The The Aethelgard Spire of Luminalis was a masterpiece of architectural arrogance. Carved from iridescent white quartz that captured the sun's rays and fractured them into a thousand dancing rainbows, it was designed to remind the world that the Witches were beings of light and celestial command.
But to Princess Elissa Starwind, the youngest daughter of the High House of Aethelgard, the palace felt less like a jewel and more like a beautifully constructed cage of ice.
Today was the Day of Manifestation—the midsummer solstice when the royal children were expected to showcase the peak of their elemental prowess before the High Council and the neighboring lords.
Elissa stood in the wings of the Great Hall, her fingers digging into the silk of her skirts. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and burning sage. Outside the heavy oak doors, she could hear the rhythmic chanting of the Coven and the roar of the crowd.
"Don't pull at the fabric, Elissa. You look like a common milkmaid," a sharp, melodic voice cut through the tension.
Elissa didn't need to turn to know it was her eldest sister, Serafina Starwind. Serafina stood bathed in a literal aura of golden light, her hair whipping around her face as if caught in a private gale. She was the pride of the kingdom—a Mistress of Storms.
"Leave her alone, Sera," a calmer voice intervened. It was Lyra Starwind, the sister who had inherited the gift of healing and empathy. She stepped toward Elissa, placing a hand on her shoulder. "She's nervous. We all were."
"Nervousness is for those with something to lose," Serafina sneered, though his eyes weren't entirely unkind; they were simply bored. "Elissa has spent eighteen years producing nothing but a faint glow that wouldn't even startle a firefly. Father is losing patience."
"Sera, that's enough," another voice boomed.
The siblings straightened as Kaelen Starwind, Elissa's eldest brother and the true heir to the throne, walked into the room. Unlike the others, Kaelen's power didn't manifest as a showy display. He was a Master of Earth and Iron, his presence grounded and immense. He walked over to Elissa and tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear.
"Focus on the hum, El," he whispered, his voice a low, protective rumble. "Don't try to force the fire. Just listen to the earth. It's there."
Elissa tried to smile, but her heart was a leaden weight in her chest. "The earth doesn't speak to me, Kaelen. Nothing does. I'm just... quiet."
The doors groaned open. The Herald's staff struck the floor three times.
"The Royal Line of Aethelgard!"
They processed into the hall. The scale of the room was staggering—vaulted ceilings painted with the history of the Great Wars, and at the far end, the twin thrones of King Hektor and Queen Myra.
One by one, the siblings performed. Serafina summoned a localized blizzard that turned the hall into a winter wonderland, the snowflakes dancing in intricate patterns before melting into harmless mist. The crowd gasped in awe. Next came the others, each more impressive than the last—fire that sang, water that sculpted itself into soaring eagles, and Kaelen, who made the very foundation of the Citadel pulse like a beating heart.
Then, it was Elissa's turn.
The silence that fell was not one of anticipation, but of pained politeness. Elissa stepped into the center of the ritual circle. She closed her eyes, trying to find that spark Kaelen always talked about. She reached into the void within her soul, searching for a thread of magic to pull.
She felt a warmth. A tiny, flickering glow deep in her marrow. She pushed it toward her fingertips.
Please, she prayed. Just once.
A small, amber spark sputtered from her thumb. It hovered for a fraction of a second, no larger than a grain of sand, before it winked out with a pathetic hiss.
Laughter didn't erupt; that would have been too kind. Instead, there was a ripple of whispers—the sound of a hundred people pitying the "Emberless Princess."
Elissa looked up at the dais. Her father, King Hektor Starwind, didn't even look angry. He looked bored, his gaze already shifted to a map on the table beside him. Her mother, Queen Rowen Starwind , looked at her with a cold, clinical detachment, as if she were a piece of livestock that had failed to gain weight for the market.
"Well," the Queen said, her voice carrying through the silent hall. "At least she is pretty. That will have to be enough."
The ceremony was dismissed. The court moved to the feast, but Elissa retreated to the shadows of the garden, the humiliation burning hotter than any fire Kealen could produce.
She was sitting by the moon-pond when she heard the heavy crunch of gravel. She expected Lyra or Kaelen, but when she looked up, she saw her mother standing there, framed by the silver light of the rising moon.
"Dry your eyes, Elissa," Queen Rowen said, her voice devoid of maternal warmth. "Your lack of magic is no longer my primary concern. The High Council has met. The borders of the Eternal Forest are failing. The Hollowed—those mindless, soul-eating husks—have begun to cross the Veil in numbers we haven't seen in a thousand years."
Elissa stood, wiping her cheeks. "What does that have to do with me?"
"We need an alliance with the North," the Queen stated. "The Vampires of Nocturnis possess the brute strength and the ancient blood-magic required to hold the front lines. Without them, Aethelgard will fall within the year."
A chill that had nothing to do with the night air swept over Elissa. The Vampires were the stuff of nightmares—pure-blooded, immortal predators who viewed witches as little more than refined snacks.
"You're sending Kaelen?" Elissa asked, her voice trembling. "Or Serafina?"
"Don't be absurd," Queen snapped. "I will not waste my greatest weapons on a marriage pact. You are the only thing this kingdom has that is expendable, Elissa. You are to be married to the Crown Prince of Nocturnis. Prince Alistair D'Valtheron."
The name hit Elissa like a physical blow. Alistair D'Valtheron . The "Cold God" of the North. Stories told of his ruthlessness, his lethal elegance, and the way he had single-handedly decimated the rebel clans of the Tundra.
"But... I'm a witch," Elissa whispered. "He'll hate me. He'll kill me."
"He will do neither," queen said, turning to leave. "He has agreed to the terms. He wants a royal bride of pure blood to cement the treaty. He doesn't care if you can cast a spell or not. In fact, he likely prefers you weak. It makes you easier to own."
The Queen paused at the archway, looking back one last time. "You leave at dawn. The King of Nocturnis does not like to be kept waiting, and his son... well, his son is not known for his patience."