Screams filled the air as the boy ran, sweat stinging his burrowing eyelids. Bodies twice his size crashed into him as they swayed, trance-like. ‘Focus. All can be achieved. Just focus’. Joy rippled through the air with each passing smile, with each thankful prayer from the masses. 'I can make it. The sun is still up.'

Light, a familiar guide—the source of their strength, the only thing capable of holding back the ever-swallowing darkness. ‘Asariel, bless me once more’. A small light enveloped the running child. Murmurs of awe arose, not only aimed at the festival but at the boy himself.

“Let me throu—aaah!” The boy’s command was cut short as a thick, heavy hand seized him. The skin, marked by burns that had only partially healed, gripped him firmly.

“There you are,” the familiar man said, pulling him aside. “What have you lost, Lucien? Your sense of direction or your sense of time? I have a lesson for both.”

Lucien shivered at the thought. Once, he had forgotten a part of the soot words. “Fire does not know it saves, nor when it hurts.” For this, his master had made him hold a torch with his arms stretched out until the flame died. Each time his arms buckled, another torch replaced it. Lucien had not dallied with his lessons since, nor was he eager to find out what new “lessons” might await him now.

Scrambling free of the grip, Lucien straightened himself. “I’ve got a good reason, sir!”

“Let’s hear it, then.”

“Aunt Elise is close to giving birth, sir! I was seeking permission to leave early, sir!”

“Permission to leave early?” His master smiled. “You’ve not even seen anything yet!”

“But sir!”

The rough hand ruffled Lucien’s hair, undoing the boy’s morning effort to keep it tidy. It hadn’t been his proudest work—his blond hair and smooth face had known better days—but after a morning of running, he thought he’d done well enough to look presentable.

“I know, lad. Don’t worry.” The ruffling shifted into a singular pat. “Lucien...” His master stopped and grabbed the boy, lifting him with effort. “Urgh, you’ve grown heavy. Didn’t I use to grab you with one arm?”

“You did, sir! You called me a stick, sir!”

“A stick... not anymore. Darkness take me, my bones croak.”

“At least you’ve not dislodged anything, sir!”

“You little—! That was just a bad day! No nine-year-old can wound me!” His master’s pride was palpable. Lucien wondered: were all those scars truly from foes older than nine?

Lucien’s thoughts were interrupted as he looked around. People parted to let them pass, whispering in nearly audible tones as they pointed.

“Is it him?”

“The Little Dawn. It’s the Little Dawn.”

“The Little Dawn and the Scorching Flame.”

“Asariel, let them look at me. Please, I beg of you.”

Lucien cast his gaze downward.

“Don’t look downward, lad. If you must look away, then look up.”

Lucien did as instructed, watching birds fly free beneath the sun. Tempting. Something to be desired.

“We shall never be as free as they are, Lucien. Instead of freedom, we were given responsibility—a curse for those blessed as we are.”

Was Lucien truly blessed? It didn’t feel like it. His parents praised him, the priests praised him, yet he never understood why. He was just Lucien, the sole child of Shannin and Adoran. Why did he bear a surname when his parents did not? Why did they name him Lucien Dawn? Without them, he wouldn’t even exist.

“Lucien,” his master’s voice pulled him back to reality. “Do not doubt yourself so. Don’t interrupt—I can see, it’s far too easy to tell with you. Look at you pouting!”

“Lad, we’ve all had days when we doubt ourselves—sometimes for good reasons, often not. But even then you have to smile, if not for yourself, then for those who believe in you.”

The gentle face of his mother came to mind, reading him the story of the little spark that became a great light. Then his father, showing him the world from atop his shoulders. Then his uncle and aunt, Dorian and Elise, loving each other despite being childless. The child!

“Master, I really need to go.”

“Just a moment, boy. We’re here.”

Lucien looked and scrambled out of his master’s arms before giving a polite bow toward the Mineral guard. That clueless man had taken him to the royal palace whilst Lucien was still reminiscing! How long had he been thinking?

