# data[].attributes.body
(+ Strengths) efficient, loyal, a steadfast follower, unyielding

(- Weaknesses) nihilistic, insecured, jealous, aloof, cynical, bitter, jaded, desperate, reckless, impatient

MBTI: INFJ [ the advocate ]

Moral Alignment: Neutral Evil

Likes: performance, the ashen masquerade, compliments, applaud of the masses, completing missions, daggers, thaloriel, edrathin, aersahir, cats and their many variations, aerial silk, freedom from the heliarchy's shadow

Dislikes: court, ignivar Spire, scorchwrights and pyroclasts (especially the latter), elaruun, the royal family of solkarath, returning to solkarath everytime the circus travels, flamebinding and pyrosophy, fire, magick, helplessness, the month of Umbrosar, being compared to the other heliarchs

Favorite Season: Rekindra month

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♔ Aurelthane, House of the Eternal Embers

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♔ Aurelthane, House of the Eternal Embers

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From Flame, Dominion

Though Solkarath has been ruled by many dynasties across its two-millennia history, none have burned so brightly as the House of Aurelthane. This noble bloodline is one of the oldest houses in the nation and is said to be able to trace their origins back to the very first Flameborne chosen by Azaryon himself—a pupil that fought alongside him in the War of the Gods—before he ascended for the heavens. The clan’s records claim that a Heliarchy had not yet been established back then, for the Sunfather had never intended for divine rule to be monopolized, and that is why the clan has oscillated between acting as sovereigns and their supports. Whether this is truth or fabrication, none can say for certain.

The House of Aurelthane rose to imperial prominence again nearly two centuries ago after the previous dynasty of Heliarchs were extinguished after a failed Flameborne Coronation that ended in divine immolation. It was then that an Aurelthane, thought to be a ceremonial candidate at best, challenged for a claim to the throne by walking the Solstice Steps of Elaruun. Subsequently passing the rest of the trials unburnt, the ancestor was acknowledged by the Pyroclastic Order and a flareveil even occurred during their crowning as if the Sun was rejoicing as well. Where many reigning families burn brightly but briefly, the House of Eternal Embers has mastered the long blaze and continue to rule with the consolidation of power through strategic statecraft and deep entwinement with the priesthood that continues to claim no Aurelthane ruler has ever failed the sunmarking.

Yet not all is as it seems. Despite their respected legacy and contributions to the land, there are whispers amongst the people that the flame in the Heliarchy is dying — that it is impossible for them to sire at least one heir each generation that can bear the Solar Brand without consequence. Some claim that the current patriarch forewent the actual ordeal itself and instead emerged from Elaruun with a false mark — one burned into his skin by mortal hands and forbidden magic, but not the Sun’s light.

Others claim that the Rite of Flameborne Coronation itself is no longer purely divine, but an artifice upheld in elaborately-scripted pageantry. If true, it would mean the greatest sacrilege of all: that the Voice of the Flame speaks with a mortal’s tongue. Should this truth ever be proven, it could fracture the very foundation of Solkarath’s divine monarchy.

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Name: Solenya Aurelthane

Nicknames: Sol, the blight of the Aurelthanes, little flame

DOB: 10th day of Umbrosar, 1475 A.R (25)

Rank: Royalty

Kingdom: Solkarath

Magick: none

Occupation: third princess, aerial silk dancer/trained spy

Residence: Ignivar Spire/wherever the Ashen Masquerade travels to

Orientation: Bisexual

Marital Status: Single/Not looking

# data[].attributes.headline
I am not my character, please separate ic and ooc. 

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I am not my character, please separate ic and ooc. 

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members:

Head of House: King Maelrik Aurelthane (alive/npc)

Queen Elysera Aurelthane (née Itharien) (alive/npc)

Coriolanus Aurelthane

Caelus Aurelthane

Solaria Aurelthane [ NPC ]

Seraphyna Aurelthane [ NPC ]

Solenya Aurelthane

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face claim:

appearance: Standing at 5'5", she possesses a lithe, athletic frame built for movement—ideal for the aerial acrobatics that have made her a quiet marvel within the circus. During missions she blends effortlessly into crowds, her presence forgettable by design. Outside the spotlight, her posture is unremarkable, almost subdued. Her eyes rarely meet another’s—either cast downward or already fixed on some point ahead—always avoiding unnecessary attention.

notable scars: a healed horizontal scar across both wrists.

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I could recognize him by touch alone, by his scent. I would know him blind, by the way his breathes came..In the cadence in which he speaks my name. I would know him in death, at the end of the world.

❃ Name:

❃ Orientation:

❃ Love Language: Gift Giving, Acts of Service (giving and receiving)

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TW: self harm

(Age 19)

When the flame rejected her, it was not only a failure, it was a confirmation. The final, silent verdict on a life that had never quite belonged. In the days that followed, her name was quietly erased from the official records of the Heliarch line. The third princess, once born of royal flame, had become a ghost within her own house.

The weight of that erasure was unbearable.

Driven to despair by the swift and merciless dismissal of her existence, Solenya descended into a darkness so consuming that she resolved to end it all on the very day she had come into the world. Her eighteenth name-day—once meant to mark her rise—became a dirge.

One evening, as the dying light of Dusk cast long shadows over the city of Cindralis, her lady-in-waiting found her.

Solenya lay in a pool of her own blood, the blade still trembling beside her, her gaze fixed beyond the open window as if watching the last threads of sunlight unravel. She had hoped that light would be her final witness, her last breath drawn with the fading warmth of a world that had never wanted her.

To her disappointment and perhaps even her shame, Solenya awoke two days later. Not within the familiar, shadowed halls of Ignivar Spire, but in a sterile chamber whose windows revealed no landmarks. She was not dead. Not even close. The room was white and dimly perfumed with crushed lavender and ashwood. Royal physicians moved around her with quiet efficiency, offering neither comfort nor acknowledgment beyond what duty required. She was tended to as one would tend to a broken blade—not with tenderness, but with clinical purpose.

