On the nights of the full moon, the capital city thrummed with life, its streets alive with fervor. The sacred sanctuaries overflowed with devoted souls, adorned in their finest garments and their pockets brimming with coins destined for the priests’ offerings to Lunaris.

Amidst the vibrant tapestry of voices, the servants of the Thalorian house buzzed with anticipation, their hearts racing at the chance to be chosen for the sacred rite at the goddess’s fountain. Legend spoke of that very place as the last sanctuary where Lunaris had bathed before the catastrophic fall of the ancient regime, her divine essence still lingering in the waters.

In all of Atlas, there was not a soul who had not attended those jubilant celebrations at least once… none, that is, except for the sister of Senator Verethis Thalorian, the most powerful man in all of Atlas: Selene.

Claimed as the hidden treasure of house Thalorian. Her skin was a pale, near-translucent canvas, as if untouched by the sun's warmth, amplifying the rare, vivid contrast of her crimson lips; a delicate bloom against the winter that seemed to have claimed her. Only the tips of her fingers held a faint rosiness, as though the last remnants of warmth from her veins lingered there, giving her an otherworldly allure. With knee-long hair like frost-spun gold and eyes the deep gray of storm-touched skies, she seemed less a woman of Atlas and more a living relic of its ancient gods, an untouchable beauty draped in the old myths that all.

Of course, all of that was just a rumor since no one outside the Thalorian household had ever seen their maiden.

“Dear child, what are you doing up there?” Nimea entered the private gardens of the house, her elegant cane of intricately carved wood and gilded accents producing a soft, hollow thud that interrupted the stillness of the night, supporting her with each careful step. “Your servants informed me that you did not touch your dinner."

High above, perched on one of its thick branches with her knees drawn to her chest and arms wrapped around them, sat Selene, her gaze lost in the sky.

“He has done it again... He deceived me” She whispered, her voice tinged with a profound sadness.

“Who?”

“Verethis...” She glanced down at her sister-in-law, who stood beside the tree, awaiting her. “He promised me that this time I may attend the temple.”

Her lovely face was etched with a furrowed brow and lips pressed tightly into a bitter grimace.

“Selene...”

That familiar tone of her sister-in-law's voice elicited a small huff from Selene as she reluctantly turned her gaze back to the night sky.

“Pray, do not defend him.” She knew that Nimea bore no ill intentions, yet she found herself unwilling to engage with her words.

It was not the first time Verethis had broken his word. Each year, it was the same: keeping her confined and away from everything through promises he would never keep, weaving countless excuses.

It was so… exhausting. Selene was simply tired, resigned, perhaps. She no longer even had the strength to argue with him.

“He only concerns himself with your well-being; he does not wish for you to be harmed.”

She smiled to herself.

“No… He harms me. He has drained my heart mercilessly...”

Nimea sighed, pressing the palm of her hand against the tree. She looked up, searching for Selene’s silhouette among the branches.

“I shall attempt to speak with him; perhaps if you are accompanied—”

“Do not,” she interrupted. “We already know his answer… I just…” A brief silence echoed after her words, her delicate features shadowed by a blend of sorrow and bitter resentment. “Sometimes I do not understand why I am here."

Selene tried not to think about it, to find a reason to keep going. Yet, each night it became harder. When the melancholy managed to fill her from within, seeping from her eyes to the very tips of her fingers, which she used to cover her face, she would rail against the gods themselves —for cursing her with such a cruel fate, for not letting her dissolve into stardust like her people, like her family. In those moments, she couldn’t help but wish to simply vanish.

“Please, my dear. Do not say that. ” Her voice felt like a fragile, brittle plea.

it wasn’t Nimea’s fault —she knew that. Her brother’s wife, who had entered her life to care for her, was only trying to maintain the fragile balance that remained in that household without hurting anyone. Even so, she couldn’t help but resent her for trying, for insisting that Verethis’s heart was in the right place, even if his actions were not. For some reason, it felt almost like a betrayal.

And at another time, she would have apologized. She would have climbed down from the tree and embraced Nimea, assuring her she didn’t mean those words. But that night, she simply couldn’t.

