A Few Weeks Later (Present Day)
Astravyr
"Oh, look who graces me with her presence. If it isn't Zyrelle in the flesh, my most formidable opposition—the one who dared to pit her skills against me before the king," Celyra remarked, her voice carrying a playful edge as she strode toward Zyrelle. The two women stood on the grand steps of Solvyn Hall, the leader's residence and a marvel of architectural artistry.
Astravyr was a realm that seemed to exist in eternal bloom. The path leading to Solvyn Hall was a mosaic of colorful blossoms, their petals forming a fragrant carpet underfoot. The hall itself was surrounded by a sprawling garden of meticulously arranged flora, where bursts of lavender, marigolds, and roses created an artist's palette come to life. Maids hurried about, their skirts swishing as they carried out their tasks with precision. A gardener, perched on a tall stool, carefully pruned the highest branches of a cherry blossom tree, while a boy nearby swept fallen petals into a wicker basket. The air buzzed with a sense of purpose, every corner alive with movement and sound.
Zyrelle smirked, crossing her arms. "Oh, come now, Celyra. I hope you're not still nursing a grudge. It was pointless arguing with the king over a battle you were destined to lose."
Celyra raised a brow. "And you're the authority on my destiny now?"
Zyrelle chuckled. "I wish. But truth be told, that's a mantle I'm happy to pass up. I merely saved you from the embarrassment of pursuing a lost cause."
"Well, then," Celyra quipped, feigning seriousness, "I suppose I should thank you."
"You're welcome," Zyrelle replied with a grin. Their laughter echoed softly, and they embraced briefly, a gesture that spoke of mutual respect despite their differences.
Celyra's expression softened as she stepped back. "It's rare to see your face around here these days. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?"
Zyrelle wiped an imaginary bead of sweat from her brow. "Not even a glass of water to welcome me? Invite me in, at least—it's been a long journey."
"My deepest apologies, Lady Zyrelle," Celyra said with mock gravity. "What would you like? Perhaps an imperial feast?"
"I was kidding," Zyrelle replied, her tone light. Her eyes swept over the vibrant garden. "Though I have to say, these flowers are stunning."
Celyra's smile widened. "You should see them in full bloom during spring. It's as though the gods themselves paint the garden anew. You'll find yourself feasting on their beauty for days."
"That sounds like a sight worth waiting for," Zyrelle said, the tension from their earlier banter dissolving into camaraderie.
"Walk with me," Celyra offered. "It's been ages since you were last here. Let me show you the new additions to the garden."
"It would be my pleasure," Zyrelle agreed.
Celyra gestured toward Zyrelle's entourage. "Your troop will be well cared for while you're here. My staff will see to it that they have everything they need."
"That's exactly the standard I'd expect," Zyrelle replied with a knowing smile.
Together, they strolled toward the heart of the flower garden, their conversation light yet laced with the unspoken understanding shared by equals navigating a world of power and expectations.
"How's your search going? I'm surprised you don't have your halls overflowing with starry-eyed candidates, all vying for Stormcleave," Zyrelle remarked, a teasing edge in her voice.
"Well," Celyra replied, a sly smile tugging at her lips. "I've already found the chosen one from Astravyr." She gave Zyrelle a knowing look.
Zyrelle stopped in her tracks, staring at Celyra in disbelief.
"Wait. That look. Don't tell me I beat you to it!" Celyra teased.
"You wish," Zyrelle shot back, crossing her arms. "You're going to want to sit down for this. I've got bigger news. Not only did I find the chosen one, but I also discovered the next seer—born alongside the prince to serve him."
Celyra's confident expression faltered, her eyes widening. "And you won't believe who it is," Zyrelle added with dramatic flair.
"Not like I know everyone in your kingdom, but…" Celyra paused, curiosity dancing in her gaze. "Surprise me."
"Her name is Veyra," Zyrelle said, her tone almost reverent. "She's the chosen one."
"Veyra?" Celyra repeated, searching her memory. "Doesn't ring a bell. Who's the seer, then?"