‘The child! The child!’

The boy kept his panic to himself; he would NOT be the commoner breaking etiquette in the palace. Two guards stepped toward him, one wearing a yellow plate with golden glitter whilst the other a blue plate adorned with small gems. The sigils of their houses—a red bear enflamed and a blue rose twisting around a shield—were proudly embroidered on their cloaks. Lucien stopped his bow and put his hands behind his back, hoping they would like the discipline he showed.

“Lucien Dawn and Caelen Deepriver, the Little Dawn and the Scorching Flame. It took you all long enough. Her Excellency is eager,” the guard in the red plate said.

“Lord Braz and Lord Aelden,” Lucien’s master stepped forward and bowed as well. “I apologize for the delay.”

Lord Braz chuckled, his bear cloak fluttering. “When will you stop bowing, you old bastard? No wonder your back is getting so crooked.”

“My back is quite fine.”

“Braz is right, Torchbearer; you should not bow for us. It is not proper,” Lord Aelden said, almost ashamed that he even had to bring it up. Hierarchy has been a source of debate between the church and the nobles for quite a while. The nobles were the ones who ruled the lands and controlled the mines, yet the church was the institution connected to Asariel and the blessing of light. The endless debate only worsened when the once-king “Soltan, the Blood Ruby,” handed out honorary titles even to the rich merchants in exchange for their support in the twelve wars he would begin.

‘Would you truly equal the blessing of Asariel to a pouch of gold?Then allow me to buy your worthless soul with this!’ an angered priestess had yelled as she threw a single bronze coin at the king’s feet. For her insolence, she was stripped naked, beaten, and hanged. The day after, the church declared King Soltan Sylvar a heretic, and all the faithful moved toward the southeast of the Minerasian kingdom, declaring independence as a theocracy. After a long discussion of its legitimacy and the king—who had enough and was preparing for his thirteenth war to put the faithful in his place was murdered, his successor, “Zoran, the Silver Rose,” would begin the reconciliation between the church and his kingdom, guaranteeing independence in exchange for some of the faithful to return to his kingdom.

“I bow to those worthy,” Lucien’s master said. “Third sons or even bastards—as long as they’ve served—I will bow.”

Lord Braz Rubyl scratched his head before stepping aside. “The king awaits, sir.” The Mineral guards stepped aside, giving a bow of their own.

“Little Dawn,” Aelden Azur called out as Lucien was about to walk past. “Caelen is a good man, but he downplays himself. The Scorching Flame should not bow for a third son, nor any guard. I hope you remember that.”

Lucien nodded and returned to his master’s side as they entered the palace. The first thing he noticed was the noise; the palace was filled with nobles, all drinking wines and mingling in their respective circles. ‘The Rubyls, the Azurs, the Emerons, the Ambars, the Amethysts, the Obsoldians, and even the other royal Sylvars. All the high lords are here.’

“This will be a day marked in history, Lucien,” Caelen said. “His Grace has decided to combine the festival and his marriage. His wife, Ethisia Emeron, is a devout woman and has heard of your… expectations. She seeks your blessing.”

“Why? Why do you all expect so much?” Lucien asked. “I agree, I’m sun-kissed… I am blessed. But I’ve done nothing yet.”

“Don’t forget to smile,” Caelen said, and Lucien obliged, doing his best, yet he felt his lips quiver.

“Lucien, I won’t be here forever. They won’t be here forever,” Caelen nudged Lucien to watch the nobles as they passed. “For the first time in this kingdom’s history, we might enter a period of peace. We have the potential for it. For the first time, we might not need to scorch it all. But for that, we need hope. Not just as a vague ideal but in individuals. You and the royal couple are that hope.”

Lucien could see it in his master’s eyes, the one thing he had hoped not to see. Expectation. Suppressing the urge to scream, he simply nodded.

