Prologue. AN EXILE’S SECRET

—•—• Thirty Years Ago •—•—

“Any last words, Zarcos?” She sneers with envy as she yanks the ring from my index finger, our family emblem—a circle with a triangle emerging from its circumference. It’s the eclipse of two celestial bodies, light climbing over darkness, life overcoming death, inlaid in warm yellow gold. She slides it onto her hand, swallowing its meaning.

My meaning.

The clasp of Matajoran metal cuffs slam onto my wrists, shredding my skin. Powerless, they drag my ragged body from the bed where I brought you into the world only hours before.

I can still smell the sour sweat and burnished blood soaked into my now-cool skin. My nerves tingle—the aftermath of an ancient secret power that worked you through me.

The Kingdom Guard Aura—the unseen celestial spirit that chooses my soul as its vessel.

I barely caught your face, no longer imagined but defined, before they took you away. I was left with empty space.

A small hope lingers as I hear your first cry—piercing sharply through these thin walls, ruby and ivory like Flesh and Bone Stones from the Mineral Mines back home. This vessel’s structure is controlled by another Aura, a power meant to carry me away from my place of birth. 

Now that you’re born, I muster strength to begin my journey inside this vessel, meant to exile me to the furthest unclaimed astral system where I will spend my remaining days.

Katriana’s bodice radiates heat over me, her twisted smirk familiar and dark. Her white-gloved fingers curl around my jaw like a predator toying with the last cords of life before snapping sinews in half.

“Say something!”

The King’s voice pleads as his shadow emerges into the turquoise-lit birthing chamber. He runs his hands through peppered hair, regret clouding his slate-grey eyes.

Oh, Derreck… my heart sinks.

You were one of the good ones—until you chose Katriana over me.

Now the reason for your compromise will die with me.

All the secrets will.

Your cry pierces the silence again, and through the tears streaming down my burning face, a smile emerges.

There it is.

Your voice.

This is why I fall silent—to hear you one last time.

Crack!

The slap across my cheek stings.

Katriana’s hands were always firm and strong.

Now gloved, her flayed skin hidden from the world, is marked by an Aura’s rejection.

The emblem ring presses a mark on my jawbone. The clamoring nearly knocks me unconscious as multiple hands hold me down.

I don’t dare draw energy from the Kingdom Guard Aura, even as it forcefully offers itself. I must save it.

Crack!

The other cheek faces the same fate, whipping my head painfully in the opposite direction. My neck cracks under the force.

“Stop hurting her!”

King Derreck falters, demanding justice on my behalf.

“You lost the right to speak when you undermined her execution,” Katriana snaps. “Exile was your mercy. Don’t question the method.”

She flexes her left fist, signaling the Guardians assigned to my transport.

There are four—two females, two males—I know them well. Though no emblem rings mark them, their skin bears another permanent symbol. I should know. I put it there.

A Guardian’s knee pierces my abdomen, reigniting the soreness from when you slid out.

Eliezer. I breathe his name silently.

“Again!” Katriana orders as she cradles you in her arms. It hurts too much; I’d rather look away rather than see you held by her.

“My Lady—” Eliezer falters.

“I can’t go on.”

Bless him. I muster strength to look up.

“I said, again.” Katriana’s jaw clenches, seething.

Eliezer’s hesitation carries honor and respect still belonging to me. The hours spent etching my emblem into his skin—the intimacy of pain shared—holds more power than Katriana’s hatred.

His eyes lock with mine. I nod. He shakes his head, despair in his gaze as his knee plunges into me, again and again.

I focus on the birthing chamber’s entrance—its wide frame and oddly placed turquoise-lit arch keeping me tethered.

Katriana presses your fragile head to her chest, cooing only to taunt me.

A fresh stream of red spills between my thighs, the world slowing, darkening at the edges.

I gather what’s left of my Aura, drawing slow bursts of power to see your face a moment longer.

Silence and darkness—this is the transfer your power deserves.

Not Derreck’s shouting. Not his guilt. Not justice.

Just silence.

“I will name her Eradena,” Katriana calls.“For her name means an Irreversible Error.”

But I named you first.

I drown out the sound of that name to recite your true one—the name I gave you in my heart before you entered this world.

Your cries grow stronger as I grow weaker—almost there—the transfer of power you will one day wield.

May you…

The darkness consumes me, silence beckoning…

Reach your full potential.

 That Kingdom Guard Aura will unleash all its power…May it find…You worthy…

My sweet daughter.

1: ERADENA, THE ECLIPSED QUEEN

—•—• Thirty Years Later After The Birth •—•—

There was only ever one man I could trust. And he, too, had his secrets.

