A man and a woman stand on a path in a field of purple flowers, looking at a castle under a sky beam in a dark fantasy setting.

There was no roar of war, no clash of swords. There was only the soft rustle of leaves in the garden and the scent of flowers in bloom when the sky split open and the darkness came. He stood among the irises, his mother beside him. Above them, the high kiln burned silver, its fire pouring down over Castle Luminara like liquid mercury. It was a symbol of the magic in their blood, of the fire every royal male could create for generations. It was a symbol of safety, of peace, a bright beacon only complimented by the world around it. See more