The rising sun spilled softly through the high windows of the Guild Archives, casting pale gold light across the rows of ancient tomes and scenting the air with paper, dust, and ink.
Lyra sat at her usual spot by the archivist's table—parchment in hand, quill tapping idly against her lip, pretending to read. She wasn't. Her mind was elsewhere.
Yesterday's laughter still echoed faintly in her chest. A memory that shouldn't be there.
"Great, then it's a date!"
She rolled her eyes at the recollection, though a smile threatened to curve her lips. But before it could, a figure brushed past her.
Rough traveler's cloak. A satchel. Dusty boots. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Except—
Shepherd (softly, without stopping):
"It's time."
Lyra froze mid-breath.
She turned—slowly—but he was already gone, vanishing among the morning bustle of adventurers and townsfolk flooding into the Guild.
She stared after him, heart pounding harder than it should.
Lyra (whispering):
"...It's too early..."
Old Church Ruins – An Hour Later
The building stood silent and forgotten at the edge of Lithrium's old quarter, once a chapel to some ancient saint now erased by time. Its steeple leaned slightly, and vines had overgrown much of the outer wall. But inside—within the cracked stone and shattered stained glass—shadows waited.
Seven figures gathered in a semicircle before the podium of old sermons.
And there, at the altar—The Shepherd.
He stood tall in his worn robes, hood casting his face in shadows, but those within knew better than to mistake him for frailty.
Shepherd:
"Tonight... the flame shall consume the Crown."
Lyra stepped in, boots echoing on marble—her expression unreadable, but her steps more cautious than usual.
Shepherd (without turning):
"The Royal Family. The Vahlcrest. Stray Dawn. All will fall tonight."
The room was silent.
Until Lyra spoke.
Lyra (calm, but laced with tension):
"Are you certain this is the right time?"
The other six turned toward her—six monsters of different faces, different faiths, different hungers. All bound by one purpose.
And none amused.
A low chuckle came first—from the darkened corner where Caden of the Crimson Verse crouched atop an old column.
Caden (grinning wide, singsong):
"Doubt from the thorn with the softest voice—
Could it be she's made a... dangerous choice?"
Laeryn of the Shattered Veil stepped forward next. Her twisted nun's garb and incense chains clinked as she moved, the faint scent of rot-lilies trailing her.
Laeryn (whispering):
"Sister Lyra, you speak as though you fear. Or... have you grown fond of their warmth?"
Lyra (sharp):
"No. I'm saying we observe. The Vahlcrest are no longer symbols—they are warriors. And Stray Dawn... isn't what they were in Asterra. They've grown. Adapted."
Isolde of the Serpent Veil, arms crossed, stepped down from the shadows. Her cloak of snake-scale armor hissed softly as she moved.
Isolde:
"Have you grown soft, Lyra? You of all people know the weight of delay."
Lyra (stiff):
"I haven't forgotten the cause. I'm saying—if we rush this, we risk everything."
Sierra of the Ash Thorn let out a scoff, arms wrapped in crimson brambles that twitched with her mood.
Sierra (biting):
"Or are you just afraid of watching that icy little knight bleed out in front of you?"
Lyra's eyes snapped toward her—only for a flash—but the room noticed. And remembered.
Marques of the Pale Scale, ever silent, spoke for once. His pale skin glimmered like bone-dust, his voice like falling ash.
Marques:
"You question the Shepherd. That is your right. But your tone, Lyra... walks a path dangerously close to defection."
Lyra (coldly):
"My loyalty is not the question. It's whether blind faith will get us killed."
The air thickened.
And then—a bell chimed once.
Valter, the Hollow Bell raised his head slightly. Masked, faceless, and veiled in faint mist. His voice was distant—a fading choir lost to time.
Valter (singing faintly):
"Seven fall into fire. One will burn too bright.
The one who feels the most... shall fail to kill that night."
The room froze.
Even Lyra.
Caden cackled in glee. Sierra smiled too widely. Laeryn's hand caressed a blade-rosary in silent amusement.
But the Shepherd raised a hand, silencing them all.
Shepherd:
"Enough. The decision is made."
He finally turned toward Lyra.
Eyes—cold and unreadable—met hers.
Shepherd:
"Tonight, the castle shall fall. Lithrium will burn, and from its ashes... the New Order begins."
A pause.
Shepherd:
"If your blade wavers, Lyra... the flames will not."
And with that, the Shepherd turned back to the altar.
The Aequinox dispersed—some grinning, some muttering prophecies, some in near-reverent silence.
Lyra stood alone near the center, long after they left.
Hands clenched at her sides. Shoulders stiff.
She looked down at her gloves.
At the bruises and blood she once bore proudly.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
And now...
A name whispered itself across her thoughts, unbidden.
"Iver."
She closed her eyes.
And for the first time in years—
She doubted if she'd survive the night.
Meanwhile...
The Castle Training Grounds – Just After Dawn
Mist clung low to the stone floor, thin as silk, as if the morning itself hadn't fully woken up yet. The training hall was massive—pillars rising like sentinels along its edges, morning light bleeding in through high windows. Weapon racks gleamed in silence. Not a soul stirred.
