2025-11-19 16:46:31The Phoenix Realm shimmered beneath an eternal dawn—a world of gold skies, floating islands, and crimson flames that danced like living ribbons through the air. Sacred firebirds soared overhead as Seraphina stepped through the portal, wrists bound, the twins clutched tightly to her chest.
Every step she took burned.
Not from the flaming marble floors beneath her, but from the hollow ache in her heart—Rylan’s last scream echoing over and over.
Rylan was gone.
Thrown into the Abyss.
Broken… certainly.
And she had done nothing.
Her breath shook, but she held her children closer as the Phoenix soldiers escorted her through the towering palace gates. Statues of phoenixes—gleaming with ruby and gold—lined the hall, watching her with cold, stone eyes.
Waiting.
Judging.
Condemning.
At the end of the grand hall sat the throne of the Phoenix Clan—high, blazing, and intimidating. And on it—
The Phoenix Matriarch, Aristeia Flameborn.
Her aura alone made the air tremble. Her wings were vast, shimmering with molten gold and crimson, each feather radiating enough heat to melt steel. Even the elders bowed before her.
Seraphina did not.
Matriarch Aristeia’s gaze swept over her daughter without warmth.
Seraphina stiffened. “He was my husband.”
“A mortal cannot be a husband to a Phoenix.”
Her gaze slid to the infants in Seraphina’s arms.
“—are abominations.”
The twins whimpered softly, sensing the hostile energy around them. Tiny wisps of divine aura flickered from their bodies—fragile, unstable, yet astonishingly potent.
Seraphina instinctively wrapped her wings around them.
The Matriarch rose slowly from her throne. Even the flames bent toward her, bowing in reverence.
“This clan,” Seraphina hissed, “is the one that should be ashamed.”
A murmur rippled through the hall.
The Matriarch descended the steps, each footstep echoing with power. She stopped only a few feet away from Seraphina, towering over her.
“Seraphina Flameborn,” Aristeia declared, “daughter of the Phoenix Lineage, you will surrender the twins.”
“No.”
A single word. Soft. Unshakable.
The Matriarch’s eyes hardened like molten metal cooling into stone.
She lifted her hand.
And the air thickened with killing intent.
Elder Vaelor stepped forward, bowing deeply.
Removed.
Erased.
Seraphina’s heart froze.
“They are a stain,” Elder Vaelor replied coldly. “A low-blood contamination. Neither mortal nor full immortal. Their existence threatens the foundation of our clan.”
Seraphina trembled with rage.
Gasps filled the hall.
The Matriarch’s aura surged, flames igniting across the marble.
Her voice sharpened into a blade.
“—they will forever be a reminder of your disobedience.”
Seraphina felt her pulse roar in her ears.
She knew this was coming the moment the clan portal opened.
Never accept the twins.
But to kill them?
No.
She tightened her grip on her children until her knuckles turned white.
“I carried them beneath my heart. I nurtured their souls. I heard their first cries. If you want them—”
Her wings unfurled fully, blazing white-gold.
“—you will have to kill me first.”
The hall fell deathly silent.
Elder Vaelor’s expression twisted with fury.
But the Matriarch silenced him with a raised hand.
She studied her daughter, disappointment flickering in her gaze.
“They are my children.”
Seraphina stepped back, wings shielding the twins completely.
Power surged around her.
Not enough to defeat the Matriarch.
But enough to make her point.
For a moment, the flames themselves hesitated.
Then the Matriarch exhaled slowly.
“Very well.”
Seraphina blinked.
“Since you will not surrender them alive,” the Matriarch said, her tone turning icier than frostfire, “I will take them from your corpse.”
Before Seraphina could react, the Matriarch struck.
A blast of phoenix fire erupted, slamming into Seraphina with the force of a falling star. Chains rattled violently as she was hurled backward, crashing into a wall. Her vision blurred, and pain shot through her chest.
The twins cried out, tucked safely under her wings.