“I believe that for today, I do not wish for anyone’s company. Forgive me…”

“I understand. I shall inform the maids to remain vigilant in case you wish to eat something.”

“Thank you, Nimea.”

She heard her footsteps fade away, yet she couldn’t bring herself to offer even a glance in return. The ache within her was too deep, a cruel dagger twisting in her gut at the realization that, for the rest of her life, the closest she could come to freedom was perched atop that tree. She felt like a little bird trapped in a gilded cage, its once vibrant feathers now tattered and dull, a testament to countless failed attempts at escape. Her beak, once sharp and eager, lay broken from the desperation of her struggles, and the bars of her reality loomed around her, gilded yet confining.

It had been this way since Verethis awakened her, fifteen years ago.

_____________

Nimea Thalorian was the proud Lady of House Thalorian, one of the most esteemed figures not only in all of Atlas but across the realms and empires. She wielded as much influence in high society as she did the wealth to sustain it. Yet, it had not always been so.

Born as the youngest daughter of a senator ruined by his gambling addiction, with six older siblings and none of her mother’s beauty, the wit or charm for politics, nor any remarkable intellect for numbers, from childhood, she was foretold a future that seemed bleak.

She was constantly told she was plain, slow, foolish, and lacking dignity—that her presence only brought shame to the Kernis family, and that she should beg the gods for a man willing to marry her.

None of this ever bothered Nimea. She entered society’s presentation quietly, with no suitor, no prospects for the future, and the cruel mockery of the Atlanteans casting a shadow over her every step.

Well, she didn’t care as she needed none of it, no husband or hypocritical friends with whom to sip tea in the afternoons.

She would do more. She would see the world. She would leave that cursed city behind and live solely for herself. Unfortunately, it was shortly after her twenty-first birthday that even that dream was crushed.

After refusing the marriage proposal of the only man in Atlas who seemed willing to marry her and pay a hefty dowry, her father shattered one of her legs, leaving it nearly useless.

That was the time when she first considered surrendering to despair, and when Verethis Thalorian came to her with a proposal she could not refuse.

She would become his wife, the mistress of all he possessed, and she would have ten years to roam and explore the world as she had once dreamed. Most importantly of all, he promised her vengeance on House Kernis, ensuring its name was erased from history.

In return, after the tenth year, she would return to Atlas to serve as the Lady of House Thalorian and the guardian of Verethis’s heir, a child no one ever saw. She would be tasked with raising, loving, and protecting that child, even at the cost of her own life, should it be required.

Verethis had given her a week to consider his offer. Nimea accepted on the third day.

She underwent the finest treatments to regain the use of her leg. Though she would never walk again without the aid of a cane, she journeyed through distant realms and kingdoms, living out every dream she had penned as a child. She even fell in love a few times. Yet, she never wavered in her resolve to return —to the man who had given her the means to discover the worth her life held.

The woman who returned to Atlas was a far cry from the one who had left, and perhaps that was why, when she finally understood what Verethis truly asked of her, she could accept it.

Two guards swung open the grand doors to the main study of the Thalorian estate. She entered with measured, confident strides, the hem of her blue robe trailing behind her and the gold chains around her waist and hips jingling softly. Her skin prickled almost immediately.

The room was cold and imposing, adorned with the weight of centuries, the crest of House Thalorian looming over the wall behind her husband’s massive desk. However, the most revered and feared man across all realms and states was not seated there. He stood by the fireplace, coaxing the flames with a few logs, despite his inability to feel the chill. He did it for her.

When Verethis turned, the firelight played across the intricate, alchemically forged metal that composed most of his body. His frame was tall and imposing, a seamless fusion of man and machine. The delicate hum of ancient mechanisms filled the silence —a stark reminder of the life that barely clung to flesh. His left eye, the only natural one that remained, glimmered with the weight of years. The right side of his face was a masterpiece of lost alchemical craftsmanship, the once-bronzed metal tarnished by time, its intricate engravings glowing faintly with residual mana energy.