Her parents never came. Her siblings did not write.

It was there, in that hollow silence, that the truth was finally spoken: she was being discarded.

No, that wasn’t the word they used. Repurposed—they called it that, with thin smiles and careful detachment, as if it were some great mercy bestowed upon a creature too fragile to carry the weight of a royal name.

Mercy had no place in the Imperium. One does not simply remove themselves from the endless, churning machine that fueled Solkarath. A failed Heliarch was still a tool to be wielded, a piece to be moved elsewhere on the grand board.

If she could not serve as a daughter of flame, she would serve in shadow.

# data[].attributes.body
1. For her performances under the grand tent, Solenya wears flowing ensembles of crimson and gold—lightweight silks that cling to her form and shimmer under torchlight. The fabrics are tailored to accentuate every twist and turn of her body mid-air, designed not just for movement but for spectacle.

2. When the curtain falls and the masks come off, Solenya becomes someone else entirely. Clad in matte black—tight enough for stealth, flexible enough for combat—her garments are reinforced at the joints and vital points, offering discreet protection without sacrificing agility. Every piece serves a purpose: concealment, silence, survival.

3. And yet, behind both these masks lies a truth even more deeply buried—that of a forgotten princess. When duty or memory calls her back to this identity, she wears it like a faded echo. Her garments shift to somber shades of red, the color of her bloodline, muted as if in mourning.

4. Solenya always wears a thin red velvet anklet adorned with a single golden bell. A delicate accessory she keeps on during training, rehearsals, and performances alike. It is only ever removed, and with great reluctance, for missions demanding absolute silence. To many within the Masquerade, the soft chime of that bell has become synonymous with her presence.

Solenya rarely goes anywhere unarmed, even when wrapped in silks or royal satin. Beneath her dresses, strapped securely to her thigh, she hides a slender sunsteel dagger.

On missions, daggers remain her weapons of choice. Compact, silent, and deadly, they suit her style of combat: precise, intimate, and swift. She moves like a shadow, and her blades strike like whispered death—unseen until it's far too late.

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Perfection, the very embodiment of what a Heliarch should be. That was how Solenya had always seen her eldest brother. With a gulf of years between them and achievements that had already secured Coriolanus' his legacy long before she could even spell his name, he stood in a realm far above her reach. It was because of this that she feared him the most and respected him even more.

She had never desired the throne. Even before her birth, it had always been his. The rite of flameborne coronation would be nothing more than a spectacle, a ceremonial crowning of the inevitable, another jewel in the crown of Solkarath’s future ruler. And yet, despite knowing all this, it was his approval she craved most. After their parents, it was Corionalus whose recognition she longed for. For him to see her not as a footnote in their grand family, not as another discarded cog in the Imperium’s well-oiled machine, but as a sister. Someone worth her place.

He had been stationed at the borders during her failed flamebinding and her eventual attempt, leading a campaign that would further solidify his standing within the military ranks. Like the others, he sent no word. No acknowledgment. And now, the third princess is almost certain that Coriolanus has forgotten he even has a youngest sister named Solenya.

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How much royal blood must one possess to believe themselves worthy of a family that saw them as nothing more than a dispensable cog in the flawless machinery of the Imperium? Solenya thought she had enough. Believed she had earned a place at the table.

Solenya Aurelthane was the youngest Heliarch born to the reigning King and Queen of Solkarath. She bore the name most closely tied to the Kingdom that should have also belonged to her—yet, by cruel irony, it became the one furthest from her reach. Born on the tenth day of Umbrosar, the middle month in the Aelmyric calendar, Solenya entered the world with no grand expectations. As the last child of a vast and mighty empire, she was meant to linger in the shadows—an afterthought beside siblings who had long since carved their destinies into the storied halls of Ignivar Spire.

But even in early childhood, Solenya began to show signs that marked her as something less than even a forgotten child—something left over. Love, to her, became a transaction: effort in exchange for affection, obedience for acknowledgment.

Solenya excelled at nothing. She lacked the brilliance of mind or the refinement of talent that might have compensated for her shortcomings. There was nothing remarkable about her, nothing to make them look twice.

She was beautiful, yes. Often likened to a flareveil, brilliant yet fleeting. A shimmer that caught the eye but never lingered in the memory. Unlike the first and second princesses, who carved their presence into every room they entered, Solenya left no lasting impression. Her beauty was admired, but never remembered.

Then came her eighteenth birthday, her Flamebinding. It was the day when fire, ancient and divine, was meant to rise and recognize its own. Where the flame should have leapt into her eager hands, embracing her as one of Solkarath’s chosen, it recoiled. Solenya stood in stillness. She raised her hands with all the hope she'd carried since childhood, all the desperate longing to finally be seen. But the fire did not stir. It did not sing. It did not even flicker.

There was only silence. Heavy. Final.

The third princess had not only failed the rite. She had been rejected by the very essence of their bloodline.

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At first, she was taught to move like a performer—graceful, deliberate, and unseen between breaths. Aerial acrobatics became her new language. She learned how to twist her limbs into silk suspended high above the ground, how to coil and unfurl midair as if gravity had loosened its hold on her. The motion felt almost magical, like conjuring something out of nothing.

She fell. Repeatedly. Tangled in fabric, bruised and breathless on the floor. But unlike the walls of Ignivar Spire, where every stumble had been met with silent judgment or cold disdain, here, no one mocked her. Her teachers did not avert their eyes in disappointment. They did not whisper of failure. Instead, they saw potential in the girl who refused to stay down. They reached for her hands, guided her posture, taught her how to trust the silk and, more importantly, herself.

In time, she stopped falling.

Soon enough, Solenya moved as if she belonged to the air itself—fluid, weightless, almost ethereal. The silks responded to her like extensions of her body, lifting her toward something that felt like freedom.

