laugh escaped Lauora's lips—a sound like silk slipping through fingers. She squeezed Mira's hand once, tender, fleeting. Mira lowered her eyes, hiding the emotion there before it broke through the mask she was required to wear.
"Come," Mira urged quietly. "If you stand out here any longer, you'll catch cold."
Lauora finally nodded, her golden hair brushing her shoulders as she turned. She cast one last look at her garden—the place where she could breathe freely—and followed Mira inside, her steps softer now, warmed by a presence she could never acknowledge in daylight.
---
Far across the palace grounds, past the grandeur and the warmth, past the glowing palaces overflowing with light and laughter, lay the Ice Blue Palace.
Quiet.
Cold.
Forgotten by most.
Feared by some.
Azura stood in its open courtyard, her small figure illuminated by the pale glow of twin lanterns. Her raven hair, darker than the night itself, fell behind her in straight, glossy sheets. Her crimson eyes shimmered faintly beneath the shadows, reflecting neither light nor warmth.
Only clarity.
Only stillness.
She held the wooden sword in her hand—not tightly, merely balanced, as though it were part of her bones. Faint frost clung to the stone beneath her feet; the lantern flames flickered strangely near her presence, shrinking inward rather than stretching outward.
Azura exhaled.
Her breath formed a thin mist.
She moved.
A single forward step—clean, subtle.
Her blade glided upward, no sound, no hesitation. Her wrist twisted in minute angles—precise, unhurried, almost lazy in its mastery. Her small frame carved through the cold air with silent determination, each movement echoing the earlier duel in the training ground.
Her mind returned to Lauora's sword—refined, graceful, controlled.
She didn't have to lose, Azura thought quietly.
She noticed my pace and matched it.
She held back… intentionally.
Her blade lowered.
A faint warmth glimmered in her chest, unfamiliar, almost intrusive.
Consideration.
Acknowledgment.
Connection.
She did not know the word for it.
She wasn't sure she wanted to.
Azura closed her crimson eyes and raised her sword again, repeating Lauora's opening stance—shoulders aligned, wrist relaxed, weight shifted slightly forward.
Mimicking.
Learning.
Understanding.
Her blade sliced the cold air with absolute accuracy.
She inhaled, steady.
This world moves with emotion, she realized.
Yet emotion… does not move me.
Her crimson eyes opened, glowing faintly beneath the dim lantern light.
No…
Something is moving me.
And I do not understand it.
Her chest tightened—not painfully, but sharply, a feeling she could not categorize.
A soft hum echoed in the frozen air—unknown, invisible, ancient.
Azura lowered her sword, her breath forming another misty cloud.
Something is awakening.
Something inside me…
or something around me?
The lantern lights flickered violently, bending toward her like shadows bowing.
Azura's crimson eyes narrowed.
And for the first time that night, a subtle smile touched her lips— quiet, dangerous, and promising something the empire was not ready to face.
"Ten days," she whispered.
Her voice was calm.
Her presence was not.
"Let them witness me."
The wind stirred sharply—
as though the night itself was listening.