“Can somebody get me a bloody drink!” a drunken yell broke the conversation. The king’s older brother, Draikon Sylvar, the spurned heir, was making another ruckus. The nobles raised their glasses to him and took another sip before continuing their conversations.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“May darkness take you all!” The yelling didn’t continue long as the servants were able to pour him another drink, which he immediately downed. His consort beside him urged him to settle down. But all she received for her effort to retain his dignity was a slap, causing her cheek to bruise. “You’re vowed to me, whore. If I want to drink, then bring me a drink!”

“He’s no hope,” Caelen Deepriver grumbled as they passed by the banquet. Normally, it would’ve lasted for one more day, for the ending day. But since the royal wedding was moved up, it might even last a week.

At last, they were welcomed into the reception room—an enormous space filled with contrasting colors, the husks of rare slain beasts, and art depicting all the previous rulers at their peaks. In the center sat Ethisia Emeron, surrounded by her sworn ladies—those who remained unwed solely to serve the queen. They were holding dresses and carrying drinks.

Standing on the balcony was another figure, his “suit” as thick as a dress, adorned with all types of feathers and furs. His silver hair marked him as part of the royal family. This was the current Duke, Maerden Sylvan, known as “The Golden Smile.”

The royal couple turned to look at the arrivals, the duchess standing up while the duke remained in place, continuing to gaze out from the balcony.

“At last, dawn has arrived,” the duchess said, stepping forward. She was adorned with green and silver feathers lining the sides of her plumed dress.

How does she even keep her balance? Lucien wondered as the duchess walked without faltering once in her steps.

The queen paused, extending her left hand toward Caelen, who bowed and tried to kiss the back of her hand. Ethisia’s hand trembled as she quickly pulled it back, then presented it instead to Lucien. Following his master’s lead, Lucien reached for her hand, and this time, the queen’s hand did not tremble.

“I apologize, Caelen,” the queen said.

“How could I dare to receive an apology, Your Grace?” Caelen knelt, lowering his head. Lucien moved to do the same but was held upright by his master.

“Not you, boy. You’ve done no wrong.”

The queen fiddled with her fingers. “You shall accept my apology, Caelen. It is not proper, as queen, to deny the sacrifices you’ve made for this country.”

“I do not des—”

“It is not up for debate.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“Alas...” The queen turned her pure green eyes to Lucien. “I come to demand your presence and then create this.”

Ethisia sighed before clapping twice. Her sworn ladies moved at the signal, bringing forth two rings, each placed on a cushion—one silver ring on a green cushion and one green ring on a silver cushion.

'Two rings?'

“We will swear to each other instead of simply me to him.”

The soon-to-be queen tried to remain as composed as when she had stepped forward, but there was an undeniable smirk on her lips.

Caelen stood up and leaned in to whisper to Lucien as the queen raised her hand. “Let the Dawn child decide his own blessing.”

Lucien reached out carefully as light surrounded his hands, a small heat tingling his flesh. He knew this was all for show; it had been taught over and over that blessings were neither arcane nor divine power.

A blessing is to soothe the mind of the receiver and allow them to walk their destined path without worry.

That begged the question: what were the paths this royal couple wished to walk, and why did Lucien have to be the one to bless them?

Lucien grabbed the silver ring first. It was tradition for a noble to give a ring made from minerals found in their own mines. The Sylvan dynasty always had an abundance of silver; even their steel blades and armor were coated in it. The green ring, made of emerald, was meant for the king.

How long had it been since the leader of this kingdom had sworn himself as consort?

Being consort meant doing everything in one’s power to protect and cherish the other. Normally, only one side vowed in a marriage—the lesser party. For a king to vow himself as consort was to willingly lower his status.

Lucien reached for both rings, allowing his light to fill them. They shone with silver and green light, small but visible.

“I fear that I lack experience, so forgive me for this presumption,” Lucien said. “I can only bless what I have known.”

He glanced at his master, who gave a nod.

“I wish upon you both hope. For whatever may come, have hope that the path you tread is the right one.”