Ironically, it was in the skies. Spinning high above cold marble floors and royal titles that she discovered an affinity not written in her birthright. Not flame, but wind. Not power, but grace. And unlike the fire she had once longed to wield, the air did not burn her. It held her.

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(age 21)

In the span of two years, Sol had become more than just another dancer suspended in silk. She became the spectacle. The star that drew eyes to the stage and silenced the crowd with every ascent into the air. Within the Ashen Masquerade, she was celebrated, adored, and perhaps for the first time in her life, wanted. She reveled in the applause that thundered beneath her feet. She lingered in the warmth of love that was offered freely and without expectation.

When her performances reached their peak and her presence had been fully woven into the fabric of the troupe, her teachers decided it was time for her to understand the true nature of what she had joined. One by one, the masks were removed.

The Ashen Masquerade, she learned, was no ordinary troupe. The silks, the stages, the dazzling costumes—those were merely a veil. A glittering distraction. Behind the curtain, the Masquerade served a much graver, far-reaching purpose. It was, in truth, an arm of the Imperium—Solkarath’s hidden eyes and silent blades.

Disguised as entertainers, they crossed borders unnoticed.

They performed for kings and councilors, mingled with nobility, slipped into cities where no royal emissary could openly tread. They listened. They learned. And sometimes, when necessary, they eliminated.

The Masquerade was not simply a sanctuary for the discarded—it was a tool honed for shadows. A weapon with a painted face.

And now Sol was part of it.

Then she was reformed. Reshaped once more, but this time not as a forgotten daughter trying to earn affection, nor as a performer dancing for love she never received.

No. this time, she was forged with intent. Hardened and honed like a blade tempered in silence. The fragile girl who once wept for flame became something sharper, quieter, far more dangerous.

They taught her how to disappear in plain sight, how to read a room like scripture, how to slip through locked doors and guarded whispers. She learned to move not only across silks and stages but through shadows and secrets. Places where flame could not go, where light would only betray.

At twenty-three, Sol took her first life.

It was not poetic. Not like the stories whispered by fireside spies or romanticized by poets. It was efficient. Quick. Necessary. And afterward, she did not cry. She did not tremble. She simply reported back.

Now, in the present, she stands as one of the Ashen Masquerade’s most valuable agents. Not merely a spectacle, but a specter—brilliant, elusive, and lethal.

# data[].attributes.body
The second prince of Solkarath stood higher on the ladder of siblings that Solenya admired, and yet because he was never meant to inherit the Crown of Burning Skies, it was Caelus who felt closest to her. Still distant, still gilded in the unreachable light of their lineage, but not entirely impossible to touch like the others. She looked up to him all the same. A man with more freedom than most of them, free to pursue his own interests without the crushing weight of expectation. And yet, Caelus remained the hardest to read. He never outwardly engaged in the endless contests their parents devised, never seemed to care for the ruthless rivalry bred into their bloodline. But Solenya noticed the flickers—quiet, fleeting moments when something unspoken stirred in him. A glimmer of want. The need to prove himself, perhaps. Because no matter how far they tried to stray, they were still Heliarchs. And ambition, for better or worse, was carved into the marrow of their bones.

Caelus had been away when Solenya failed her flamebinding. He never wrote to her after the attempt, and their correspondence has since withered into silence. Whatever closeness they once shared has been lost to the shifting demands of their roles within the Imperium. Now, she sees him most often in passing—never in Solkarath, but in foreign territories where duty takes them both. Their encounters are reduced to curt, impersonal messages: a quiet directive to steer clear of a certain region, a warning that the Masquerade will be operating nearby. Nothing more. No questions. No warmth. Only the cold precision of necessity between two people who once understood each other in the quiet ways siblings sometimes do.

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Solenya’s dearest oldest sister, Sierra, was the one she had admired for as long as she could remember. As the third princess, Solenya had grown up chasing her sister’s footsteps, fully aware that she might never match them. And yet, she followed anyway, not out of obligation, but out of love. While others met Solenya with indifference or comparison, Sierra never did. She stood by her, uplifted her, especially when their parents tried to turn them into rivals. It was that unwavering sisterly affection that kept Solenya going, failing, trying again, and rising each time, until at last, she stood before her ritual flamebinding.

Their relationship grew strained when Sierra stopped writing to her after the attempt, and it remained that way until Solenya was forced to join the Ashen Masquerade. Deep down, she knew it had not been Sierra’s choice to sever their bond. It was the Heliarchy’s doing—its silence, its control, its cruel way of isolating even the most sacred ties. But knowing the reason did not stop the resentment from taking root. It did not make the silence hurt any less.

Now, she sends Sierra tarot cards and brief, cryptic notes, just a word or two, each time the Masquerade crosses into another country. Not to reconnect. Not to explain. Just to let her know she is alive. Somewhere.

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She has nearly forgotten the sound of her second elder sister's voice, the contours of her face, and the way her eyes once lingered on Solenya with unspoken concern. Those memories come to her now like faint echoes, softened by time and distance. Seraphyna no longer belongs to that life. She has given herself entirely to Elaruun, surrendering to the worship of the sun with a devotion that seems almost effortless. It astonishes Solenya how thoroughly she has embraced this path, especially when it was not one she chose for herself. The Heliarchy had offered her up without hesitation, treating her life like a coin to be exchanged. And yet, in that cruel trade, Seraphyna had found something Solenya had not. . .freedom.

It is this paradox that unsettles her most. For all the injustice of what was done to Seraphyna, she is no longer shackled by the expectations of the Heliarchy. She walks a different path now, unburdened, resolute, and entirely transformed. And Solenya, watching from a distance, feels something bitter stir in her chest. Envy, sharp and unfamiliar, for a life Seraphyna did not choose—but one that, in the end, had liberated her.

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Come one, come all.

A traveling circus troupe, beloved across the continent, known for captivating audiences from every walk of life—be they royalty, nobility, or common folk gathered in candlelit squares. Their performances are a spectacle of wonder: fire-dancers, illusionists, beast tamers, and silken aerialists whose grace defies gravity. No festival feels complete without their vibrant arrival, and they are often invited to private courts for exclusive performances that blur the line between entertainment and enchantment.

