Sunlight cut through smoke and dust, piercing the haze like golden lances thrust from the heavens.
Banners lay shredded across the scarred earth, their once-vibrant fabrics torn and muddied, fluttering weakly in the dying gusts. Shards of the enemy glinted off flesh and broken armour, catching the light in cruel, fragmented sparks.
The breeze kissed the flames of war, scattering ash across a field carved with craters—deep gouges where boulders had slammed home, splintering stone and soil alike.
Boulders lay split in jagged halves, their innards exposed like cracked eggshells. Bolts splintered in the dirt, wood and metal soaked with blood and grime.
Deeper within the forest, dozens of heavily armoured Gorgurs sprawled where they'd fallen—mutant creatures of war lay beside them, sliced apart, their twisted limbs tangled in grotesque heaps, innards spilling onto the underbrush in steaming pools.
At the centre of the carnage lay their master, the Shard Lord, headless beneath a crown of cracked shards and gold. His body slumped in a final, undignified sprawl.
Auriel stood among the ruin. Smoke curled around her like mourning veils, tendrils coiling at her ankles before drifting upward, drawn by the subtle pull of her radiant presence.
She lingered for a breath, her gaze sweeping the devastation, the weight of command pressing on her shoulders like an unseen mantle.
Then, with a subtle shift of her stance—she lifted from the ground. Stardust trailed in her wake, shimmering particles that caught the light and scattered it into a soft, ethereal glow.
Within a moment, she shot up towards the sky, the air parting before her with a faint whoosh, leaving the deathly site to its grim silence.
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
"Guhh–"
"Healer!"
"Get those soldiers over to the east ward!"
Shouts rippled through rows of tents—the price of war, filling the Dawnish campsite with a cacophony of desperation and urgency.
Footsteps rang through the campsite as healers covered in blood hurried past, their robes stained crimson.
The air stank of blood and scorched flesh, a metallic tang that clung to the throat, mingling with the acrid bite of burnt essence.
Tents overflowed with the injured and the dying. Hands worked without stopping—binding gashes with swift, practiced wraps, burning wounds closed with focused bursts of luminary heat, casting restorative spells that hummed faintly in the air.
Saving what could still be saved.
Through that chaos strode a lone figure, metal boots threading along the blood-stained ground, each step measured, deliberate, the clank of armour cutting through the din like a steady drumbeat.
His once-lustrous armour was blackened by soot and dirt, each step leaving faint motes of light in his wake—residual essence of Aura flickering like dying stars.
Sunveil soldiers—bruised, broken, yet unbowed—saluted as he passed, fists thumping against dented chestplates in ragged unison.
He made for the observation camp, its perimeter ringed by command banners and half-collapsed defences, fabric fluttering limply in the breeze.
At the central tent two Sword Sisters stepped out, saluted their commander with sharp nods, and moved on, their boots crunching over gravel as they vanished into the throng.
Eryndor reached for the flap, hesitating, his gauntlet fingers hovering just shy of the canvas, a subtle tremor betraying the storm beneath his calm facade.
Before his hand found it, the canvas lifted from the other side, a soft rustle breaking the moment.
"Eryndor…"
"Myra."
They found each other before the other could.
For a moment they just stared—superior and subordinate, yet something deeper lingered in the air between them, unspoken tension.
"…May I enter?" he asked, breaking the silence, his voice edged with a rare vulnerability.
"Ah—yes! This is your tent, Commander."
Her voice stumbled, forgetting for a moment there was still a battlefield outside, the distant moans of the wounded a grim underscore to their exchange.
He stepped in, his frame filling the entrance, armour scraping faintly against the tent pole.
Her armour lay in a corner, dented and blackened, discarded like a shed skin. Now, she only wore her uniform, her arm in a sling, the fabric taut against her frame, highlighting the lean muscle honed by years of service.
The Sword Sister healer was adept, but the damage she had received was immense. She could only rely on her body's healing factor to do the rest.
Her hair fell loose—dark chestnut against fair, bruised skin. Even through fatigue, her crystal-clear eyes caught him the same way they always had, drawing him in like a beacon.
"You fought enough today, Commander," Myra said gently, reaching for a cup with her good hand, fingers trembling slightly from the strain.
"Let me prepare a refreshment—Ah—."
