The sun did not rise.


    Not because it was too early—


    but because this land had long been exiled from the light.


    The Great Furnace of the southern continent.


    At its heart, an army clad in ashen armor marched in perfect silence.


    No voices. No orders.


    Only frozen banners, and a trail of footsteps echoing like distant thunder.


    And at the head of the procession—


    walked a girl, bearing the dim glow of a sacred brand on her back.


    "O bearer of royal virtue, ascend the throne and usher in a new age.


    Take the thrones of all, and become the king of kings."


    The gods’ final testament.


    A promise few dared to believe anymore.


    But she...


    She held onto those words.


    And perhaps those words alone had brought her this far.


    Her people remembered.


    The day their gods shattered.


    The hour the throne split.


    Temples crumbling over divine relics,


    and nameless warriors wailing in the ash.


    Cecilia.


    To others, she was already Queen.


    But to herself, the word felt too large.


    Too heavy.


    Too distant.


    Everything had fallen.


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    Yet still, she stood.


    Why?


    What kept her walking?


    The memory crept upon her like smoke:


    A cathedral in flames.


    A crimson banner, soaked with blood.


    The impaled corpse of the former king.


    And she—


    alone, standing in the end.


    Not by grace.


    Not by fate.


    But by sheer, ruthless survival.


    Her sword had not been forged to protect a crown.


    It had been drawn to live.


    She stood now on the ruins of a shattered world,


    a crown forged in silence resting upon her brow.


    All answers were gone.


    Only her name remained.


    Since that day, a voice had followed her.


    Not hers.


    Not memory’s.


    But deep beneath the branded mark,


    something ancient—whispering like it had always been there.


    [O bearer of the brand.]


    [Child of ruin.]


    [Do you still believe in hope?]


    She gave no answer.


    But in the silence, she asked herself:


    "Did I truly survive, or have I only convinced myself I did?"


    "Whose will moves this sword? Whose age am I meant to continue?"


    A girl, not yet complete.


    Caught between hope and hatred.


    Still standing on crumbling ground.


    Not yet a queen—


    but already wearing the crown.


    She still wanted to believe.


    She still wanted to hope.


    She closed her eyes.


    Took a breath.


    And without realizing, whispered to herself—


    It will be alright.


    The throne was cold.


    The sword, heavy.


    But slowly,


    she sat.


    A girl upon a throne.


    Beneath a sky that had forgotten the dawn,


    the brand burned again—


    faint and trembling.


    But alive.