They say perfection is a virtue. Here, everything is perfect.

  The walls are white. The sheets soft as clouds.

  Breakfast always arrives at the exact same hour: freshly baked bread,

  fruit sliced with careful precision, jasmine tea with just the right measure of honey.

  The air is pure, filtered through purification spells.

  There are no mistakes here. Only rules. Only obedience.

  A cage does not cease to be a cage simply because it is gilded.

  Sometimes I dream that I am flying. That I can touch the sky. But I always wake up.

  The sun pours through the same window. The world remains white.

  Beautiful. False.

  The morning breeze drifted in through the open window, gently pushing the white curtains that floated around the bed. One brushed across Lyciah’s face as it passed.

  She slept curled on her side among the rumpled sheets, knees drawn in and hands resting near her face. Her white hair had spread across the pillow in smooth strands that shimmered faintly beneath the pale light of dawn.

  The sheet covered only half her body. Her legs lay exposed among the soft folds of the bedding. She wore thick white stockings that reached her knees, warm and snug, following the delicate curve of her legs.

  For a few moments, the room remained silent, swayed only by the slow movement of the curtains. This silence broke when someone knocked on the door.

  Lyciah’s eyelids fluttered before slowly opening, revealing the bright blue of eyes still heavy with sleep.

  She sat up slowly. The full-length mirror facing the bed reflected her the same way it always did: small, fragile. She never liked looking at herself for long; she quickly turned her gaze away.

  After changing out of her white nightdress, she pushed her hair aside with a nervous gesture and adjusted the ribbon that circled her head. She straightened the bow several times. It was blue, like the sky she could never touch.

  She walked to the door and when she opened it, the corridor was already empty, but the breakfast tray waited on the floor, placed in the exact same spot as every morning. At the edge of the bed, she ate a piece of bread slowly, the cup held between her hands. It was the only thing she could vary in her day: the pace of each bite.

  When she finished, her attention drifted to the bookshelf. She had to stand on her toes to reach the books. Row upon row of identical volumes, their titles already engraved in her memory: History of the lumens, The Seven Ancestrals: Chronicles of the War, The Omen and the Universal Balance.

  One book came down at random. Opening it without looking, she recited the first paragraph under her breath.

  “The light does not submit; the light guides the eternal order of the universe…”

  The book snapped shut in her hands before landing on the table.

  “As if memorizing this would somehow awaken my power…”

  With a weary sigh, she sank into the chair and let her gaze drift to the window.

  That was when the soft click of the door broke the room’s quiet. Her twin entered. The same blue eyes. The same pale hair. Yet in him everything was rigidity and control.

  “Did you finish today’s lessons?”

  Straight to the point, as always. No greeting. No pause. Lyciah did not even bother to look at him.

  “Do you want me to recite it again?” she asked with a trace of irony.

  “I’m not trying to bother you,” he replied. “I just want to make sure you aren’t skipping your routine.”

  She rolled her eyes with an exaggerated sigh.

  “I know all of it already, Sorian. Demons, the Seven, The Omen, the ancient war…” she listed lazily. “I could recite it in my sleep.”

  “Then do it,” he said. “If you don’t make a mistake, I’ll speak with Queen Heliora about giving you a break. Though actually, I came to see you because—”

  Lyciah let out a dry laugh, cutting him off, though it came out louder than she had intended. It was not very like her.

  “A break? How generous.”

  She sprang to her feet. In doing so she caught the edge of the rug and stumbled, quickly disguising it with an exaggerated spin. Then she gave him a theatrical bow. The blue ribbon brushed her cheek as she bent too far.

  “About five thousand years ago,” she began, adopting the tone of a pompous historian, “the first seven demons were born: immortal, impossible to kill… the Seven Ancestrals. Ashgar, Caelan, Theska, Aurek, Calaisse, Vaela, and… Ekchron. Vaela died. Or was killed. People say Ekchron did it because, well… he’s insane.”

  “Lyciah…” Sorian warned.

  “I’m being precise!” she shot back. “That man is unbalanced. He plays with humans like they’re insects. Once he gets bored, he crushes them and goes looking for new ones. Though Ashgar isn’t much better—he enjoys burning entire cities.”

  She dropped the act and sat again, letting the book fall into her lap with a weary sigh, as though the whole performance had exhausted her.