They claim their roots lie in the sun-drenched land of Solkarath, but no one truly knows who founded the troupe, nor who holds its reins. The one introduced as their leader is little more than a charismatic figurehead. A master of ceremony and misdirection, speaking for an organization shrouded in myth.

In truth, this troupe is far more than a band of traveling performers. Beneath the painted faces and flowing costumes lies Solkarath’s most elusive and efficient spy guild, answering only to the Master of Whispers and the ruling Heliarchy.

While kingdoms cheer their arrival, secrets are stolen in the dark. Disguised beneath layers of theatrics, they infiltrate courts, gather intelligence, and eliminate threats before they ever reach open conflict.

War, after all, is costly. Whereas a well-placed whisper or an unseen blade can shift the tide without spilling a drop of Solkarathi blood.

They are the shadows cast by Solkarath’s brilliance. Silent, loyal, and indispensable. Hidden cogs in the Imperium’s ever-turning machine.

[ please dm me or king/raynereign if you wish to join the masquerade! ]

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After being rejected during her Flamebinding ritual, Solenya never attempted it again. The fire that was meant to awaken the ancestral power of the Heliarchs within her refused to answer. It did not flicker in recognition, nor rise to meet her touch. In that moment, something ancient and sacred broke.

To this day, Solenya fears the flame. What once should have been her birthright now lingers at the edge of her nightmares—wild, untamed, and unforgiving. Fire is no longer a symbol of power to her, but a reminder of what she was supposed to be… and what she is not.

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1. At times, though she dares not admit it, she feels the warmth of flame stirring at her fingertips. She dismisses it as a trick of the mind, a lingering delusion. After all, she failed the flamebinding ritual. By all rights, she should be powerless.

2. She still remembers the lullabies that drifted through the window of her queen mother’s chambers—soft and haunting. Though she’s no longer certain whether it was her mother who sang them for her, or someone else entirely.

3. Unlike her siblings, she finds it difficult to regulate her emotions. Due to her upbringing, envy naturally courses through her veins. Dark thoughts usually manifests in her mind. When this happens she would take deep breaths and open and clench her fists otherwise she would bite her nails.

4. She wanted a cat at age 5 but was forced to adopt a varrakai hound puppy instead. The puppy rejected her and she had to give it away. She cried for three days and three nights. Ever since, she distanced herself from ever trying to have pets. Though she would longingly stare at cats and even would rescue kittens in need from time to time.

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Arya Stark (Game of Thrones)

Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon (The witcher)

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members:

Head of House: "KING"

3/5 playable members for now

- "Sol"
- "Fey" Feyrix Marchen

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       ♔— ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀ ꜰᴀᴜʟᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ᴄᴏʀᴇ? ᴅɪᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ?ᴅɪᴅ ɪ? ᴅɪᴅ ɪ? — ♔   

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       ♔— ɪꜱ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀ ꜰᴀᴜʟᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍʏ ᴄᴏʀᴇ? ᴅɪᴅ ɪ ᴅᴏ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ?ᴅɪᴅ ɪ? ᴅɪᴅ ɪ? — ♔   

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[ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ 8ᴛʜ ᴅᴀʏ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴀʟᴏꜱ, ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʏᴇᴀʀ 1499, ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʜᴀʟʟꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴀʟᴏʀɪᴇʟ’ꜱ ɪɴꜰɪʀᴍᴀʀɪᴜᴍ, ꜱᴏʟᴇɴʏᴀ ᴜɴᴅᴇʀᴛᴏᴏᴋ ᴀ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ᴏᴡɴ—ᴜɴᴏꜰꜰɪᴄɪᴀʟ, ᴜɴꜱᴀɴᴄᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴅʀɪᴠᴇɴ ʙʏ ʀᴇᴀꜱᴏɴꜱ ꜱʜᴇ ᴋᴇᴘᴛ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ. ]

“No… no… no, that can’t be right. I read that it could help. It was supposed to help.”

There it was again—that same look. Pity. Dull and heavy and suffocating. She had seen it too many times now, etched on the faces of healers and scholars alike, in the quiet glances of servants, even in the eyes of strangers who pretended not to sympathize. That look, which she had once dismissed with a sneer, now clung to her like a second skin. She could no longer tell whether it was the condescension of those she had once considered beneath her that she despised, or the reflection of her own helplessness mirrored back at her.

It was somewhere between flipping pages of obscure medical treatises and chasing rumors across borders that she lost something vital—her very sense of self. The girl who had once stood as a daughter of the Sun, luminous and sure, had slowly withered into someone she barely recognized. Piece by piece, her title unraveled. Her dignity faded, dulled by the endless search for something. /Anything/ that could mend what had been broken in her from the very beginning.

A cure. A balm. A miracle. She would have taken any of the three.

But even Thaloriel’s famed infirmarium, with its gilded halls and volumes of cutting-edge research, held no answers. Not for her. Not for the aether-stunted. Their knowledge was vast, yes, but it was cold and clinical and ultimately useless.

Like everyone else, they could name her affliction but not undo it. Not mend what the flamebinding had failed to awaken.

And last year. gods, just last year, she had nearly staked her life on chasing down the fabled Aerling stag of Aersahir, a creature whispered about in Aersahir’s archives and long-forgotten myths. She had clung to that legend like a drowning woman grasping at sea-foam, because what else was left? She was only four years into her search, but already Solenya Aurelthane had begun to barter in impossibilities.

‘The blight of the Aurelthanes.’

That’s what they had called her in court. A cruel jest born in court halls and polished into insult by idle tongues. While her siblings bore names carved in reverence—the Fireheart, the Golden Heir—while Solenya had been left with whispers and sideways glances. The Imperium’s shame. A daughter of fire who could not burn.
And now, she stood once more at the edge of hope, only to find it crumbling beneath her feet.

