The palace of Aurevia stood drenched in light, each window aglow with the gold of hundreds of chandeliers, each corridor thick with the scent of burning oil, spiced wine, and pressed flowers. Its towers knifed upward into the dusk sky like pale ivory spears, crowning a kingdom that had long considered itself the height of human achievement. Brass fixtures curled along the arches, gears small as a thumbprint ticked in subtle rhythms across door frames, and delicate mechanical birds fluttered their jeweled wings above the ballroom, casting ripples of refracted light that made even the shadows dance.
It was, Lillian knew, a masterpiece — a monument to empire, to advancement, to the kind of restless hunger that could never stop polishing its own mirror.
And she? She entered late.
Not scandalously late — just late enough that every eye flicked toward the door, that every whispered conversation paused by a breath, that every fan slowed its flutter, slightly.
Her gown tonight was a daring thing, a ripple of deep crimson that clung to her curves and bared the faintest promise of skin, the bodice dipping lower than polite society approved, the skirt parting just high enough to reveal the long, pale line of one leg as she walked. Her jewelry, though — ah, the jewelry mattered. Not the glittering ornaments the other court ladies wore, but the pieces she never removed: a delicate pair of mechanical earrings, their tiny gears set with the faintest glimmer of gemstones, once her mother’s; a brass locket watch, fine-tooled, with a hidden compartment, her father’s; and a slim silver bracelet, clasped by a miniature puzzle lock, the last thing her brother Julian had ever given her.
They were not flamboyant. They were not loud. They were everything.
As she moved across the marble floor, her slippers whispering over the black-and-white check, Lillian felt the weight of the room tilt, slightly, in her wake. The nobles’ gazes slid toward her, measuring, assessing — some curious, some amused, some faintly scornful. It was the same game, always: the notorious cousin, the woman of whispered scandal and careless charm, gliding through the most polished cage in the world.And near the dais, as always, stood Vivian.
Vivian, perfect as always, wore sapphire silk that rippled like liquid frost, her pale blond hair coiled high, studded with pins shaped like stars. She turned as Lillian approached, her eyes lighting with that particular kind of sweetness only Vivian could wield — the sweetness that tasted faintly of steel.
“Oh, Lillian,” Vivian murmured, voice smooth as satin, “how gracious of you to join us. We were beginning to wonder if you’d decided to abandon us tonight.”
The king turned, his robe a masterwork of dark velvet threaded through with gold so fine it caught the candlelight like captive stars. His face was carved in pale, thoughtful lines, his gaze slow and heavy, a man who measured rooms in heartbeats and silences, not words.
“Ah, Lillian,” he said softly, “Vivian suggests you might attend in her place. Would you?”
Lillian smiled — a slow, curling thing, like a ribbon twisting in a breeze — and swept into a curtsy, her skirts spilling like wine across the marble.
“If it pleases Your Majesty,” she murmured, “I am always happy to serve. Another banquet, another engagement — the Summer Isles, perhaps? Or the Winter lodges?”
There was a faint ripple among the nobles, a hushed exchange of glances, a tightening of expressions just sharp enough to draw curiosity — but Lillian, accustomed as she was to the strange undercurrents of court, missed it. Or perhaps, in truth, she chose not to look too closely.
What she did not know — what none of the gathering knew — was that tonight’s preparations had little to do with any seasonal banquet.
Beyond the palace walls, in chambers far from the glow of the ballroom, ancient gates waited. They were not the crude arches of stone or the glittering brass work of Aurevia’s factories, but deep, humming things: living artifacts of the Old World, woven from magic and memory, pulsing faintly with the rhythm of the land itself.
These gates had been closed for centuries. Sealed, guarded, hidden. Until now.
Lillian moved through the ballroom, her fingers brushing absently at the locket watch at her waist, her mind already drifting toward what wine would be served, what games would be played, what dances would be expected. She smiled, half to herself, amused by Vivian’s little performance, amused by the polite stiffness of the king, amused by it all.
Outside, the gates stirred.
Outside, the envoys of Vaelkor gathered, their robes layered in the colors of fire, wind, earth, water, spirit — their bodies carrying the histories of the tribes, their hands marked by the calluses of a people who had never traded magic for machinery.
And in the heart of the great ballroom, beneath the shimmer of brass and glass, Lillian remained blissfully unaware.