"That's the part you'll love." Zyrelle grinned. "The seer is none other than Veyra."
Celyra blinked. "Wait. You're telling me there's another Veyra in Astravyr who also happens to be special?"
"No!" Zyrelle exclaimed, throwing her hands up. "It's the same person. Veyra is both the seer and the chosen one."
Celyra let out a low whistle, shaking her head. "That's one gifted individual."
"You're telling me."
"I can't wait to meet her. I'd love to—" Celyra stopped mid-sentence, her eyes lighting up as if struck by an unsettling realization. "But… isn't the prince dead?"
Zyrelle's smile faded. She nodded solemnly. "I asked the same thing. But considering they were born at the same time, it's possible she saw the light of day before the prince met the darkness of death."
"Do you think there's a chance she could be as dark as the prince?" Celyra asked, her tone measured but tinged with curiosity.
"Oh, come on, Celyra," Zyrelle replied with a hint of exasperation. "The prince wasn't evil. He was a victim of fate—an unfortunate pawn in a game he couldn't escape. And no, I don't think she's evil. Seers are known to be pure beings; their connection to the divine makes corruption unlikely."
"You're right about that, at least about seers," Celyra conceded, brushing a hand through her hair. "I've always believed they're like vessels—a bridge between this time and the ancient days, a channel for the gods' will."
"That's the common view," Zyrelle agreed, her voice carrying a note of thoughtfulness. "But they're more than just vessels—more than hollow shells waiting to be filled. Seers aren't mere servants to the gods, existing only to carry out divine whims. Many of them are just like us—human, with complexities we often overlook. I've trained enough seers to know that some possess emotions far deeper, more profound, than most of us can even comprehend."
"Exactly my point!" Celyra exclaimed, her eyes lighting up with intensity. "They're human, like the prince was. If their fates are entwined, doesn't that mean she could also be destined for darkness? For ruin?"
Zyrelle paused, choosing her words carefully. "I think we've spent too long trying to dictate fate—ours and theirs," she said, her tone steady but firm. "Veyra's life, like the prince's, is her own. Her path may be tied to ancient prophecy, but I believe in letting her decide her destiny."
"Even if that path leads her astray?" Celyra countered, her gaze unwavering.
"Yes," Zyrelle answered softly. "Even then."
"So, if I'm not mistaken, you don't actually support the killing of the prince twelve years ago?" Celyra asked, her tone curious yet laced with intrigue as she cast a sharp glance at Zyrelle.
"No, I don't," Zyrelle replied firmly. She paused, then gestured toward a cluster of rose flowers arranged meticulously in the garden. "Celyra, take a look over there."
Celyra followed Zyrelle's gaze, her eyes landing on the delicate roses, their petals gleaming like soft velvet under the light.
"Aren't those beautiful?" Zyrelle asked, her voice carrying a note of admiration.
"Yes, they are," Celyra agreed with a slight nod. "One of nature's finest creations."
"And how did you manage to make them bloom before spring?" Zyrelle inquired, her tone curious but purposeful.
Celyra's expression softened, pride flickering in her eyes. "We cultivated them in a controlled environment—a greenhouse. The balance of temperature, humidity, and sunlight is precisely maintained. Each element mimics the conditions they need to flourish even out of season."
Zyrelle smiled faintly. "Impressive. That takes dedication. But now, look closer at those roses." She pointed at the base of the flowers, where sharp thorns protruded menacingly.
"As beautiful as they are, they still have thorns," Zyrelle remarked.
"Yes, that's true. One of life's little ironies," Celyra replied, tilting her head thoughtfully.
"No," Zyrelle countered gently, her gaze never leaving the roses. "It's more than irony. It's a lesson."
Celyra turned back to Zyrelle, curiosity dancing in her eyes. "And what lesson might that be?"
"We can choose to be grateful that thorny plants bear roses, or we can resent roses for having thorns," Zyrelle said, her voice calm yet profound. "Killing the prince the moment he was born… that was like cutting a rose plant at its budding stage. We never gave him the chance to bloom, to see what he could become."