Malachi grabbed my arm and shoved. “Run.”

“No—” I lunged for him. “I’m not leaving you.” My chest felt hollow, the world tilting. Father’s words rang in my skull — everyone in Mother’s party burned at the Centrum. But they were here. Breathing. Standing. Watching.

They yanked Malachi across the changing chamber like a prize being dragged to auction. Uncle’s hand was a vice on his shoulder. Three Royal Guards fanned like falcons behind him.

“That’s enough, Major,” Uncle grunted. He let the hold ease, not out of mercy but to catch his breath. “Take him while I tend to the Princess.” 

One Royal Guard moved forward, obedient as a newly sharpened weapon.

Princess. The title scraped like gravel in my mouth. I should have felt safety. Instead my throat tightened.

“Take another step and this blade will rip you raw,” I warned, the saber hissing as I drew it free. The metal sang in my palm — a small, brittle promise.

Uncle smiled, a slow, ugly thing. He stepped in, malevolent inches from my face. Then a hot, electric sting crawled up my spine — like someone lit a match at the base of my neck and let the flame race up my vertebrae.

“Kneel, Remnant Wielder scum.” A Royal Guard’s breath caressed my ear. His fingers found my hair, gripped, and tore — knuckles scraping my scalp, his fist yanking hard enough to see stars. The pain flared white.

Something inside me hollered, but my hands were empty. The saber slipped from my fingers and clattered to stone, the sound of it hitting me like betrayal. 

What happened to the power? My limbs felt like cotton, loose and distant.

I tried to speak. “I am the true Queen!” The words came out a jagged roar. “Get the fuck out of my Kingdom!” My voice broke against the chamber walls and collapsed.

And then Malachi moved.

His fists went hot. Not hot like anger — but like sunlight turned to iron. A circle of scarlet flared in the dark of his irises, a living halo of flame that crawled outward, the signal of an Aura’s advent.

He threw his hands open. Everything happened at once. Fire licked from his palms, furious and hungry. It struck the nearest Royal Guard’s face and the world smelled of copper and burning cloth. A scream shredded the air — raw, animal like — then gurgled into a wet, terrible sound as the Royal Guard staggered back, hands clawing at his cheeks. Heat curled off his armor like a throat coughing secrets.

Uncle shoved me against him, whiskey and old leather on his breath, fingers digging into my ribs as he tried to use me as a shield. 

“Take your hands off her—” Malachi growled.

Uncle laughed. “Or you’ll what, Major?” He spat, leering as his hand slid low, groping.

Malachi’s eyes widened. He hurled the machetes. They flew like knives forged from sunfire — a streak of molten metal and greenish light. The blades buried into chest and throat with a wet, splintering sound that was almost musical in its finality. Two Royal Guards went down at once, stunned into silence, then still.

The chamber filled with the stench of singed hair and hot, metallic blood. I gagged. My knees buckled, the room swung.

Uncle’s face was a mask of shock and fury as he stumbled backward. Where a grin had been, now terror cavorted with rage. He staggered, hand to his wound, turning to see which Aura had robbed him.

I stood there, my hands trembling, feeling the aftershock of Malachi’s power roll over me like steam from a furnace. 

My saber lay forgotten at my feet. Around us, the Royal Guards who remained hesitated, then scrambled for their weapons, their eyes wide and wary.

Malachi breathed, slow and ragged. His chest rose, ember-red under his Vectran mesh. He looked at me like a man who had just been handed back a piece of himself — or who had given something terrible away.

I wanted to kneel. To thank him. To hate him. The truth tasted metallic and thin in my mouth.

Outside, the world waited. Inside, the silence was heavy as a grave.

“Are you alright?” His voice came low, frayed at the edges. The red in his eyes dimmed slowly, retreating like sunlight slipping behind an eclipse — his Aura’s departure leaving him pale, trembling, human again.

I nodded, though the world spun. Uncle groaned on the floor, a guttural sound swallowed by the clang of Malachi pulling his machete free from the meat of Uncle’s shoulder. Blood pooled while steam rose over each corpse.

“Eradena, I told you to run.” Malachi’s voice was rough, raw command and concern bleeding together. 

He handed me my saber, bridging the shrinking distance between us. His thumb gently brushed my chin — a softhearted comfort. Then he turned me toward the latrine trapdoor.

“Malachi, is it true?” My words trembled. “Are you really working for the Exile?”

“I can’t talk about it right now.” He caught one of my fingers in his, pressing his lips against the back of my hand with a desperate tenderness that undid me. The kiss lingered. “Please. Go.”