She winced. The cup slipped from her fingers and clattered against the floor, rolling to a stop against her boot.
"Sorry… Commander, I haven't—"
She stopped as footsteps approached behind her, the soft thud of his approach deliberate, unhurried.
Eryndor crouched, lifted the fallen cup with a fluid bend at the knees, weight shifting smoothly to his heels, and set it back on the table.
The movement was quiet, almost reverent—the simple gesture from someone that knew pain too well, his gauntlet brushing the wood with unexpected tenderness.
"Myra…"
"Eryndor—Commander, I'm fine. You don't have to worry about me."
She turned away, voice softer, a hint of disappointment beneath the discipline, her shoulders slumping just a fraction as she averted her gaze.
"We discussed this. We have our roles to play—for the honour of the Dynasty."
Eryndor watched her in silence; uncertainty stirred in his chest, a knot tightening with each word unsaid.
Then he reached out and took her hand, his fingers enveloping hers in a firm yet gentle grip, his warmth seeping through the contact.
Myra glanced back, startled, as his fingers brushed her cheek, a feather-light touch that sent a subtle shiver through her frame.
"I-I thought I would lose you, Myra…" he said, as his hand started to tremble.
She was taken aback.
The ever-calm, unshakable Paragon was… shaking, his breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls.
"E-Eryndor… I thought you didn't—," she bit her lip, her voice catching on the edge of old wounds.
"All those times you pushed me away…"
"Myra, I… I am sorry, I was trying to protect you, so much had happened. I couldn't watch you be hurt."
"I-I was scared of the realm I stepped into…"
…
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
When they first met, they were Unbound and Blademaster.
Unequals.
Yet not so far removed that affection, admiration, and rivalry could not still grow in the same soil.
There had always been a gap between them—clear, undeniable, yet still close enough to bridge. Unbounds were beings that were no longer bound to their mortal chains. A Blademaster, a rank below, yet was still bound by theirs.
Then, in time, Eryndor rose to the rank of Paragon, became the fourth Knight of Dawn, and gave his oaths to the King and the throne. With that rise came more than title. It came with status, expectation, reverence—and a kind of distance power creates whether one welcomes it or not.
He was immensely honoured to be able to serve his Dynasty.
But things changed.
When he rose again, that distance widened into something far harder to measure—no longer a difference in strength alone, but in standing, in nature, in what he had become.
Myra could not come close in the same way anymore, he had become something harder to read, harder to reach, and far easier to place upon a pedestal than beside her.
And from then on, distance began to grow in all the spaces where affection, rivalry, and quiet longing had once breathed freely.
By then, they no longer stood on the same rung of life, but on different dimesnions entirely.
Years later, Myra ascended to an Unbound—one of the Chosen of Auriel, a Commander of her own Sword Sisters.
In time, they found one another again—on battlefields, in councils, in the thin spaces between wars. They traded congratulations, brief words, stolen glances across strategy tables, and the occasional brush of hands that lingered longer in memory than in life.
But the gap never vanished. It only strained what they didn't say, pulling at the threads of what might have been.
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
Outside, shouts erupted—metal struck earth, then silence, as if the whole campsite had dropped to its knees, a wave of reverence sweeping through the ranks.
Inside the tent, they remained in their own small world, the chaos outside muted.
Myra's hand tightened around his, her fingers interlacing with a quiet determination struggling beyond her hesitation.
"Eryndor… we shouldn't—what if someone—"
The canvas flap whipped open. Light poured through, a sudden blaze that silhouetted the intruder in radiant outline.
The figure stepped in—radiant, composed.
Auriel Dawnstar.
She just stood there, staring at the two intertwined, her presence filling the space like a sudden dawn.
Both parties stared at each other, the air thickening with awkward tension.
Then they ripped away from each other and knelt to their Princess and Supreme Commander, heads bowed low, hearts pounding.
Auriel finally stepped forward, glancing at them both, her expression unreadable.
"How are you, my friend?" Her voice was gentle as she laid a hand on Myra's shoulder.
"I will recover in a few days, Princess." Myra looked up, her voice steady despite the ache.
"That is good. Come, stand. And Myra—call me Auriel."
"Yes… Auriel." She hesitated, then rose.
The two had grown together in Dawn's courts, but rank and birthright had always stood between them.