Lucien looked for their reactions, tension building as the queen did not immediately respond. The tension eased when the king turned and smiled.

“Thank you.”

The queen clapped twice, and the rings were taken away again.

“Come here, Lucien Dawn, and only him. Ethisia, do try to make conversation with Sir Deepriver. It would not be fitting to reward loyalty with disdain.”

Ethisia Emeron nodded, beckoning Caelen to follow. They seated themselves at the tea table, making idle talk—or at least pretending to.

The king stepped out toward the balcony, and Lucien joined him, standing by his side.

The view took Lucien by surprise. He had known the palace was the highest point in the city, built on steep mountainous terrain. But seeing it himself was overwhelming. He could see the endless mines, the entire city, even the distant lower river valleys. It was so vast it nearly frightened him.

The harsh wind brought him back to the present. Maerden Sylvan stood beside him, his extravagant costume fluttering, some of its colorful feathers blowing away.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” the king said. “Even beyond what we see, the kingdom stretches. It’s... daunting.”

The king smiled again, and this time Lucien noticed the two golden teeth. Unsure of how to respond, Lucien merely nodded.

“How many sun cycles have you experienced, Lucien?”

“My eleventh cycle has just passed, Your Grace.”

The king chuckled, shaking his head. “Asariel’s bosom… Eleven years old and already carrying so much. When I was eleven, my brother was fighting wars in the Endless Mines while I played with the children of the high lords.”

“I do not know your struggles, child,” Maerden Sylvar said. “When they tasked me with their worries, I was already in my twentieth sun cycle. Even then, I only received the crown last year.”

The king removed his crown, turning it over in his hands. Gems of amber, amethyst, azurite, ruby, and obsidian were embedded in the silver band, with lines of golden dust woven into its design. Each gem bore an engraved oath of loyalty.

“My father fought two wars to gather these minerals—and my brother…” The king’s voice trailed off, his expression darkening briefly. “Let’s just say the artisans wouldn’t have struggled to decide his colour scheme.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Lucien replied. He knew he could not allow the king’s words to go unanswered, but neither could he risk insulting the man’s brother, the current heir.

‘Remember what you are, Lucien: a given name. One taken as easily as it was bestowed.’

“Has your master ever told you why he decided to teach you?” the king asked.

“Master doesn’t tell me much about his past.”

The king nodded, as though understanding. “Those who’ve experienced The Bloodsoaked Golden War do not speak of it. Especially not those who made their names there. They are immortalized by the ignorant, feared by those who know, and shunned by those who gave the orders.”

Lucien glanced back at his master and the queen. They were conversing, but there was something strained between them. The queen avoided meeting Caelen’s eyes, while he responded only when spoken to, saying little of his own accord.

“They say Caelen slew Ethisia’s uncle in battle,” the king continued. “Apparently, the man was so scorched that his armor had melted into his body, leaving him unrecognizable. Only the sigil on his shield was identifiable. She still whispers about the sight when no one is listening.”

“Why?” Lucien asked. If he was to be a beacon of hope for his master, shouldn’t he understand why his master had no hope for himself?

“Ethisia’s uncle, Gaeron Emeron, was too good a man for war, let alone to follow orders of such magnitude.” The king’s tone was somber. “Tell me, Lucien: if one cannot discern friend from foe, how would you proceed?”

“Well…” Lucien hesitated, recalling his teachings. “I’ve been taught that balanced judgment is sacred. So I would continue to seek information before making a decision.”

“But what if there’s no time? Do you let your foes go or vanquish them together with your allies? Nay! Those you’ve sworn to protect!?”

The king’s voice rose, his gaze fixed on the city below. Lucien followed his gaze, seeing more than before. It was not just structures—it was people.

Children his age were playing, beastmen bartered wares with eager buyers, and preachers debated faith with passersby. He could even see his own home.

‘Oh Goddess… complaining to the king doesn’t seem like a good idea, but I have to go.’