“I’m sorry. There is no research that can yet provide the answers you seek.”

The Aquamedici’s voice was gentle, almost reverent, but Solenya heard the pity threaded through every syllable. Subtle, practiced—like one accustomed to breaking devastating news with a velvet touch. It wasn’t the first time she had been turned away, and it would not be the last. But knowing that didn’t soften the blow.

Each dismissal still carved a new wound. Another reminder that the thing she had hung her soul upon—hope—was fraying at the seams. The ache was familiar now, but not dulled. It was the same ache she felt the first time she stood in Elaruun and failed. The same ache that bloomed every time someone looked at her and saw a disappointment wearing the robes of royalty.

The Imperium had no need for a broken child of the sun. She was not a beloved daughter, not a cherished heir. Just another cog in a machine that never missed what it deemed unworthy.

A shadow.
A blight.
The cursed child of a radiant bloodline.

And still, with all the grace she could summon, she bowed her head—not in defeat, but in practiced poise.

“I understand. Thank you for your time.”

Her voice was steady, but her heart was in tatters. She walked away with her spine straight, her hands trembling just out of sight. Dignity was all she had left now—and she clung to it like armor. Because if she let go of that, there would be nothing left of Solenya Aurelthane at all.

–

Thaloriel’s moon hung high and impossibly bright, a silver sentinel in a sea of darkened stars. The night sky tried in vain to swallow its glow, but it remained steadfast—luminous and watchful, casting its light across the archipelago below as though it were gazing lovingly upon a cherished beloved. There was something almost sacred about the way the moon lingered over Thaloriel, as if the country itself had earned its affection.

And beneath that mournful light, nestled deep within the most restricted wing of the Infirmarium’s forbidden library, sat Solenya.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

The hour had long slipped into silence, and the great halls stood empty save for the occasional flutter of parchment stirred by her movements. The moon’s pale gleam was the only light that graced the dust-heavy air, falling through the latticed windows and illuminating the fragile scroll she clutched in her hands.

Research. Dozens of pages of it. Studies on aether-stunted individuals—clinical, impersonal, unfinished. Every text she had gathered, stolen, or pleaded for held promise in its opening lines. And yet each one ended the same. Undefined. Inconclusive. Beyond current comprehension.

Each word felt like a blade drawn across her already splintered heart. With a quiet, strangled sound of frustration, she let the parchment crumple beneath her fingers. The crackling noise was sharp in the stillness, a brittle echo of her mounting despair.

Her vision blurred.

Tears stung her eyes, and she didn’t bother to wipe them away. She let them fall freely onto ink-smudged pages and forgotten theories. She had hoped again. She had believed that somewhere, buried in forbidden texts and long-discarded hypotheses, would be a clue. A thread to pull. A reason to keep trying.

Another dead end. Another letter to Sierra—"I’m alive, somewhere"—sent with trembling hands and a heart she no longer recognized as her own.

But was she still alive? Truly? Sometimes, in the quiet of her exile, she wasn’t sure. Her breaths were shallow, mechanical. Her heart still beat, but only to remind her that something inside her had not yet surrendered.

And yet... there were moments. Moments when she could almost feel the heat of flame blooming at her fingertips. Fleeting warmth that flared and vanished just as quickly. She wondered if it was real—or merely the cruel trick of desperation, a phantom sensation conjured by a mind unwilling to let go.

But she couldn’t give up.

Not yet.

/NOT YET./

If there was even the smallest ember left in her, then she would chase it. Through locked archives, through ancient myths, through the endless grief that came from being the daughter of fire who could not burn.

Solenya Aurelthane would not let dead trails write her ending.

Not while the night still gave way to day.
Not while her heart still stubbornly reached for flame.

# data[].attributes.headline
       ♔— ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ꜱɪɴɢʟᴇ ꜱᴄᴀʀ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ʙʏ ᴇɴᴇᴍɪᴇꜱ;ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴀʀᴋ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴄᴀʀᴠᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ.  — ♔   

# data[].attributes.subject
       ♔— ɴᴏᴛ ᴀ ꜱɪɴɢʟᴇ ꜱᴄᴀʀ ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ᴡᴀꜱ ʟᴇꜰᴛ ʙʏ ᴇɴᴇᴍɪᴇꜱ;ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴀʀᴋ ᴡᴀꜱ ᴄᴀʀᴠᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ.  — ♔   

# data[].attributes.body
[ 1498, ʙᴏʀᴅᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴏʟᴋᴀʀᴀᴛʜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴅʀᴀᴛʜɪɴ ]

-

Darkness swallowed Solenya the moment the blindfold pressed against her eyes. Her eyelids burned as if the stars themselves had been dragged across them, and coarse rope bit into the tender skin behind her wrists. The rope coiled around her thighs as well, a tight, punishing braid that made every muscle hum with rebellion. The last clear image she had carried with her into that tunnel of black was simple and bright… the sky stitched with constellations, her fingers tracing the lines between stars, and Selvier standing beside her, smiling like a man who could steal the heavens and present them to her on a silver platter.

Then a sharp blow at the base of her skull and the sky folded away.

The carriage rocked. Each bounce sent vines of pain along her arms and legs as the bindings drew tighter. She tasted copper and fear. Her breath came ragged and hot, heavy with worry that tasted almost like grief. If she had been taken, then Selvier might have been taken as well. The thought cut across her more fiercely than the ropes that bound her wrist and feet.

The idea of him bound, of him treated as disposable because he had been near her when fate turned its face away, rose in her throat like bile. Memory after memory of training in the Ashen Masquerade offered no comfort. It had taught her control, deception, graceful brutality. None of it had taught her how to feel when the man she loved could become a ledger entry on a ledger of enemies.

She fought to keep her mind from collapsing into panic. She slowed her breathing. She reached for the world with more than hope. She flexed her toes. She lifted her feet and felt blindly for anything solid beneath them. Nothing answered.

That was their first mistake.

