They say Aelyndra was once perfect.

  Under its twin moons, Selara and Varon, gods, demons, and men walked the same earth. The mountains sang when the wind rose. Oceans carried silver fire at night. Forests bloomed with starlight flowers, and rivers whispered in tongues no human mouth could shape.

  Power lived everywhere—in the roots of trees, in the bones of mountains, even in the air.

  But power is a greedy thing.

  The gods turned first. Then the demons, hungering for what the heavens held. Men were last—but when they betrayed both gods and demons, Aelyndra bled in full.

  The skies cracked. The oceans boiled.

  The moons wept storms for a hundred years.

  When it ended, the gods fled to their high dominions. The demons sank into the deep places. Only men remained, scavenging the bones of perfection.

  They call this the Age of Kings. But the old songs whisper a different name:

  The Waiting Age.

  Because power never left Aelyndra. It only learned to hide.

  But the planet remembered. And it never forgave.

  Whenever kings grow fat and demons grow restless, whenever the balance tilts too far, the world itself chooses a weapon. Mountains shivered in their roots. Even the winds leaned in to listen.

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  A protector.

  Not a god. Not a demon. Not even a man.

  Something older. Sharper. Starbound.

  The Starbound Protector.

  Every age fears him. Some hunt him. All need him.

  And some say this age was stirring again.

  Far from those omens, Eryndor shone like a city blessed that night. The twin moons crowned its white towers. Torchlines climbed the walls like veins of fire. Music spilled through streets where banners cracked in the wind. Bakeries overflowed with sugared plums; the soldiers’ halls poured wine as if barrels had no end.

  In the palace—a citadel of marble and song—King Torren, 239th heir of the throne, held a feast for lords, scholars, farmers, and soldiers alike.

  Eryndor had always been different.

  Where other kingdoms fattened kings and starved peasants, Eryndor built its courts so the Mearths—keepers of law—held power above the crown. Torren ruled as servant, not master. Justice spoke louder than swords here.

  The world called it weakness.

  Eryndor called it honor.

  At Torren’s side sat Queen Elara, eyes like quiet storms. Before them laughed Princess Liora—seven years old, hair like bronze sunlight. The people called her the Joy of the Palace.

  On the night she was born, chronicles say, the moons gleamed whiter, the winds sang brighter, and even the Mountains of Murath lit with snow-fire, as if the world itself celebrated.

  And somewhere in that bright palace, a boy named Kael laughed beside his sister—unaware how fast joy turns to ash.

  Far from the feasting halls, the Vyrn Forest lay very still. Wind entered its branches but did not return. Foxes ran on silent paws. Owls spoke, but used fewer words than usual.

  On the palace’s highest balcony, a torch guttered. Then another. Then three more—as if a giant hand passed over them.

  The feast drowned it all.

  But in the forest’s heart, something crossed the boundary between legend and waking. Something opened eyes that had not blinked in a thousand years.

  A black feather drifted into the feast hall.

  A deer burst from the forest and collapsed in the square.

  Omens do not wait for kings.

  That same night, far from the palace walls, Prince Kael sat beneath the stars with his family—unaware that the first shadow of a new age had already found them.

  Before the night ended, a kingdom would burn. A boy would lose his name.

  Only Kael would survive.

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