His heart, encased in a cage beneath a network of gilded gears and reinforced plates, pulsed with a steady rhythm, its glow faintly visible beneath the translucent barrier of his chest. His right arm ended in an articulated gauntlet, delicate yet powerful, with alchemical sigils etched into every joint.

Despite the inhumanity of his appearance, Verethis carried himself with a dignity that seemed almost defiant. He was a relic of a bygone age, a living testament to the forgotten art of industrial alchemy —an art now feared, its secrets buried deep beneath the sands of history.

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“How fared it?” he inquired, his voice a blend of steel and soul, as though even his speech bore the weight of forged iron and time eternal.

“You know well enough, husband…” She eased herself onto the couch before the fire, crossing one leg over the other with practiced poise. “You cannot delay it any longer. Not this time.”

“Hm.”

Nimea pressed her lips into a thin line, her expression steeling. She knew full well that her husband dismissed her concerns. To Verethis, Selene's emotions were naught but the capricious outbursts of a child, trifling storms that could be weathered and subdued. But Nimea knew better—this was no fleeting whim.

“Selene is… different,” she said at last.

“In what manner?”

“She no longer makes the effort to get angry, not even a pretense.”

“Well… That is a relief, is it not? Perhaps she has come to understand the peril that awaits should she step beyond these walls.”

“Do not play the fool with me, Verethis. You know my concerns are well-founded.”

“The problem, my ever-concerned wife, is that no matter how incensed Selene may become, there is nothing to do after her circumstances.”

“There is something you can do. You gave her your word —that this would be the year she might finally see beyond the confines of this place.”

Verethis turned his gaze back to the fire, a familiar habit of his —averting his eyes when the weight of truth rendered him defenseless.

“She shall forget it soon enough.”

“No, she shall not. I know her better than you, Verethis. With every passing year, her bitterness grows, fed by your broken promises…”

“Did she confide this to you?”

“No, but I know her spirit. I was once much the same. I agreed to this union only to escape my own prison and see justice done upon my family. Or have you forgotten?”

The words seemed to strike deep, landing squarely in the one human organ Verethis still possessed—his heart. He sighed, the sound heavy with unspoken burdens, and lowered himself beside his wife. His gaze drifted into the dancing flames, the quiet of the night broken only by the crackling of wood as it surrendered to the fire’s relentless embrace.

“I have not but… The instant she crosses the threshold of this house, I shall no longer be able to shield Selene. My fear is… —the world beyond will demand more of her than she is prepared to give. And I will not be here forever to protect her”

Of course, Verethis’s fears were founded on solid reasoning, and Nimea would never dare contradict them. The world was a vast expanse of ambition and power, ruled by leaders who would stop at nothing to secure their dominance. Many of the nations outside of Atlas lacked the wealth and resources of their own, and some would surely seek to claim Selene as a means to further their own agendas, unaware that Atlas’s progress had not come through mere luck or fortune. No, the prosperity of Atlas had been forged through the unyielding will of Verethis Thalorian, who had spent two millennia shaping and molding a place where his sister could be kept safe—a place where he could hold the reins of power, control the flow of history, and guard what little was still his to protect. And yet, even in his efforts, the weight of the world outside his gates would not be so easily ignored.

On one side lay Shardlom and Griffall, two of the most inhospitable and corrupt nations, bound in an unholy alliance with Vortexbay, the second largest port city on the continent. For years, Vortexbay had been relentlessly working to undermine Atlas's relations with its neighbors, convinced that with the fall of Atlas’s port, they would seize control of the maritime scene, dominating the trade routes and reshaping the balance of power in their favor. These were the forces that were born centuries after the fall of the old regime, the ones that Verethis had keep at bay, but even the smallest crack in Atlas's foundation could give rise to threats that would shake the very core of his carefully constructed world.

"All the more reason for you to seek allies for her. She will need them, someday. It is far better to arrange them now, while you still have the power to choose, than to leave her to find them on her own, risking that she might fall in with someone she should not."

“You are right in that sense…”

“I am right in all senses, husband.”

She rested the side of her head against her husband’s cold shoulder, feeling the hardness of the metal covered by the velvety cloak that draped over him.

“It will be her birthday soon… Perhaps then?”

