Arla-Rosa stood by the hospital gates, her arms folded loosely over her white coat, her graduation medal glinting against the fabric. She should have been brimming with joy. The youngest graduate in the history of the Royal Medical University, offers flooding in from top hospitals across nations. Yet, here she was, caught in the uncertainty of a mysterious invitation.
The message had come that morning. Hand-delivered. Sealed with the crest of the Fleming family. "Miss Arla-Rosa Hernandez, You are cordially invited to a private lunch with His Grace, Duke Cedric Fleming of Country D. Location: The Marquess Lounge, Grand Sterling Hotel. Noon. Sincerely, Alastair Graham, Secretary to His Grace." She'd read it three times, trying to make sense of it. Why would the Duke, one of the most powerful and enigmatic figures in Country D, seek her out personally? Her first instinct had been to decline. Seth wouldn't like this. But curiosity tugged harder. So now, standing before the opulent Grand Sterling Hotel, Arla-Rosa adjusted her modest blouse and took a deep breath before heading inside. The Marquess Lounge was bathed in warm gold and emerald tones. Velvet drapes lined the windows, and crystal chandeliers sparkled like suspended stars. Arla-Rosa spotted Cedric instantly, sharp in a steel-gray suit, posture regal, his eyes scanning her like a hawk. But what struck him was how young the duke looked. He was just a few years older than her. Twenty-five years old, and he wielded so much power! "Miss Hernandez," he rose, his tone formal but not cold, extending a hand. "Thank you for accepting my invitation." "Your Grace," she replied, shaking it gently. "I was curious, to be honest. I didn’t think someone like you would be interested in a newly graduated doctor." He gestured for her to sit. "I value brilliance. And I make it my business to know when someone extraordinary emerges." She flushed faintly. "I’m just doing my best." "You’ve done more than that. Your thesis on neuro-lunar cell regeneration caught the attention of our medical boards. Your professors speak of you with awe." Their lunch arrived, seared scallops, rosemary chicken, wild rice. Cedric ate sparingly, but his eyes rarely left her. "Your grades, your progress under Master Ye, your work ethic... You’re the kind of mind we need at St. Astrid’s," he said at last. "That’s why I’m offering you an exclusive post. A full research lab. Access to international medical grants. And autonomy to pursue any field you desire." Her fork paused halfway. "That's... generous. But I'm afraid I must decline." His brows lifted, almost imperceptibly. "May I ask why?" "Because," she said simply, "I’ve already made a commitment. I’ll be working with my fiance, Seth Robinson, to expand his company’s health division." Cedric leaned back. "You're giving up global prestige for... a man’s company?" Arla-Rosa’s lips curved. "It’s not just a company. It's our dream. I helped shape it, supported it." His fingers drummed once on the table. "I expected reluctance," he murmured. "Not blind devotion." She straightened. "Excuse me?" He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a brown envelope. Neatly sealed. "I didn’t want to resort to this," Cedric said, his voice dropping, "but if you won’t listen to reason, perhaps you’ll listen to truth." He pushed the envelope across the table. "What is this?" "Documentation. Of Seth Robinson’s affair with a woman named Aretha. Records, photos, and messages." A cold wind seemed to blow through her chest. With trembling fingers, Arla-Rosa opened the envelope. There were timestamped hotel visits. Screenshots of conversations. Images of Seth entering Aretha’s residence late at night. Bank transfers labeled as ‘private gifts’. It felt like the walls of the lounge closed in. She looked up, eyes shining. "These... This isn’t real." "It is," Cedric said calmly. "You can verify it all." "You’re trying to sabotage my engagement! You barely know me!" "I may not know you well," he replied, voice low, "but I know manipulation when I see it. I investigated Seth not to hurt you, but because I saw how devoted you were. And how that devotion was being exploited." Arla-Rosa’s hand trembled as she picked up her phone. Cedric watched in disbelief as she dialed. "Seth? Yes, I’m with someone named Duke Fleming. He’s showing me some fake documents about you and Aretha. Just wanted you to know." She hung up and fixed Cedric with a cold stare. "I don’t know what your game is, but I’m not some pawn to be moved." A few minutes later, Seth arrived, disheveled and breathless. He wrapped an arm protectively around Arla-Rosa. "Your Grace," he said coolly, "I appreciate your concern, but we’re just fine." Cedric stood, towering over them. "You’re a liar. And she’s too blind to see it." "I trust him," Arla-Rosa whispered. Cedric’s composure cracked. His voice became a growl. "You’ll regret this. One day, you’ll wish you listened." He turned and strode out of the lounge, his footsteps echoing. Arla-Rosa sagged into Seth’s chest, clutching him tightly. But Cedric wasn’t done. Not even close. Outside, he lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, staring at the city skyline. "If she won’t save herself," he murmured, eyes narrowing, "then I will."They called themselves the Ashborne. Not because they had been defeated, but because they had learned to live within the ashes, to breathe quietly beneath destruction, and wait for the moment when the flame might return.The two figures who had seen the light at the Flame Core returned swiftly through the tunnels, turning stone wheels, navigating hidden paths, avoiding patrols with muscle memory sharpened by decades of survival. The taller one, with the scarred throat, pushed open a disguised wall and stepped into their refuge.The air inside was warm, dry, and thick with incense, not of worship, but preservation. Herbs hung in bundles. Phoenix feathers, long petrified, decorated the corners. Lanterns burned low with sapphire-blue fire.Nearly forty faces turned to greet them. Some old. Some barely more than children. All wearing the ash-colored cloaks of the Ashborne. A woman stood at the center, arms crossed, chin high. Her name was Senna, once a high-ranking healer in Amarantha’s c