The Masquerade had made her body a map of small impossible contortions. With a practiced twist born of countless drills and the kind of flexibility that had once been praised by instructors and feared by rivals, she shifted her arms from behind her back to the front. Pain flared and then dulled as she worked the bonds loose. Her fingers found the edge of the blindfold. She peeled the cloth away and blinked into shadow until her eyes refocused.

Selvier was not in the carriage.

There was something else about the bindings, something her fingers understood now that sight had returned.

These were not the rough, coarse ropes of highway brigands. The strands were fibrous and alive with a certain stubbornness. They cut into her skin like plant-flesh. Vines. The sort of vines that curled and tightened when tugged. Vines that grew where Edornian soil met Ignivar light. Solkarath’s third princess bound with Edornian growth. That meant foes with knowledge, enemies with names and grudges and a hatred for the Heliarchy. The thought was almost laughable if the laughter had not turned to a bitter cough.
She eased the door open with a tenderness that belonged to thieves and assassins who could coax silence from the world. Two carriages rolled along the same dark track.

Another coach rode ahead, the close lanterns stuttering like tired will-o’-wisps. She could not tell if Selvier rode there, but instinct told her to assume he did. Slipping from her own carriage, she moved like a shadow that had learned to walk among men, reaching the seat where a driver seized the reins. The man did not know the curve of her hands, the way they could force obedience from leather and beast. Before he could bewilder himself, she pushed him aside and took the reins. Her first time commanding a carriage felt ridiculous under her palms, but urgency is a teacher that erases hesitation. She urged the team on, the animals answering the human scent of command and the soft cruelty of her will.

Night was a poor painter. The trees were suggestion and silhouette. Still, she urged the horses forward until she could not see the first carriage anymore. She let them fall into the dark of the half-remembered road and then leapt with the kind of reckless grace cultivated in years of training. She landed in the rear of the other coach and the world erupted into noise, wood cracking, horses shrieking as her own team bolted and toppled. The clatter and chaos should have been enough to draw every head, but the men inside the other carriage were talking as if they expected nothing but congratulations.

She pressed her ear to the splintered wood and listened to voices that made her stomach go cold. The first voice was oily with triumph. The second had the low, familiar cadence that had once settled her like a hearth.

“What took you so long, boy?”

The first man asked. The implication of his words was a hook under her ribs.

The other voice was Selvier’s.

“I should have sent word to Elkan that I finally had her eating from my palm. It took some time but I needed her to trust me. It was not hard. I have the princess. My mission is complete.”

The sound of his voice on that sentence was a blade across every certainty she had ever held. Her hands began to shake. Blood darkened the tips of her fingers where the vine had dug into flesh. Memory of his face—the smile that had once rearranged constellations for her—broke in her mind and fell away like glass.

/You are not broken/ he had told her once. He had said it with conviction, with the tender cruelty of one who believes in the power of promises. She had believed him.

Now belief was ash in her mouth.

Her hand closed around the iron bar at the back of the coach. She found the dagger she always wore at her hip, the one folded into the band of her pants. Her fingers were clumsy with adrenaline and grief, but she worked the blade into the axle of the wheel, into the small apertures where wood met metal. She felt the carriage shudder as the wheel caught and bucked.

The horses answered with a panic that was almost musical. The coach lurched, the world pitched, and she leapt away just before splinters rained down.

Solenya could have run until her feet bled as soon as the second carriage toppled over. She could have fled into the trees and let the night hide her, let the pain of betrayal dull slowly beneath the constant work of survival. Instead she stood in the spill of moonlight by the wreckage, watching the men spill from the ruined carriage. She waited for the man she had loved to appear.

When he emerged, his face was the face of the man who had stood with her under constellations, and yet something in his eyes had been hollowed out. In that hollow she saw a mirror of her own shattered faith.

“I should kill you where you stand.” she said. The words tore from her in a voice that cracked with emotion. Hot tears burned tracks down her cheeks. She took a step back into shadow as if to measure his reaction, to see a shard of regret or a flash of recognition.

He could have bound her again with those same living vines. He could have pulled the world out from under her feet with a single command. He could have done any number of things and ended her struggle so the story of that night would become a footnote in some ledger.

Instead he stood there like a man who had just added another ghost to the ones he already carried, and she who feared she was becoming one is now certain.

Anger burned through her like a brand. “I will kill you, Selvier Bryr. If it is the last thing I am permitted in this realm, I will end you,” she announced. The words felt like a curse and like a prayer at once, directed only at him.
Men emerged from the wreckage, boots stamping into mud. Solenya had to choose. She backed away until the forest swallowed the trail. Then she ran, not with a plan but with a promise. She would survive, she told herself, the way every blade of grass survived Solkarathi summers and every scar learns to be a story. She would endure this betrayal and all the fractures it left behind.

By some wretched luck, Solenya had managed to outrun them. Bruised and bloodied, she had clawed her way back to the Masquerade. She spoke of Edornian vines, of whispered plots, and of a man whose name she had once breathed with tenderness. A man who was once amongst their assets. Selvier Bryr.

The Masquerade listened, grim-faced, and Solkarath’s judgment was swift. Within days, wanted posters would plaster the taverns and market squares, Selvier’s likeness staring back in charcoal strokes from every wall and post. His name would ride on the wind, carried from fortress to fishing village.

But no decree, no bounty, no kingdom’s wrath could compare to the raging fire now burning within Solenya. Selvier’s betrayal had carved itself too deeply into her soul, and nothing short of his blood would erase it.
He would be wanted by many. But above all, he would be wanted by her. At the very top of Solenya Aurelthane’s kill list, his name burned like a star that would not fade until she had torn it from the heavens herself.

ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙʟᴇᴇᴅ ᴍʏ ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜ ꜰᴏʀ ᴡᴀʀᴍᴛʜ ᴏɴᴄᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ.
ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ʜᴏʟʟᴏᴡ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴍʏ ʟᴜɴɢꜱ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅᴀʀᴇ ᴅʀɪɴᴋ ɪɴ ʀᴇʟɪᴇꜰ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ.
ɪ ᴡɪʟʟ ꜱᴛɪʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ɪᴛ ᴅᴀʀᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴇᴡ.