Nimea smiled, a soft and serene smile, just like herself. "That sounds wonderful," she whispered, pleased with the news, confident that Selene would be even more delighted.

She hadn’t yet convinced Verethis to let her leave the house, but at least she could make friends.

______________

When even that tree failed to offer her solace, Selene had finally returned to her chamber, where silence enveloped the room like a heavy shroud, palpable in the air, almost tangible in its stillness. The moon, in her full and resplendent glory, bathed the room in silvery light that filtered through the delicate curtains, which fluttered softly under the breath of an invisible breeze. Shadows, elongated and ethereal, danced slowly across the majestic furniture.

Before her, on the wall, hung an old framed portrait, still shone with an untouched beauty. It depicted her family, standing on a rocky outcrop overlooking green meadows in a world that no longer existed. Beside them, the goddess Lunaris played a harp with delicate hands and she, Selene, barely a child then, surrounded by those who were blissfully unaware of the calamity that would soon fall upon them. Her eyes, so innocent and carefree, mirrored a peace that, upon reflection, now felt almost foreign to her.

Her face tightened into a furrowed brow and lips pressed so tightly they ached. On nights like that, the urge to tear that painting off the wall and throw it into the fire burned in her hands.

Her fingers brushed against the necklace from the primordial temple of Lunaris, cold and familiar, and an overwhelming weight descended upon her. Two thousand years. That was the time she had spent asleep, while the world had shifted around her, unaware of her eternal slumber, trapped in a dream that never ended.

When Verethis awakened her, he wasn’t himself anymore. Not only had his entire body changed, but so had he. He was more rigid, more cruel, and stronger than she had ever believed possible. She could feel it when he hugged her the first time, the way innocent blood now lingered on his hands. Back then, she was still a child, one who didn’t understand the reality of what had happened, and she found herself in an unrecognizable place, a world she could no longer trust, where no one remained who knew or understood her. It was as though everything she had loved had vanished beneath the ruins of a fallen empire.

It was horrible and difficult to adapt to a world completely different from her own, a world where alchemy and the alchemists did not exist, where her very existence was a secret she was forbidden to share, and the gods among whom she had once walked now seemed like mere tales and beautiful legends.

A world where she would never be free, where the memories of her family faded like a distant echo, and sorrow wrapped around her like a suffocating cloak. A world where she was alone. Truly alone.

Selene, weary and repelled by the relentless flood of memories, turned her gaze away, her expression hardening as if to shield herself from the weight of the past. With a measured hand, she reached for the delicate bell perched on the bedside table —a relic of fine craftsmanship. She gave it a single, deliberate chime.

Scarcely had the sound faded when the doors of her chamber swung open, admitting a cadre of impeccably trained maids. Their movements were as precise as clockwork, their uniforms pressed to perfection and their expressions neutral yet attentive.

"Our Lady, how may we be of service?"

"I would like a bath," she declared, stretching out one arm. The tips of her fingers immediately came to rest in the attentive palm of one of the maids, who curtsied slightly in acknowledgment. Two others nodded their heads in silent and departed swiftly to ready the bath.

It was not long before they returned, bearing the scented linens and robes, each adorned with intricate embroidery upon the finest silk. As she entered her bathing chambers, the air soon grew heavy with the delicate scent of oils, flowers and herbs, mingling with the soft hiss of steaming water.

The maids moved with the grace of those trained in the highest standards of service, surrounding Selene with an almost ceremonial reverence. Before her, the vast marble tub stretched out like a gleaming pool, its surface still rippling with the soft murmurs of the water, as if the bath itself whispered in anticipation of her arrival.

Selene, slender and fragile, slipped gracefully into the water. Though not short in stature, her figure was that of a delicate flower, a white lily swaying in the breeze. Her skin shimmered beneath the soft glow of the lamps, a glow that seemed to merge with the tranquility of the water. The maids began to strip her of her garments with reverent gentleness, allowing the discarded fabric to fall in soft folds at the tub’s edge.

"Each day, I give thanks for the privilege of serving our sweet lady," one of the maids whispered, her voice thick with admiration.