“Should I be concerned?” My hands betrayed me, sliding up his back, over the hard lines of his shoulders, the grooves of muscle carved by war.

He cupped my face, exhaling against my parted lips — a breath that felt like a promise and a farewell.

“Malachi—” Footsteps thundered around the corner.

“Don’t make me tell you again.” His voice cracked, caught between panic and yearning. His hands hesitated before leaving my skin.

“And I said I won’t leave you—”

“Please run.” His lips crashed into mine, the kiss urgent, devouring, terrified. I melted into it, my hands clawing at his chest, feeling the wild thrum of his heartbeat beneath armor.

“This isn’t goodbye,” I whispered against his mouth.

“I love you.” He breathed, eyes starving for one last look before prying my arms from around his neck. He pushed me through the latrine trapdoor, sealing me into the darkness beyond.

“Malachi, wait!” I pounded against the barrier, voice breaking. His weight slammed against the door from the other side.

Then came the sounds—metal clashing, bodies colliding, shouts. The latrine walls shook with each blow.

“Quick! Gore the Bull before he summons his Aura!”

“No—” I gasped, pounding harder, helpless.

Suddenly, a final thud froze the air. Then a hard silence. The door gave under my hand.

I cracked it open.

Malachi lay face-down in a pool of blood, his body still, his Kingdom citizen ring glinting faintly in the torchlight.

“Grab him and go!” Uncle’s voice rasped, weak but sharp. The Royal Guards obeyed, seizing Malachi by his arms and legs, dragging him away—his head lolling, his body streaking red across the Chrysolite Stone floor.

I sank to my knees. My breath came in shallow gasps, the taste of his kiss still warm on my lips.

If this is the cost of loving him—this ache, this hunger, this endless wanting—then let whatever Aura curse me for eternity. I said in surrender. 

Because even after the whole Kingdom fell apart, I still felt him.
Somewhere, somehow, beyond these walls.
Still fighting.
Still mine.

  -—•—•—

A pair of gold-gloved hands flashed above the sick orange glow of Topace stone when Uncle’s shoulder hit the latrine door. I jammed the rusted bolt harder, heel digging into mildew, pivoting on my heel as the wooden seat slammed down over week-old vomit caked in a brown, crusted ring.

“I know you’re in there, Princess.” Uncle’s voice was a velvet threat, low and patient. The soles of his blood-soiled steel-toed boots squealed at the frame as he stopped.

I pressed my spine to the cold reservoir, drove the handle down until my knuckles ached, knees tucked like a child’s, teeth biting into raw skin beneath my lip. Tears tried to fall, but I swallowed them.

“It’ll only be a matter of time before this door breaks.” The first kick thudded through the wood and through my teeth. Screws groaned, the lock shivering with every blow. Damp rot surrendered with a sound like old bones grinding.

I clenched my saber’s hilt against my ribs, wanting fury to speed the mechanism. It slowed instead. The latrine floor creaked. The door twisted in its frame, a crooked mouth peeling open just enough to let the world’s breath in.

Come on, voices. I begged, my palms slick on leather. The top corner shuddered — Quartz Stone conduits bled rust, metal flakes flaking like dead skin. A corroded bolt hit the stone with a dull ping that sounded too loud in the tight space.

“Princess. Come out and I’ll be merciful. Or I’ll tear you out and bring you back to your mother in pieces.” The promise was casual, like someone naming the weather. I felt the cold crawl of being cataloged.

The door pivoted another quarter turn. Sickness and terror blurred together. The smell—old vomit, stagnant water, iron—filled my nostrils until I could hardly breathe. My fingers worked my saber’s hilt until the leather grew hot, until calluses begged relief.

Suddenly, a hinge cracked. The bottom corner dropped. For a second the light from the changing chamber vanished into the catacombs like a swallowed candle.

No. Not yet.

I forced myself up. The saber wedged itself between the frame and the rot of the latrine trap door—its metal jamming the mechanism, a block against dead hands. For a heartbeat I had leverage. Then the scabbard stuck. The leather had fused with stone somehow, or my panic had made my hands clumsy, or the world simply decided I could not have everything.

Uncle cursed. The pressure increased, while he hit the wood with his shoulder. The door convulsed, then lurched. My teeth rattled.

The saber would not budge. I tried again. The leather held like a lover refusing to let go. Panic cranked louder, a gear grinding slow in my head.

“Here. Let me help.” The voice came from the dark just on the other side of the latrine, smooth and calm. Hands fell over mine on the hilt — not warm, not eager, but steady.

“Rafael?” I gasped, his name stumbling out like a prayer.