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Chapter 3

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 captivated 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 worries about your well-being; he does not wish for you to come to harm.”

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 might 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 desperate 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.

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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, without a suitor, prospects, or a future, enduring the cruel mockery of the Atlanteans at every step.

Well, She didn’t care—she needed no husband or hypocritical friends to sip tea with 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.

It was then that 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 shadow of the one who had left, and perhaps that transformation was why, when she finally understood Verethis’s true request, 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.

As Verethis turned, the firelight danced across the intricate, alchemically forged metal comprising 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 a life precariously bound to the remnants of 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.

“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 merely 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 finally sees 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 nations outside Atlas lacked wealth and resources, and some would surely seek to claim Selene to further their agendas, unaware that Atlas’s progress was not born of 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 worked relentlessly to undermine Atlas's relations with its neighbors as they believed that the fall of Atlas’s port would grant them dominance over trade routes, 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 kept 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 and risk falling in with the wrong person."

“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 Selene leave the house, but at least she could make friends.