Not of the whispers. Not of the slight narrowing of the king’s eyes. Not of the faint shift in the nobles’ stances.
But of the truth. That something ancient was moving toward her, step by patient step, breath by slow, inevitable breath.
The dawn broke slow over Aurevia, gold fingers brushing across stone spires, setting the highest brass work aglow with pale fire. The palace grounds stirred beneath its weight, the soft clatter of servants’ feet echoing through the stone halls, the faint hiss of steam curling from the delicate mechanical fixtures warming the royal chambers.
But deeper, far deeper, beneath the polished floors and the scent of rosewood oil, beneath the echoing ballrooms and endless galleries, the air shifted. Down where the ancient formal gates lay, sealed by time and treaty, the walls began to hum.
The gates were no ornament. They were not beautiful, not delicate, not adorned with the intricate filigree so beloved by the New World’s crafters. They were carved from something older — darker — than stone, their surfaces rippling faintly like water held in suspension. Along their frames, runes twisted and writhed, catching faint threads of light, slipping in and out of focus like whispers half-heard. For centuries, they had slept, their mouths closed, their breath held.
Now they stirred. And the hum, the pulse, the faint taste of charged air began to spread like the ripple of a distant storm, unnoticed above by the nobles who sipped their spiced wine, who laughed over breakfast tables laid in embroidered linen, who tightened corsets and adjusted cravats, preparing for a day they believed was like any other.
Lillian had not yet risen. Her chambers were heavy with the scent of last night’s perfume, the lingering notes of sandalwood and jasmine clinging faintly to the silk-draped bed, the soft scattered piles of discarded pins, earrings, bracelets. A faint light pierced the edge of the curtains, catching on the brass locket-watch at her bedside, where the etched flowers along its hinge winked with pale gold.
She murmured in her sleep, one hand brushing through the tangled waves of her hair, her breath soft, steady. She did not know that already the household was stirring, the king preparing his robes, the nobles whispering behind gloved hands.
Nor did she know of the great stone chamber deep beneath them, where the air began to hum in long, trembling waves.
The envoys were coming. From the Vaelkor side, the preparation was almost reverent.
They stood before the gates in layered robes that caught no eye for beauty but for meaning — crimson-threaded silk for the fire-kin, ash-grayed linen for the windcallers, deep ochre drapes for the earthshapers, silver-draped layers for the water-born, and the pale, spectral glint of spirit-weavers in fabrics so light they seemed woven from fog itself.
Declan stood at their head, his dark hair unbound, falling like a shadow to his shoulders. His robe was marked not by ostentation but by lineage: an embroidered sun, a narrow flame winding down one sleeve, a fine chain of dark metal across his collarbone. His face was calm, his gold-flecked eyes steady, his hands relaxed at his sides — but within, the breath ran sharper, the pulse heavier.
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This was no game.He knew, better than any of his men, what stepping through the formal gates meant. This was no small crossing, no quiet slipping between worlds as their hidden gates allowed. This was a declaration. A storm, sharpened to a point, set loose on a land fat with its own self-congratulation. And yet — it was necessary.
The gates responded not to command but to readiness, their surfaces trembling, the rune-work flashing once, twice, before a deep, guttural sound rolled up through the stone floor. The shimmering split formed at the center, slow and vast, until it stretched tall enough for five men to walk through abreast, and deep enough that the air beyond flickered faintly with another sky, another sun, another light.
Declan gave no signal. He did not need to. His men followed him without word, without glance, without hesitation.
They stepped through the gate.
On the Aurevia side, the stone room shuddered, a faint breath of cold air spilling outward, curling along the ancient carved floor. Guards straightened, muscles tensing, hands tightening on spear shafts. Above, servants moved more quickly, nobles gathered with slightly too-bright smiles, the king paced a little slower, his mind working through games within games.
And Lillian, still unaware, stretched beneath her sheets, the silk sliding across her skin, the faintest frown touching her lips as the late morning light brushed her face.
Somewhere, she thought lazily, there was another day waiting. Another set of obligations, another dance of smiles and veiled barbs, another round of balancing charm and indifference.
She did not know — not yet — that the storm had already arrived. That below her, in the vast and ancient heart of the palace, the air now tasted faintly of something new:
The first breath of the Old World, stepping forward.