# data[].attributes.headline
    ♔ — ʙᴜʀɴᴇᴅ, ʙᴜʀɪᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ — ♔

# data[].attributes.subject
    ♔ — ʙᴜʀɴᴇᴅ, ʙᴜʀɪᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴏʀɢᴏᴛᴛᴇɴ — ♔

# data[].attributes.body
[ᴍɪᴅ-ᴜᴍʙʀᴏꜱᴀʀ 1500]

“Another one arrived for you today.”

King offers her the crimson envelope without his usual riddles or half-hearted jests, his expression composed, almost too composed. For a moment, Solenya thinks he might truly be turning over a new leaf. But then a grin breaks across his face, sly and unrepentant, cracking through the facade. Just as she reaches out to take the envelope, he pulls his hand back ever so slightly, just enough for her fingers to miss.

Her eyes narrow, unamused.

Satisfied with her reaction, he relents and extends the letter once more. This time, she takes it without hesitation, offering a quiet word of thanks, her gaze fixed somewhere beyond his shoulder. She does not wait for a reply.

Crimson letter now in hand, she turns and walks back toward her tent. Her steps are measured and purposeful, though each one feels weighted by the familiar burden the letter brings. The heaviness wraps around her shoulders like an old, unwelcome cloak or a tight imperial corset, one she had hoped never to wear again.

Formal summons from Ignivar Spire had begun arriving for Solenya Aurelthane since the final days of Rekindra. And now she found herself staring down another official summons. She had answered the first one, expressing that she does not wish to return for whatever reason they needed her to.

And yet, the letters persisted. No matter where the Ashen Masquerade camped—the summons would find her. Always marked with the unmistakable seal of the House of Eternal Embers, each one arrived like a polished shackle, delicate in presentation but impossible to put off for any longer.

A command. A pull. An expectation to return.

To return “home.”

But Ignivar Spire had not been home for a long time. And if Solenya was honest with herself, it never truly had been. The opulent corridors, the cold brilliance of its gilded halls—they had always belonged to someone else..Her siblings perhaps, but not her. Never her.

It was in moments like these that Solenya found herself wishing the flame answered to her will. Had she been gifted with igniscraft, the letters would never have made it past her fingertips—reduced to ash before they could burden her further.

But she did not command fire, even as the phantom warmth teased the tips of her fingers.

So, as with all the others that had come before, she walked to the hearth and cast the crimson envelope into the waiting blaze. It landed softly among the embers and the fire took to it with startling ease, devouring the wax seal and fine parchment as though it had been made for this purpose alone. . .Fuel for a flame that seemed to understand her quiet defiance.

“Home had never,” she murmured under her breath, watching the ashes curl and darken, “and will never be Ignivar Spire again.”

The fire crackled in answer, and she turned away before the last of the envelope was gone.

# data[].attributes.body
hello! you can call me chevalier/knight or any of my characters' names

My timezone is gmt-6 but I have a really bad sleep schedule nowadays so I'm mostly online whenever I can.

Writing style and length: 3rd pov only. Para to novella, please don't be pressured to mirror but also please no one liner replies. My replies could get lengthy especially in settings that require me to describe a scene but do let me know if it ever becomes too much! I'd be happy to adjust to a length that suits both of us. I'm not too fond of "going with the flow" in terms of threading. At least have an idea if you're the one approaching me to plot because I will have ideas if I'm the one approaching you.

If the thread is unreplied for a month without prior communication then I will drop it out of respect for the both of us.

I prefer plotting over winging a storyline so we have a clear understanding of what we both want out of a connection.

Do not force a narrative that we both did not agree on. I will be vocal if the thread derails from what we originally discussed. Please do not take offense. I expect you to do the same if you see me writing something that has not been discussed prior (this rarely happens, but I am human too and we all make mistakes.) I will, and have dropped threads simply because my characters have been godmodded.

If you mention my character in any form of writing, please give me a heads up first!

HARD NOs

any plots involving incest/familial relations.

detailed SA or multiple mentions of it during a thread without prior discussion.

vore

terminal illness and the extensive writing of it.

god modding

ooc drama

Genres I'm comfortable with:

angst

tense/antagonistic relations

romance (only plotted.)

smut (minors dni) (only when it helps drive the plot, I will not write pwp)

DON'T BLUR OOC AND IC LINES, THAT'S WEIRD. Lets have fun!

Even if a connection shows potential for an endgame, that doesn’t mean it's set in stone unless we have both agreed. Please avoid making assumptions without proper communication. I strongly believe that open and ongoing dialogue is essential, so I prefer in-depth discussions both before and during a thread.

Do let me know if you want to drop a thread. No hard feelings! A heads up is much appreciated <3

# data[].attributes.body
Type: Mentor

# data[].attributes.headline
             ♔ — ʜᴇʀ ʀɪɢʜᴛꜰᴜʟ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ. — ♔

# data[].attributes.subject
             ♔ — ʜᴇʀ ʀɪɢʜᴛꜰᴜʟ ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ. — ♔

# data[].attributes.body
[ ᴛʜᴀʟᴏꜱ , 1500 ]

The snow had scarcely melted against Solenya’s traveling cloak when the caravan from Aersahir crossed the borders of Edrathin. Their stop here was little more than a pause, a waystation before the long road back to Solkarath.

As ever, the assignments given to the Masquerade were draped in secrecy, arriving only when the Imperium required its spies to move at their bidding. Yet Solenya found herself unable to focus on the veiled orders that had carried them this far. A certain councilor’s words lingered in her mind like a thorn, turning rest into restlessness, thought into a fever that gnawed at her in the silence of the miles. She had not truly slept since the caravan departed Galean.