  “Then came the Pillars. Seven perfect lumens, with no past and no identity, created by the natural order or something like that. Pure power meant to erase the Ancestrals.” She lifted one shoulder. “But they’ve been snoring for five thousand years. Do you think they’ll ever wake up?”

  Sorian clenched his jaw.

  “Don’t mock them. The Pillars are essential to maintaining balance. When they awaken—”

  “If they awaken,” she corrected, then continued, “more demons appeared. Weaker ones, but just as annoying. And more lumens, to preserve ‘order’. And...“

  Her voice faltered for a moment, the careless theatrics fading from it.

  “Every so often that creature wakes up—The Omen. It slumbers for centuries, then rises again… and chaos follows in its wake. Then the Dawnbringer appears and seals it away.“

  “Like mom did,” Sorian said quietly.

  Lyciah lowered her gaze, unconsciously tightening her grip on the book.

  “Yes… like mom. But she was strong. I’m not.”

  Sorian took a step toward her, but she raised a hand to stop him.

  “They keep me locked in here, repeating the same things every day, waiting for the power I inherited to awaken. What if it never does? What if I’m defective, Sorian?”

  He did not answer. Lyciah looked at him with tired eyes.

  “I want to leave Elyndra. I want to see the human world. To feel something that isn’t this golden prison. Is that really so dangerous?”

  Sorian drew a slow breath and ran a hand through his hair.

  “If you leave, they’ll come looking for you. Demons, lumens… no one will see Lyciah. They’ll only see mom’s power. And that… that is what Queen Heliora wants to protect.”

  Silence settled between them. Lyciah kept her eyes fixed on the window. She was about to return to her study routine when a warm, gentle voice interrupted.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Are you planning to keep staring at nothing until you grow roots?”

  Lyciah turned quickly the moment she recognized the voice. There he was. Momoru. Leaning casually against the doorframe with the sweet smile that always managed to calm her. His ears—upright, their warm tone reminiscent of sunset—twitched almost imperceptibly.

  Lyciah did not think. She ran to him and threw her arms around him. She clung so tightly that Momoru let out a low laugh.

  “You’re still a little savage,” he teased, slipping a hand into her white hair. “Or maybe I’m just getting fragile.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Momo,” she laughed. “You don’t have permission to disappear for that long.”

  Momoru sighed.

  “If it were up to me, I’d never leave. But the queen has other plans for me… you know how it is. Errands, spells, useful distractions. Kitsune are always good for something, aren’t we?”

  Lyciah pulled back slightly so she could look at him.

  “Plans. Such a beautiful word for slavery.”

  He tilted his head with a tired smile.

  “That’s why I’m here. To remind you that even foxes know how to slip out of traps. A couple of well-placed illusions and the guards still think I’m in the west wing.” He winked. “Believe me, it wasn’t easy. This cage has more layers of security than a royal palace.”

  “So it’s true what they say. Kitsune can do anything.”

  “Almost anything.” His smile widened. “I still can’t get you out of here… though I’d very much like to.”

  Lyciah sighed and rested her head against Momoru’s chest. He continued stroking her hair with slow, comforting movements. The silence that followed felt different now; it no longer weighed on the room.

  “Are you two finished?”

  The dry voice cut through the moment. Lyciah turned slowly. Sorian was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He had remained silent, but his eyes said everything: pure disapproval.

  “Oh, come on, brother,” Lyciah tried gently. “Don’t make that face. Momo just came to say hello.”

  Sorian straightened, pushing away from the wall and stepping toward the kitsune.

  “Yes, of course,” he said, fixing the kitsune with a hard stare. “A greeting that could cost him exile. And I will not cover for him.”

  Momoru raised an eyebrow. He did not lose his calm, though his voice was no longer quite as gentle.

  “I don’t need you to cover for me. If the queen wants to keep her locked up—”

  “She is not locked up,” Sorian cut in. “She is protected.”

  “Protected…” the kitsune repeated with a quiet laugh. “So now that word is a synonym for caged.”

  Lyciah pressed her lips together. That word always pierced her. She stepped away from Momoru and placed herself between them.

  “That’s enough,” she said. “I’m not in the mood for one of your endless arguments.”

  Sorian exhaled heavily, pressing a hand to his forehead.

  “I didn’t come here to argue. I came because the queen wants to see you, Lyciah. Now.”