The dust from the orb still lingered in the air, faintly golden, as if refusing to settle. Arla-Rosa stood at the heart of the shrine, hands still trembling. Not from fear, but from a recognition so deep it vibrated in her marrow. This was her birthright. Her beginning. Her mother’s sacrifice, her father’s defiance, her own survival, it all started here.Cedric did not speak. He stood close, not as a duke or protector, but as a man witnessing his beloved walk back into the pages of a history that tried to erase her. Cassian ran his fingers along a faded relief on the wall, eyes sharp behind childlike wonder. “It’s a map. I think. A map of the old island layout...”He pointed at a glowing marker. “This shrine is the Flame Core. It was the heart of the Saphiren Clan. But... here...” he tapped another dimmed section to the far west, “...this was once called The Haven of the First Healer. It’s marked by the crescent bloom.” Arla-Rosa blinked. “The same bloom carved into Mother’s pendant..
The sun was just beginning to set over the sea, staining the waves in streaks of amber and orange. Cedric stood on the slope of the dune with Cassian perched on his shoulders, scanning the beach for anything unusual. Celeste dug idly at the sand with a stick, humming to herself as Arla-Rosa stood at the water’s edge, one hand pressed over her heart.The pull had grown stronger. It was as though the sand beneath her feet remembered her, and each step she took across the coastline whispered secrets in a language she was only beginning to remember. But the entrance... remained invisible.“It’s here,” she murmured, more to herself than anyone. “I feel it in my bones, but I just don’t know how to find it.” Cedric approached. “Could it be buried? Underground?” She shook her head. “No. It’s something else. I think… we’re standing in the middle of a magical formation, if that makes sense.”Celeste's ears perked up. “Like a hidden door?” Cassian, curious, jumped off his father's shoulders. “Ma
Far beyond the tourist coastlines and the soft laughter of children, past cliffs carved by time and oceans made of glass, there lay a veil no map dared to mark. Behind that veil, hidden by blood magic and deathly intent, was the heart of decay.The Guxani Sect, known only in whispers among the forbidden circles of martial arts and insect cultivation, thrived like a nest of locusts deep within the island’s shadowed interior. Their compound resembled an overgrown ruin, stone halls tangled with black vines, bamboo groves corrupted by parasites, air thick with the scent of wormwood and copper.In a subterranean chamber beneath the largest hall, a dim glow from bioluminescent fungi illuminated what little remained of Amarantha Lunaria.She sat slumped against a wall of ancient roots, her hair no longer silver-gold but matted and streaked with red earth. Thin iron cuffs wrapped around her wrists and ankles, etched with the sigils of entrapment. He
The sun hung lazily above the shoreline, scattering golden flecks across the waves. The salty breeze carried children’s laughter, the distant caw of gulls, and the faint music of a steel drum drifting from a nearby beach café. Everything about the day was ordinary, beautifully, deceptively ordinary.Cassian and Celeste squealed as the tide tickled their ankles, running up the shore with buckets in hand. They were halfway through building a lopsided sandcastle kingdom, Celeste’s fortress had seashell guards, while Cassian had engineered a working moat with filtered water channels. Arla-Rosa watched them from her spot beneath a pale linen parasol, legs folded, a book resting unread in her lap.She smiled as Cedric returned from the beachside vendor with two chilled drinks and sat beside her, handing her one. For a moment, they were not fugitives. Not the daughter of a forgotten royal line. Not a duke disguised as a commoner. Not the children of prophecy, no
The scent of spiced parchment and rare sandalwood filled Duke Cedric Fleming’s private study. A long velvet box lay open on his desk, revealing the final gift: a crystalline comb inlaid with frost lotus petals, rumored to only bloom once every seven years in the highest mountain ranges of Country D. Delicate. Priceless. Symbolic.“Will it pass inspection?” Cedric asked without looking up. The envoy bowed low. “Yes, Your Grace. All the gifts are personally inscribed, the letters are sealed with your crest. None will suspect this is anything but a sincere offering.”“Good,” Cedric said, folding the final scroll. “Let them believe it.” The envoy hesitated. “Do you truly wish to congratulate them for finding their... princess?” Cedric’s hand stilled. “It is not congratulations, Lord Vance. It’s bait.”He rose from his chair, his shoulders straightening beneath the weight of his title. The opulent robe he wore shimmered with the subtle threads of his house colors, storm grey and midnight b