“Truly, a child!” the queen exclaimed suddenly, standing. She couldn’t have heard him. “Elly, fetch me a quill, parchment, and two of my everstones!”

Her sworn ladies moved quickly, bringing the requested items. The queen wrote furiously before handing the parchment and two small, translucent stones to Lucien.

“You should’ve told us, little Dawn. My husband wouldn’t have detained you.”

The queen smiled as she handed him the gifts. “I know we are not of the cloth, but still, I wish for you and the little one to have our blessing. We’re in this together.”

Lucien accepted the items, glancing at the king, who gave him a golden, regal smile.

“Go, Lucien,” the king said gently. “Walk the path before you, but do not let it define you. All will be well.”

Lucien bowed deeply before running toward his home, an extra hop in his step.

If I had known then what would transpire… Would I have acted differently? Perhaps. But if I could redo one choice, it wouldn’t be this one.

As Lucien ran, he found himself noticing his surroundings anew. What had seemed heavy before now felt lighter. The eyes of onlookers no longer weighed on him as much, and he began focusing on the good.

Yes, there were expectations in those eyes, but also happiness. It was a happiness he felt he didn’t deserve—yet.

‘But I can earn it, can’t I?’

The royal couple was on his side. If he had wished hope upon them, could he not wish it for himself as well?

His last name, Dawn—once a burden, a reminder of the light that follows the dark—suddenly felt like a promise.

‘Why did I ever let it bother me? Why did I let those eyes bother me? Why had I written myself off before I even began?’

As he ran, he saw priests debating and distributing food to the less fortunate. I can do that.

A Dame was showcasing her skill, inspiring those around her. I can do that.

A preacher read soothing words to those who couldn’t understand them. I can do that too.

It’s doable. I can reach it. I can and I shall.

Lucien reached his aunt and uncle’s home. From inside came a sound—a baby’s cry. He stormed through the front door, his eyes scanning the room. His aunt lay in bed, utterly exhausted, surrounded by Lucien’s father, mother, and the Flickered Flames. Uncle Dorian grasped Aunt Elise’s hand tightly, his head resting against it.

“Thank you, darling. Thank you so much,” Dorian whispered through tear-filled eyes.

Lucien stepped closer and saw the source of the crying: a baby, recently cleaned by the Flickered Flames, nestled in his mother’s arms.

“Do you see that boy there, Luden? That’s your nephew, Lucien Dawn,” Aunt Elise said weakly.

Her voice carried a strain Lucien had never heard before. The Flickered Flames surrounded her, their hands glowing with a pure, cool light. The light was meant to heal—not perfect, as his master had said, but necessary for times like these.

“Elise…” Lucien approached as his aunt called him.

“Will you be his protectorate?”

Lucien gasped, holding out one of the everstones and the queen’s written blessing to his uncle.

‘What should I swear?’

It was common to swear a single thing when named protectorate. For whatever may fail, that one oath he swears as protectorate may never break. His uncle took the parchment and opened it.

“It says hope, a blessing from the queen herself. How did y—?”

Instead of asking, his uncle, Dorian, laughed. “You were always a special case.”

Dorian inspected the see-through stone; it looked pure and proper.

“I’ll make a necklace for both of you, using those stones. For good fortune and a pure soul.”

Lucien turned around and leaned over to his nephew, Luden. The baby looked back; it seemed so fragile, so innocent. His blue eyes gazed at him, filled with adoration and nothing else. The crying had stopped, and Luden seemed as curious about Lucien as Lucien was about him.

Lucien could feel his heart swell as a smile formed on his face. ‘Even in my doubt, even if those eyes filled with expectations start to bother me again, I shall remember your blue eyes mixed in them.’ Lucien spoke the rest of his thoughts: “I vow to become the man you imagine me to be. Allow me to guarantee you the next dawn, whatever it may take.”

Determination fuelled his words as a light formed around Lucien. A source of light shone upon the newborn as he saw his first dawn.