Celyra fell silent, the weight of Zyrelle's words sinking in as she looked at the roses anew. Their vibrant petals swayed gently in the breeze, a poignant reminder of beauty intertwined with adversity.
"I can't seem to wrap my head around it. Care to explain?" Celyra asked, curiosity lighting her expression.
"Of course," Zyrelle replied. "Killing the prince as soon as he was born because of his fate is like cutting down a rose plant just because it has thorns. Over time, that thorny plant could have grown into something breathtaking. Do we destroy every rose plant because it has thorns? Or do we let it grow and bloom into its beauty when the time is right? If we decided to kill every plant with thorns, there would be no roses, no flowers at all—and maybe, none of us either." She paused, her gaze steady. "Believe it or not, we all have our own thorns, things we hide from the world, afraid they might hurt someone who gets too close to admire our beauty. And even though those thorns sometimes hurt us from the inside, we endure the pain silently because others are too focused on what makes us beautiful to notice. But if someone does get close enough to feel those thorns—if they're pricked—will they still admire our beauty? Or will they hate us for being something we can't change?"
Celyra listened intently, her brows furrowed slightly as she took it all in. "Maybe you're right," she said after a moment, "but there's still strength in numbers. That day, everyone—well, almost everyone—believed killing the prince was the right thing to do. In a world where people are free to think and speak, the truth often becomes whatever the majority says it is. In that moment, there wasn't a right or wrong. There was only what everyone agreed on as right, and no one courageous enough to challenge it. So tell me, Zyrelle, what should have been done in that case?"
Zyrelle tilted her head slightly, thinking. "Remember what you told me about the roses?" she began. "How you managed to grow them before their season? If the people wanted to see the prince's potential early, they should have created the right environment for him to grow. Just like your roses, it takes balance—of care, of time—for beauty to bloom. Even in spring, you can't plant a seed and expect a flower to grow and bloom instantly. It needs time." She paused, her voice softening. "No child is born evil, Celyra. Most of them are shaped by the world they see and the life people provide for them.
"And think about the prince," she continued, her voice growing heavy with emotion. "As he lies in death, what would he make of it? Would he wonder why the same people who celebrated his birth killed him the next moment? He wouldn't even know it was because they feared he'd turn evil. If he's fortunate—or perhaps unfortunate—he'd eventually learn they killed him because of what they thought he might become. They never even gave him a chance to be good. And if, someday, he returns seeking vengeance, they'll say, 'I knew it,' when in reality, they're the ones who made him into what he became."
Celyra's eyes narrowed slightly. "So you believe he could have escaped his fate? Changed it?"
"Yes," Zyrelle said firmly. "I do."
"Too bad he isn't alive to prove it," Celyra said with a faint sigh.
"Veyra will prove it," Zyrelle countered without hesitation.
"Then you'd better keep her safe. If they find out, they may come for her too," Celyra warned, her voice quiet but grave.
"They won't," Zyrelle said fiercely. "I won't stand by and let one of my own be taken."
Celyra nodded slowly. "I hope so. But as you said—only time will tell."
"Exactly," Zyrelle agreed, determination in her voice.
"So, what's the news? How are the other nations going about their gifted individuals?" Zyrelle asked, easing the tension lingering from their earlier conversation.
"Well, I've only heard about Cyradorn. They've already found their hero," Celyra replied.
"With Dravenloch excluded, that leaves just Melchronis and Eryndral," Zyrelle said thoughtfully. "I've heard they're both still struggling to find their chosen ones."
"With only two days left, they must be panicking under all that pressure," Celyra remarked.
"For Melchronis, definitely," Zyrelle agreed, a faint smirk playing on her lips. "But Eryndral? Now, that's a different story."
"Why?"
"It's simple," Zyrelle said, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "When it comes to his majesty, never assume you know everything. He always knows more than he's willing to share."
Celyra raised an eyebrow, a flicker of unease crossing her face. "What do you mean by that?"
Zyrelle's lips curved into a cryptic smile. "Let's just say… the real game has only just begun."