With eyes ringed in red, she stared at the passing forests and pale valleys as though imprinting them onto her memory, savoring every detail with the awareness that such freedom might soon be denied to her.

For the assassin called Sol had long known that her “exile” into the service of the Masquerade was nothing but a cruel reprieve. It had been granted to silence scandal, to spare the Heliarchy further shame, to cast her away into the shadows where she could do less harm.

It was mercy only in name, a leash woven of silken promises. She had lived on borrowed time, and now the chains she had once thought loosened began to tighten again, tugging her back toward the throne she had been forced to abandon.

Her true place had never been beneath the striped tents of crimson and white, never among silken ribbons swaying over adoring crowds who clapped for masks they would never unmask. Nor was it even in the shroud of shadows where her daggers struck unseen, where she vanished like smoke and was remembered only in rumors.

Her place had always been in Ignivar Spire. That gilded cage of marble and gold, where duty wore the face of majesty and love was measured in obedience. No matter how far she wandered, the spire’s shadow had never truly left her. Aurelthane blood ran molten through her veins, cruel and imperious, waiting in silence. However long she tried to bury it, she could not tear it out.

And now the summons had come in the form of absolute orders, stripping away every mask, every alias, every breath of freedom she had stolen. The time had come to shed the layers she had wrapped around herself, to reveal the princess she had denied for so long.

--

That night, when the caravan halted in Edrathin to replenish its stores, Solenya slipped quietly from her tent. She left behind the trappings of her second life. The costumes that had clothed her in illusion, the daggers that had served her hands so faithfully, even the gilded bell that had always chimed faintly with her movements.

All of it remained in the canvas shadows of the Ashen Masquerade, as though the assassin had been a dream she was now waking from.

In the days that followed, proclamations from Ignivar Spire shook the courts of the Imperium. The third princess of Solkarath, long absent from the world and whispered to be lost in forced seclusion, had returned.

# data[].attributes.body
Solenya Aurelthane was born beneath a burning sky, her arrival marked by the rare brilliance of a flareveil. What should have been a moment of wonder, a celebration of another potential Heliarch brought safely into the world, was quietly overshadowed. Four children had already come before her, their names already etched in renown across the Imperium.

# data[].attributes.body
( age 5 )

It was then that she learned she could not obtain anything simply by wishing for it. Nothing was hers by birthright, not to demand but only to obey. She had asked for something simple: a cat from her queen mother. Instead, she was given a Varrakai hound pup, a creature bred for war and loyalty. But even that, she could not keep. The hound rejected her.

# data[].attributes.body
( age 12 )

The third princess met a friend who approached her without knowing she was a Heliarch, nor that she lived within the towering halls of Ignivar Spire. At that age, she was already painfully aware of court politics, of the masks people wore and the reasons they came close. So to be approached simply because she was seen, not for her title or name, sparked an unexpected friendship. Slowly, he slipped through the cracks of her carefully maintained facade of indifference. In time, he vowed to become her oathbound knight if she succeeded in her ritual flamebinding, a shared bid by two youngest members of their families to prove their worth to their kins who overlooked them.

# data[].attributes.body
( age 18 )

Perhaps there had been nothing in Solenya Aurelthane’s life that she had longed for more than her Ritual Flamebinding. It was the culmination of everything she had been raised to believe in—the moment she would claim her place among the Heliarchs not by name alone, but through fire and will. She had trusted in her birthright, in the blood that burned with ancient flame. She had spent her youth in endless preparation, meditating beneath the sun, breathing in smoke, learning to feel the flicker of embers within her soul. And yet, when the sacred moment arrived, when the flame was meant to rise at her command and crown her with its brilliance, it did not come. The fire did not answer her call.

# data[].attributes.body
( age 19 ) TW!!!

After nearly a year of wasting away in isolation within her flame-lit chambers in Ignivar Spire, Solenya Aurelthane, once the promising third princess of the Heliarchy, committed the unthinkable.

Unable to stand the sight of their daughter withering into a shadow of herself, the King and Queen made a decision born of necessity. They announced that Solenya would be traveling abroad as an envoy of the crown, an elegant lie that masked the truth.

In reality, she was being sent to the Ashen Masquerade, the Imperium’s most secretive and brutal order. There, under the guise of diplomacy, Solenya would be forged into something else entirely—not a princess of fire and ceremony, but a weapon cloaked in smoke and shadow. A future assassin trained in the art of silence, subterfuge, and death, chosen not for her strength, but perhaps for her brokenness.

And so, the girl who had once reached for the flame in hopes of calling it her own was instead cast into the dark to become something colder and far more dangerous.

# data[].attributes.body
( age 23 ) TW!!!

After years of relentless training, refined through the delicate grace of performance and the ruthless precision of death, Solenya was finally deemed ready. Her first mission came without fanfare, just a name, a face, and the order to eliminate. The life she took ended swiftly. There was no struggle, no chaos. It was clean, efficient, and executed with chilling accuracy. She wielded no magick, no fire, no warmth. Only the cold discipline the Masquerade had carved into her. And yet, in that moment, with her blade buried deep and her target crumpling silently to the floor, she felt something she had never tasted before.

Power.

Not the kind inherited through titles or bestowed by rituals, but raw and intoxicating power earned through her own hands. The knowledge that someone’s fate had rested entirely within her grasp stirred something dark and undeniable within her. A spark. Not of flame, but of something far more dangerous.

Whether she served the Imperium or not ceased to matter. What mattered was that, for the first time in her life, she held the reins of her own destiny. The invisible shackles of the Ignivar Spire still haunted her. But within the tent of the Ashen Masquerade, she found a strange and twisted kind of freedom. And that, she realized, was more than the Heliarchy had ever allowed her.

# data[].attributes.body
Type: ex lover Enemy

Dynamics: Antagonistic

# data[].attributes.body
Type: "Rivals"

Dynamics: Antagonistic

# data[].attributes.body
Type: Warden/Reluctant ally

Dynamics: Antagonistic