  The girl’s heart skipped. Instinctively she took a couple of steps backward, moving closer to Momoru.

  “See me?” she asked. “Don’t tell me… she’s finally going to let me go outside?”

  She said it jokingly, but inside her heart tightened. Because she knew. She knew what it meant to be summoned after so many years without awakening her power. She knew the word that hovered in the air like poison: Defective.

  Sorian said nothing. No joke, no reproach. And that silence was worse than any confirmation. Lyciah swallowed and forced another smile, weaker this time.

  “Well then… I suppose I shouldn’t keep Her Majesty waiting.”

  Sorian turned toward the door and gestured for his twin to follow. She nodded, but before leaving she hugged Momoru tightly.

  “Thanks for coming, Momo. Even if it was only for a little while.”

  The kitsune wrapped his arms around her. His voice was low, almost a whisper.

  “Whenever I can, little one.”

  They slowly pulled apart.

  “I should go as well, before the guards notice I’m gone.”

  Sorian nodded to Lyciah and started walking. She followed him. Once they were outside, Momoru lifted a hand in farewell. He waited a few seconds longer until Lyciah and Sorian disappeared from sight. Then he exhaled and dropped onto one of the stone steps, elbows resting on his knees.

  “What a mess, Lyciah…” he murmured, closing his eyes for a moment.

  “Lyciah?”

  A female voice made him jump as though someone had thrown ice water over him.

  “What the—?!” He sprang to his feet, ready to strike.

  A girl with long brown hair tied into twin ponytails stood there, hands clasped behind her back, wearing the most innocent smile in the world.

  “Stars above, Seliane…” Momoru pressed a hand to his chest, trying to calm his racing heart. “Are you trying to kill me? Because you nearly succeeded.”

  The girl let out a small giggle, tilting her head so that her ponytails fell to the side.

  “If I wanted to kill you, Momo, you wouldn’t even have time to blink,” she replied. “What are you doing here? And why was Lyciah with Sorian?”

  Momoru remained silent for a few seconds. Seliane, not waiting for an answer, leaned slightly toward the path, trying to follow with her eyes the direction they had gone.

  “Did the queen summon her?” she asked, more serious now.

  He simply nodded.

  “After a decade?” Seliane frowned, worried. “That doesn’t sound good.”

  He smiled—that particular smile of his that seemed meant to reassure everyone except himself.

  “I don’t know. But if the queen wants her… it won’t be for tea.”

  Seliane pressed her lips together. The childish expression she had worn only seconds ago vanished completely.

  “If necessary… we’ll help her.”

  Momoru looked at her with quiet pride, though his eyes were tired.

  “I agree. But keep it to yourself. Around here, even the stones have ears.”

  Seliane nodded, though the spark in her eyes did not fade.

  Meanwhile, beyond the gardens, between towering columns and white walls, Lyciah walked in silence beside Sorian. In the distance, they heard footsteps echoing across the marble.

  “Well, well…”

  The voice cut through the quiet. Lyciah stiffened immediately. From the far end of the corridor, a man approached in an immaculate military uniform. His dark hair was slicked back, and a crooked smile tugged at his lips. He stopped directly in front of them, blocking their path.

  “If it isn’t the most carefully guarded jewel of the realm,” he said sweetly. “To what do we owe the honor today?”

  Lyciah opened her mouth. The words tumbled over one another.

  “I—well, it’s not that I came because I wanted to— I mean, not that I didn’t want to! I just… I happened to be here. Not happened, exactly, I was told to, but— oh... never mind.” Her cheeks burned. “General.”

  The man raised an amused eyebrow.

  “Charming. The Dawnbringer, mistress of fate… and still nervous like a shy little girl?”

  Sorian stepped forward, placing himself in front of Lyciah protectively.

  “That’s enough, Eryon,” he said. “You’re not here to waste time with provocations.”

  General Eryon shrugged with a theatrical sigh.

  “I’m only saying what everyone thinks. And if your sister can’t control her gift, what is the point of all this protection?”

  Lyciah’s heart shrank. She wanted to answer, wanted to shout that it wasn’t her fault, but the knot in her throat and her shyness were stronger. She lowered her gaze, embarrassed, hands clasped together in front of her.

  “Move,” Sorian ordered.

  Eryon let out a soft laugh and turned on his heel.