Except one.
Naeva
The Royal Vahlcrest.
Her braided hair swayed with every movement, her greatsword moving in arcs that cut the air cleanly. Each swing was controlled. Efficient. Beautiful in a way only discipline could be. Her armor rested neatly on a bench nearby; she trained in a fitted tunic, arms tense and glistening with sweat.
Josh entered quietly, towel around his neck, half-awake and already stretching one shoulder.
Then he saw her.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
Then with the most casual swagger he could muster, he approached, smirking slightly.
Josh:
"You come here often?"
Naeva (without looking):
"Every morning since I was eleven."
Josh (grinning):
"Then I'm late. Mind if I join?"
Naeva:
"Depends. Can you keep up?"
She finally turned to look at him.
There it was—that gaze like steel wrapped in frost. The kind that could stop a noble in their tracks. But Josh, ever the hurricane of confidence, only raised an eyebrow and gave her a crooked smile.
Josh:
"I'm more of a freestyler. You do tempo—I do chaos. Works out."
Naeva:
"Then try not to embarrass yourself."
She tossed him a wooden practice blade. Without waiting, she returned to her stance.
Josh caught it, twirled it once in his hand, then fell into position across from her.
For a moment, they circled each other—no words. Only footwork. Breath. Weight.
Then Naeva struck first—swift, clean, precise.
Josh blocked. Barely.
Their wooden blades cracked together, echoing across the hall.
And suddenly—it was on.
The Dance of Sparks
She was sharp. Unforgiving. Each movement honed like a whetstone across years of practice. Josh, on the other hand, moved like a wildfire: unpredictable, agile, grinning even as he ducked, countered, and nearly tripped over his own confidence.
Josh (panting):
"You fight like a windstorm in a suit of armor."
Naeva:
"You fight like a child with a stick."
Josh:
"Wow. That hurt. Inside."
She swept his legs. He tumbled, rolled, popped back up with a grin.
Josh:
"Alright, alright. You're kinda amazing."
Naeva (smirking faintly):
"Took you long enough to notice."
Their blades locked again—closer this time. Faces inches apart. Their breathing uneven.
And for a second—just a second—the playfulness faded. Their eyes locked.
Josh's cocky smile faltered. Not in fear.
In awe.
Josh (softer):
"You really don't mess around, do you?"
Naeva (quietly):
"Neither should you."
She pushed back, but slower now. The pace calmed. The sparring dissolved into shared silence.
They stood across from each other again, the space between them full of something unspoken.
Then Naeva turned away, wiping her brow with a towel.
Naeva:
"Not bad. For someone who fights with his mouth more than his blade."
Josh chuckled, still catching his breath.
Josh:
"Hey, this mouth have gotten me out of worse situations many times that I could count."
Naeva (glancing over her shoulder):
"Maybe one day, try letting your heart speak first."
Josh froze.
His grin returned, slower this time. Thoughtful.
Josh:
"...Maybe I will."
She didn't say anything.
Just walked past him, pausing at the door.
Then—
Naeva (without turning):
"Tomorrow. Same time?"
Josh (smiling):
"You'll miss me if I don't?"
Naeva:
"You'll fall behind if you don't."
She vanished beyond the archway.
Josh stood in the middle of the hall, hand still on the wooden blade. His chest rising and falling.
And for the first time in a while...
He wasn't smiling because it was easy.
He was smiling because he wanted to earn it.
Meanwhile, across the castle...
Castle Hallways — Simultaneously
Jonax was up to something.
Running. Sprinting. Whispering in everyone's ears like he was orchestrating a heist.
Jonax (to Marian):
"You got the decorations?"
Marian (carrying a string of handmade paper dragons):
"Do I look like a party store?! Yes, I got them. Now where do I stick the sparkly ones?"
Jonax (to Rej and Seri):
"Okay, you two—balloon duty. No fighting, no popping."
Rej (grinning):
"Too late."
Seri (hugging a balloon like it's sacred):
"I named mine. His name is Gerald."
Jonax was a blur, a whirlwind of unexplainable energy and chaotic planning. The castle staff didn't know whether to help or flee. Castle guards stood at a loss, watching as chairs were rearranged, banners put up, a cake smuggled in via secret passageways, and someone argued with a kitchen chef over frosting color.
Jonax (to a trembling noble maid):
"The cake needs three candles. Not two. Not four. Three. Why? Because that's how many times he made me roll my eyes this morning. You want a reason? There."
She looked calm.
Unbothered.
Except—
When no one was looking, she carefully tucked a wrapped package under a velvet tablecloth.
And glanced out the window. Toward the courtyard.
Princess Arienne (whispering beside her):
"You like him, don't you?"
Jonax (startled):
"What?! I—no—I—wha—shush, go play."
Josh (giggling):
"You dooo~ I saw you making the card! It has a minotaur and glitter!"
Jonax (turning red):
"Do not expose me in front of the nobility, you gremlin."
The young Princess zipped away, skipping with joy and mischief.