Auriel's smile softened the distance, a genuine warmth breaking through her regal poise.
"It's good to see you again."
Her gaze shifted to Eryndor, sharpening slightly.
"Eryndor."
"Yes, my Princess."
"You performed poorly as Commander. You hesitated to act. You lost the Light-Engine. And your mind…" Her eyes flicked toward Myra. "… was elsewhere."
Her tone cut like glass—official, not cruel.
"As one of the Knights of Dawn, you cannot afford… distractions."
Myra turned slightly, lowering her head, a flush of guilt creeping in.
Eryndor's jaw tightened, emotion knotted beneath the discipline, his fists clenching at his sides.
"I am sorry, Princess. I have failed you and the Dynasty."
Silence.
Then a quiet sigh.
Auriel glanced down as the bracelet on her wrist pulsed with shard-light—a message from the King's Royal Messenger, a faint chime echoing in the confined space.
What does Father want now…
"I think that will do for formalities." She turned for the entrance, her cloak swirling with motion. "Come, walk with me."
The two remaining just looked at each other, puzzled, exchanging glances.
Auriel stood beneath the clearing sky, starlight still glimmering through the waning smoke.
Once the two followed her outside, she faced them, eyes gentler now, the stern commander giving way to the friend beneath.
"I'm happy for you, Myra. You've found your star. I know how difficult that journey is."
She took Myra's hands in her own, a soft glow of her warmth Aura bridging the contact.
"Eh… Auriel?" Myra blinked, confused, her brow furrowing.
Auriel smiled, looking to Eryndor, her expression softening further.
"As Princess of Dawn, I give you my blessing."
She placed Myra's hand on Eryndor's, then laid hers atop them both, a warm pulse of luminary weaving through their skin.
"By decree of the First Star, I wish you eternal happiness."
Stardust spiralled around them, swirling in lazy eddies that caught the fading light.
"May the stars shine on the two that stand beneath their radiance."
A band of star-light gleamed around each of their ring fingers, forming into ethereal rings.
"May they give you good fortune in your new lives together, as one."
Auriel stepped back, took a breath, and smiled, her eyes glistening with a mix of joy and melancholy.
"Now I must take my leave. Goodbye, Eryndor and Myra Sunveil." She smiled, her form ascending with a graceful push off the ground, shooting up into the sky.
Within a instant, she was gone, a trail of stardust lingering like a comet's tail.
The two stood stunned, hands still joined, the camp's noise fading back in around them.
"Did she just… wed us?" Eryndor's composure crumbled into bewildered innocence, his voice cracking slightly.
Myra's lips curved into a mischievous grin, her eyes sparkling with newfound light.
"Eryndor~"
He turned as she slipped her arm through his, pulling him close with a gentle tug.
"We have time before the army marches. Let us enjoy our honeymoon while we can."
"Wai—"
Before he could protest, she pulled him back into the tent, her steps light and eager, the canvas swishing behind them.
The canvas closed, the ties drew tight, sealing them in their private world.
They had a lot of time to make up for.
—— ❖ —— —— ❖ —— —— ❖ ——
High above the battlefield, Auriel drifted through the clouds, cloak trailing light behind her like a veil of stars.
Her hands smothered her face, cheeks flushing beneath her palms.
Ahh… why did I have to walk in on them?
Her cheeks warmed. "Kya—that was so embarrassing!"
She spun once in the air, red as sunrise, her cloak billowing in the wind.
"It was just like one of my romance novels… A stoic commander, the wounded knight… then fate throws me right into the scene!"
The Princess of Dawn—slayer of horrors, heir to radiance—squealed into the wind.
"Kyaaa~!"
For a few blissful seconds, she let the fantasy run wild in her head: rose petals, candlelight, and dramatic declarations echoing through the halls of Dawn.
I wonder…
She sighed
…When will I find my destined star?
"Compose yourself, Auriel," she muttered, clearing her thoughts, her flight steadying as she regained her poise.
The wind shifted. Clouds broke open to reveal a vast plateau crowned in firelight, the horizon glowing with the promise of home.
At its summit blazed a city of mirrored towers and gilded domes, spires reaching toward the stars.
Mesa Crown.
The land of the Radiant City.
Heliandor.
Auriel steadied herself and descended toward home, her form cutting through the air with purposeful grace.