The knock came soft as a feather against her door. Lillian stirred, half caught in the silk tangle of her bedsheets, one bare arm draped across her eyes as though shielding herself from the light already bleeding pale gold across the curtains. She exhaled, long and slow, feeling the faint weight of last night’s wine still humming behind her eyes, the ache in her feet from too many hours spent on marble floors, balancing conversation, charm, and the subtle art of appearing careless.
She turned her head, blinking at the morning that had already begun its slow climb over Aurevia. The air smelled faintly of rosewater, lemon soap, and the sharper tang of brass polish — the palace’s usual perfume, woven into every tapestry and stone. The knock came again.
“My lady?” A voice, muffled, uncertain — one of the newer maids, she thought, not yet practiced at keeping nerves out of her tone. “His Majesty requests your presence. At once.”
Lillian sighed, pressing her hand against her forehead, the chill of her bracelet brushing her skin. “At once,” she echoed softly, a faint smile tugging at the edge of her mouth. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, toes sinking into the velvet of the floor rug, and pushed herself upright.
It was too early for another banquet, she thought, reaching absently for the dressing gown draped over the nearest chair. Too early for another round of subtle negotiations, another social dance between fanged smiles. Perhaps some minor diplomatic issue had stirred the king from his usual slow mornings.
She did not yet know. As she moved through the hallways, the faint click of her heels whispering along the marble, Lillian noticed the shift in the palace air — small things, delicate but undeniable. Servants moved more briskly, their faces carefully smoothed to blankness; guards stood two to a post where one had sufficed before. Even the nobles gathered in the side corridors seemed a little too hushed, their laughter a touch too tight.
Something was happening. Lillian adjusted the earrings that dangled lightly against her neck — her mother’s — and straightened the locket-watch at her waist — her father’s. She touched, briefly, the silver clasp at her wrist — Julian’s. Three small motions, anchoring her in place.
She followed the summons.
The throne room’s vast doors stood open, the carved panels gleaming with the morning’s light, throwing long streaks of shadow across the floor. Lillian stepped inside with the practiced poise of a woman born to it, her gown sweeping behind her, the faint smile fixed at the corners of her mouth.
The air inside tasted… different.
She saw it immediately:
The king, robed not for leisure but for state, his garments heavy with gold-threaded authority; the gathered ministers standing stiffly in a half-circle, their faces pale and pinched; and the guards — twice the usual number, positioned along the walls with spears gleaming.
Lillian’s breath slowed.
She caught Vivian’s glance from across the room — sharp, narrow, gleaming with something between triumph and nerves. Whatever this was, Vivian knew, or thought she did.
Lillian approached the edge of the gathering, her presence slipping into place like a thread into a tapestry, seamless, unremarked. She kept her head slightly tilted, her expression serene, as though this were just another court gathering, another morning in Aurevia.
Until she heard the word whispered, faintly, from the lips of one of the ministers:
“Vaelkor.”
Her heart gave a slow, startled beat.
She had heard the name before, of course — old stories, dusty treaties, half-mocked tales of a world across the gates, a place of wild lands and strange magic. But they were fables, really. Nothing real. Nothing immediate.
Except — the formal gates.
Except — no one had opened them in centuries.
Lillian felt, for the first time that morning, a flicker of something colder threading through her chest. She glanced toward the king, who stood quietly, his gaze fixed on the sealed archway at the far end of the throne room.
The formal gates.
They were ancient things, carved into the stone long before Aurevia’s rise, their surface black and smooth, etched with runes that no Novareign scholar had ever truly decoded. For centuries, they had remained nothing more than a relic, a symbol, a locked door to a past no one thought would ever knock again.
Until now. The runes pulsed — once, twice — faint and slow, like the echo of a heartbeat.
Lillian’s own breath caught faintly in her throat. The air shifted. The runes flared. And the formal gates began, with agonizing slowness, to open.
The air in the throne room was thick, heavy, suffused with a weight Lillian could feel even before she fully understood it, as if the very stone beneath the intricate marble floors had begun to hum with something old, something vast, something that reached beyond the chattering voices and the sweep of velvet skirts and the glint of brass and crystal. The glow of the chandeliers above caught faintly on the delicate curls of rising steam from the oil lamps, and for a moment, she could have sworn the light itself bent, softened, wrapped inward, as though the room had drawn breath and did not quite know how to let it go again. She touched, without thinking, the brass locket at her waist — her father’s — fingers brushing the worn engraving along the hinge, the faintest scuff where her own thumb had worried it countless times. Her earrings, delicate mechanical things with tiny moving parts once her mother’s, shifted gently as she tilted her head, listening, sensing; and around her wrist, the silver bracelet with its puzzle clasp — Julian’s — lay cool and steady against her skin, an anchor, a weight, a reminder.