Selene hummed a soft, disinterested laugh, her eyes fluttering shut as the water surrounded her, the warmth of it lulling her for a brief moment of respite. But even as the soft ripples caressed her skin, the words of the maid lingered in her mind, souring the stillness. Our sweet lady. It meant nothing. The words were as distant and hollow as the world outside these walls.

While one maid gently scrubbed her body with a sponge, the other carefully worked through her hair, her touch so tender it almost bordered on reverence. Selene’s mane, so fine and lustrous, shimmered under the soft light like the finest silk. She felt a cold emptiness in her chest at the sight. It was all too much, too fake. She wanted to feel something—anything—but the adoration bestowed upon her seemed to slip right through her like water, leaving no trace.

"I too. We are the envy of the entire city,” the other one responded.

"I am quite sure there are more admirable things to envy than attending to me," Selene murmured, her voice tinged with irony.

"Not at all! Though our lady may not believe it, being here is a true honour. After all, no one else has the privilege of serving the treasure of Atlas," the maid continued, her tone brimming with pride.

Selene opened her eyes, looking at the ceiling and hoping the heat of the water would soothe the tightening in her chest, though the familiar sense of disconnection only grew stronger. She didn’t need their adulation, nor did it make her feel anything other than hollow.

The other maid, massaging fragrant oil into her hair, leaned in closer, her voice barely a whisper. "They've even offered me a fortune for a single lock of her hair."

At the mention of it, Selene’s grip on the edge of the marble tub tightened ever so slightly, her knuckles turning white beneath the water's surface. The idea of being reduced to nothing more than an object to be coveted or whispered about grated against her more than she cared to admit. What use was any of this? she thought bitterly. It was all just a game of rumors and false worship, a constant reminder that, despite it all, she had no one. Not really. Not in any way that mattered.

"A fortune, hm?" Selene inquired, her voice soft yet laced with subtle disdain.

"Indeed, miss. When Lord Verethis learned of it, he was truly upset. He moved all of the city to track down those who had made such an offer," the maid replied, her tone full of reverence.

"Why was I never informed?" Selene’s voice held a trace of curiosity, but her eyes remained distant in the ceilling

"He forbade us from speaking of it. But, some time has passed..." she whispered, glancing at Selene with lingering doubt, her hands searching for fruit to peel and serve.

"Hmmm..." Selene hummed thoughtfully. "Do you think there are still people who remain interested in such things?"

"Of course! There always will be."

"Our lady is, after all, a legend," the maid added proudly.

"A legend, huh?" Selene's lips curled with irony. "How quaint."

"Some even say our lady doesn't exist at all. A bunch of madmen..." the maid continued.

Selene's thoughts drifted, and she almost smiled. In truth, they weren't wrong. Outside these walls, she truly didn’t exist.

She turned to the maid, her gaze piercing. "Would you care to prove that I am real?"

“W-what?”

"Would you like a lock of my hair?" Selene inquired, her voice casual, though there was a certain sharpness beneath the words.

The maid recoiled, her face registering shock at the very thought of such a request from the young lady of the Thalorian household. However, Selene’s expression remained impassive. On the contrary, with a swift and unexpected motion, she reached for one of the knives laid next to the fruit, and with a steady hand, she pressed it to a lock of her hair, making her maids gasp in shock.

But before she could start cutting it, Nimea entered the room, her gaze icy, her face expressionless as she observed her sister-in-law with a mixture of concern and restraint.

“Selene, please do not,” Nimea’s voice was calm, yet firm. She walked gracefully toward the bathtub, her steps deliberate, and extended a hand toward Selene, silently requesting the knife. “Soon, you will need to look truly beautiful.”

Selene glanced up at her, her fingers still lightly gripping the knife. “Why?” she asked, her tone flat, as if questioning the absurdity of it all. “In here, it doesn’t matter how I look.”

Nimea paused for a moment, her face softening with a hint of understanding, but she pressed on with urgency. “Not anymore.” Selene’s brow furrowed in confusion as she looked at her sister-in-law, her fingers still poised over her hair. “Verethis has agreed to present you to society for your upcoming birthday.”