Meanwhile, Queen Seraphine oversaw the mess from a distance, sipping her tea with the poise of a sovereign and the exhaustion of a mother watching a toddler's birthday unfold in her throne room.
Queen Seraphine (to King Aldric):
"You allowed this to happen."
King Aldric (smiling behind his beard):
"I encouraged it."
He nodded toward the makeshift birthday banner made of mismatched fabrics, some still bearing guild insignias.
Prince Luther, meanwhile, stood rigid near a column, a single balloon tied to his wrist—out of obligation, not choice.
Luther (deadpan):
"I look ridiculous."
Rica (passing by):
"You look festive."
Luther:
"That's worse."
Castle Guest Wing – Late Afternoon
The common room was a mess of color and barely-controlled chaos. Streamers—improvised from enchanted parchment and spell-lit vines—hung crookedly from the wooden beams. A banner that read "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BONEHEAD" was strung across the far wall in glittering ink.
Cedy and Marian had arranged the snacks—half stolen from the castle kitchens—and Elly had conjured floating little candles in the shape of running deer. Even Iver had been roped into arranging the chairs, grumbling the entire time while Seri kept giggling every time one floated the wrong way.
But the true force of the operation... was Jonax.
Jonax (hands on hips):
"Okay, that tablecloth is crooked. Kristie, fix it. No—Cedy, not the blue confetti, the gold one. Elly, are the candles going to explode? Because I swear—"
Kristie (teasing):
"You're more stressed than he was during the courtroom standoff."
Jonax (defensive, cheeks red):
"I just want it to be good, alright? He deserves one good thing atleast."
Kristie and Marian exchanged looks, then grinned softly.
The plan was simple: get Josh to walk in, yell "Happy Birthday!", watch him explode with joy, maybe tackle-hug someone, then eat his weight in cake. Clean. Heartfelt. Done.
Jonax had triple-checked the door. Then checked it again. Then paced. Then peeked through the keyhole.
Still no Josh.
Cedy (snickering):
"He's either taking a nap or got kidnapped by a passing griffin."
Jonax (muttering):
"Or he forgot. Or worse—he's upset with me..."
She shook her head, fixing a strand of her hair and trying to will the flutter in her chest to calm.
Then—
Footsteps.
Boots. Two pairs.
Jonax rushed to the door again.
Jonax (whispering):
"Okay, okay, he's coming. Everyone quiet!"
Everyone ducked behind curtains, furniture, and snack tables. Candles dimmed into a soft, expectant glow.
The door creaked open.
Jonax was already pulling the string for the banner drop—she whispered:
Jonax:
"Three... two... o—"
But Josh stepped in—
And he wasn't alone.
Naeva followed beside him, both laughing quietly. Josh's hair was a little tousled from training, his sleeves rolled up. Naeva had a rare smile—relaxed, unreadable—and her hand briefly brushed his arm before pulling back.
The energy between them was...
More than friends.
Less than declared.
But unmistakably close.
A heavy pause.
Jonax froze mid-countdown, her hand still holding the confetti string.
The room stood still—half the group still hiding behind furniture.
Josh (confused):
"...What the—?"
Jonax (voice a little too high):
"H-Happy Birthday! Surprise!!"
The banner fell an awkward second late. Confetti spiraled down like hesitant rain.
Jonax stepped forward with a forced laugh, hiding her trembling hands behind her back.
Jonax:
"The team... we put this together. For you. Happy birthday, dummy."
Josh blinked, a slow smile blooming.
Josh (grinning):
"Wait—seriously? You guys—?"
He looked around at the faces emerging from hiding, faces still pretending not to notice the weight of who he walked in with.
Naeva (smiling politely):
"I should... give you your moment. Happy birthday, Josh."
She gave him a short nod and turned gracefully, walking out the door.
Josh stared after her, confused.
Jonax tried to smile.
Jonax:
"Well, that was... not how I planned it."
Josh turned to her.
Josh:
"I didn't know you guys were doing all this."
Jonax (shrugging, a bit breathless):
"We wanted to. You've done a lot for us. You deserve... something that's just for you."
Josh (softly):
"Thanks, Jon. Really. You didn't have to—"
Jonax (quickly):
"I'm gonna get the cake."
She turned before he could say more, ducking into the kitchen with her back too stiff, too fast.
Kristie noticed. Cedy saw the tremor in Jonax's shoulders.
But no one said anything—yet.
The party resumed. Laughter picked up. Snacks passed hands.
But beneath the noise—
Was a silence that only a few felt.
The one that lingers between people who care, but never say it in time.
Josh stood there, in the half-decorated room.
Laughter bubbled up again behind him—forced, distracted.
But his eyes were on the kitchen door Jonax had vanished behind.
For some reason...
He didn't feel like smiling anymore.
rom-com tragedy speedrun. Poor Jonax, man. She built a whole surprise party and the surprise was her own heartbreak.
Bondforged.
Will Jonax ever get her cake moment, or will the universe just keep giving her Naeva-shaped plot twists?
— Rein Silvers ??