The formal gates at the far end of the hall pulsed. Not visually — not yet — but in the bones, in the air, in the sense that the room had shifted from being a chamber of polished human ambition to something older, deeper, something threaded through with an energy no amount of brasswork or mechanical marvels could mimic. The gates had stood silent for centuries, carved of black stone laced with runes whose meanings had long slipped from the memory of Aurevia’s scholars. They were not doors of metal or wood, nor arches built for beauty or intimidation; they were relics, remnants of an age when the Old World had still reached across the divide, when the gates were not a symbol of peace, but a channel of it — or of war.
And now, as Lillian watched, they stirred.
A light, faint and pulsing, slid across the rune-carved surface — once, twice, a heartbeat’s rhythm — and then, with a slow, viscous parting, the black center of the gate peeled open, as though the world itself had softened, bent, and offered passage. Lillian felt her breath catch faintly in her throat, her pulse hitching, her body drawing still as the first figures stepped through, and all around her, the court seemed to tighten, the air sharpen, the weight of centuries pressing in against the delicate scaffolding of polite expectation.
They came not in the fashion of Aurevia’s nobles, with their stiff brocades and gleaming brass buttons, nor with the jeweled collars or embroidered sashes of other visiting dignitaries. No, the envoys from Vaelkor stepped through robed in layered fabrics that moved like water, like fire, like the wind itself had folded into cloth and wrapped their bodies in a language of color and symbol Lillian could not read — but could feel, faintly, curling at the edges of her mind. The crimson and gold, the silver and ash, the deep ochres and shadowed blues spoke not of wealth or power in the way her world understood it, but of lineage, of story, of ties woven through blood and land and spirit. They moved without arrogance, without the need to assert themselves, their presence a quiet, humming force that did not demand space, but simply was — as if the very stones underfoot had remembered their tread and bent slightly to welcome them.
And at their front, one figure drew Lillian’s eyes as though on a string. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair falling loose across his shoulders, his robe marked not with gaudy embellishments, but with deliberate, heavy symbols: a sun, a flame, a narrow band of dark iron across one sleeve. His face was striking not for beauty — though it was beautiful — but for the way it held a stillness that vibrated faintly beneath the skin, a force she could sense but not name, as though the golden-flecked eyes that swept once across the room were not seeing the room, but weighing it, measuring, pressing it against some quiet, internal scale.
When those eyes passed over her, just for an instant, Lillian felt the floor tilt beneath her slippers, the faintest shifting of the world’s balance, as if something — or someone — had reached out and brushed, ever so slightly, against the thin edge of her mask.
The king’s voice came then, soft, smooth, curling through the charged silence like a silk-draped blade. “Ah, my dear,” he said, his gaze falling squarely on Lillian, and she felt the weight of every watching eye turn toward her, sliding, narrowing, sharpening, the way a room shifts to study the newly named center of the game. “You will stand in for your cousin. You will honor the house of Aurevia.”
And just like that, the breath slid from her lungs, her mouth opened slightly, her mind caught on a snag of thought that refused, at first, to resolve. Lillian, who had learned to laugh through scandal, to dance through insult, to wear sharpness and charm like a layered, glittering cloak, felt — for the first time in years — the edge of that cloak tremble.
She had been offered. She had been placed. She — Lillian, the woman whose name they whispered behind fans and wine glasses, whose presence was tolerated because it was a convenient distraction — was now the token on the table, the coin handed over, the piece moved across a board whose full shape she could not yet see.
Thank you for reading the opening to Threads of Dominion. This is a slow-burn journey of political games, emotional stakes, and veiled daggers with a personal touch. Whether it’s a thought on the story, a favorite moment, or a theory for what’s coming next — your comments, reviews, and feedback mean the world to me. Feel free to leave your thoughts below — I’m always open to discussing characters, theories, and what you’d like to see next!
Chapters will be updated on Sundays - Fuwa Fuwa