Kingdom of the Forgotten Sun

Vireya's laughter could silence a war drum and start one in the same breath. The Winding Flame followed her not because she ruled with fear, but because her courage was contagious, her madness inspirational, and her aim with a sling almost mystical.

That night, under the stars, Kael sat across from her while she sharpened a dagger against a whetstone carved with old tribal sigils. The blade hissed like a whisper between gods.

"You've got the look of a man who ran away from a fire," she said. "But not one who fears starting a new one."

"I didn't run," Kael replied. "I walked. Slowly. So they'd know I meant it."

She grinned. "That's either brave or stupid."

Kael smirked. "Often the same thing, just depends who writes the song."

He stood and looked out toward the forest's edge, where shadows danced with the flicker of flame. "I'm done letting kings shape the world. Now I'll build one they're afraid to enter."

Vireya stared at him for a long moment, then nodded.

"I've seen warlords, dreamers, cowards, and tyrants," she said. "You're something else. A wound that learned to walk."

"Maybe," he said, turning back to her, "but even wounds scar into something tougher."

A horn sounded in the dark, low and distant. One of the scouts. Trouble.

Without a word, Vireya tossed him a second dagger. "Time to earn your keep, prince."

He caught it mid-air. "Let's remind the trees what fury sounds like."

They ran into the night, side by side—two fires, unbound and unafraid.