  “As you wish, General Sorian. But remember: the queen does not appreciate weaknesses.”

  His boots echoed against the marble as he walked away.

  Sorian said nothing. He only tightened his jaw and continued forward. Lyciah followed with trembling pulse, wishing she could disappear. They crossed the last corridor until they reached the doors of the throne room. Two guardians stood watch. They bowed their heads when they saw Sorian and stepped aside to let them pass.

  The throne hall was vast, almost unreal. At the far end, atop a dais of three steps, stood the throne. Queen Heliora was waiting for them. Her black hair fell smoothly over her shoulders. Her cold eyes did not look—they judged.

  Lyciah lowered her head in a bow, just as she had been taught.

  “Your Majesty,” Sorian murmured, imitating the gesture.

  Heliora did not greet them. Her eyes slid directly to Lyciah.

  “At eighteen years of age,” she said in a voice that was calm, clear, and utterly devoid of emotion, “you have yet to awaken the power of the Dawnbringer. Your control remains unstable. Your training has produced no significant progress.”

  Lyciah swallowed. She knew this was not an ordinary reprimand.

  “Do you know what that means?” Heliora continued, resting her elbow on the arm of the throne and her chin on her hand.

  Lyciah tried to answer, but the knot in her throat strangled the words. Then she heard it.

  “You are defective.”

  One word. Just one. Yet a chill ran down her spine. Her trembling hands rose to her chest as she lowered her head. Strands of hair slid forward and brushed her cheeks.

  “No… I’m not…” she stammered.

  Heliora raised a hand, and the gesture forced her into silence.

  “Your worth as an individual is irrelevant. But your lineage… is useful. The Dawnbringer cannot fail. If you cannot fulfill that role… then your daughter will.”

  Lyciah felt her world collapse. She knew what that meant.

  “Aelion of House Nahariel will take you as his wife,” Heliora continued calmly. “He is strong. Healthy. His bloodline is pure. You will produce an heir. Your power will pass to her… just as it passed from Misaha, your mother, to you.”

  Her heart lurched. Mother. Misaha. The name roared through her mind. The memory of that forced smile at their farewell. Her trembling hands holding her close.

  “After the birth,” Heliora added, “you will die.”

  Silence swallowed the hall. Lyciah opened her mouth, but no sound came out. Her hands fell limply to her sides.

  “This is not a punishment. It is a service. The greatest you can offer. Your daughter will carry the light, and your existence will have meaning.”

  Sorian stepped forward, his footsteps echoing in the chamber.

  “Your Majesty, this is—this is madness! There must be another way! Lyciah is—”

  “General Sorian.”

  Heliora did not raise her voice. The cold sound of his name was enough to break him.

  “One more word, and your loyalty will be questioned.”

  The twin clenched his fists, unable to answer.

  “Remember,” she added, “disloyalty is paid in blood.”

  Sorian lowered his head, teeth clenched. Lyciah felt her chest burning, unable to say anything.

  “Take her home,” Heliora said. “Aelion will visit tomorrow. I want her prepared.”

  Sorian nodded without lifting his gaze. He took his sister’s arm carefully, as though afraid she might shatter at his touch. Lyciah let herself be led away without a word. The throne room doors closed with a hollow sound, as though hope had been sealed on the other side.

  They walked through the white corridors. Sorian moved stiffly. When the silence became unbearable, he spoke without looking at her.

  “Everything will be fine,” he said softly, though he tried to make it sound firm. “Even if they force you to marry… there is still time for your power to awaken. If it happens before the… before the birth… everything will be solved.”

  Lyciah let out a dry, broken laugh.

  “Time?” She looked at him, her eyes burning with desperation. “Ten years, Sorian. Ten! Do you really think I’m going to achieve in a few months what I couldn’t in an entire decade?”

  Sorian stopped and grabbed her by both shoulders with desperate strength.

  “As long as you breathe, there is hope!”

  “Hope? Do you know what this means? When that child is born… I die. You know the power is only inherited when the mother dies.”

  Sorian squeezed his eyes shut. Lyciah felt her brother’s hands trembling on her shoulders.

  “I will find a way,” he murmured after a few seconds of hesitation. “I swear it.”

  But Lyciah pulled away from his grasp and stepped back. She could no longer believe in promises. Not when the word defective still echoed in her mind, relentless and impossible to silence.