“Do not harm them!” she gasped, trying to stand.
Another wave of flames smashed into her, pinning her to the ground.
Her wings burned.
Her breath shattered.
A soldier seized the chance and rushed forward—
Seraphina screamed, “NO!”
A brilliant white seal flashed from beneath the twins’ blankets.
A shield—one she had carved into their souls before leaving the mortal world—burst outward, flinging the soldier across the hall. He crashed into a pillar, coughing blood.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
“That seal…” an elder whispered, horrified. “A forbidden divine protection!”
Seraphina coughed blood, forcing herself upright despite the flames eating into her wings.
The Matriarch’s fury erupted.
“They are MY future,” Seraphina snarled.
The Matriarch raised her hand again, flames spiraling like a hellstorm.
“Break her wings,” she ordered. “Strip her cultivation. And lock her in the Celestial Furnace until she yields.”
Seraphina froze.
The Celestial Furnace.
“Mother… please…” her voice cracked. “Don’t do this. Don’t take them.”
The Matriarch turned away.
“The twins are to be killed at dawn.”
Seraphina’s heart shattered.
Soldiers seized her roughly, dragging her across the hall. Chains tightened around her limbs, scorching her skin with immortal heat.
“No! NO! LET ME GO!” she screamed, but her voice was drowned by crackling flames.
The twins cried desperately behind her, their tiny voices piercing the air.
And as she was dragged toward the Furnace, Seraphina did the only thing she could.
She whispered a spell—weak, cracked, but full of desperation.
A teleportation spark flickered under the infants’ blankets.
The Matriarch’s eyes widened. “STOP HER—”
But it was too late.
Light swallowed the twins.
And Seraphina smiled through her tears.
She had only one thought left—
Run, my children. Run far from this hell.
The Matriarch’s scream of rage shook the palace.
“FIND THEM!”
The world dissolved into flames—
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Chapter 13 — The Slum’s Three Friends
The slums were louder than usual that morning—shouts from street vendors, the clang of broken pots, the distant laughter of children pretending they weren’t starving. But beneath the noise, Arin felt a tension lurking in the air. As if the world itself was holding its breath after the strange symbol had appeared on their wall the night before.He kept Lyra close as they made their way toward the water barrels. Their shelter was no longer safe. They needed information—and allies.Whether he liked it or not.Lyra tugged on his sleeve. “Do you think someone will help us?”Arin hesitated. Help was hard to come by in the slums. But there were three people—three children like them—who had crossed paths with him enough times to matter.The first appeared without warning, as always.A cold voice cut through the morning air.“You’re late. The water’s almost gone.”Arin turned.Elira stood by the barrel, pale morning light reflecting off her dark hair. Her expression was as unreadable as ever—e
Chapter 12 — Arin’s First Faint Echo
The night fell heavy over the slums, carrying an unnatural chill that seeped through broken rooftops and thin blankets. Arin lay curled on the dirt floor beside Lyra, trembling uncontrollably. Sweat drenched his forehead. His breath came in ragged, uneven bursts.A fever—violent and sudden.Lyra had begged him to rest in the warmest corner of their makeshift shelter, but warmth felt like a distant dream. Every pulse of heat sent another wave of pain through Arin’s body, as though something inside him was fighting to break free.“Arin,” Lyra whispered, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “Please stay awake. Please.”He tried to respond, but the world around him blurred into a haze of shadows and muffled sounds.His fever wasn’t normal.His visions weren’t normal.And worst of all—the presence watching them earlier still lingered in the back of his mind.Arin gritted his teeth. “I’m fine.”The lie fell apart the moment it left his mouth. His body shook harder, his throat tightened, a
Chapter 11 — First Sign of Divine Bloodline
The slums woke slowly that morning, as if the sun itself hesitated to pour its light upon a place that forgot hope long ago. Thin smoke drifted from broken chimneys. Mothers shook dust from blankets. Children with hollow eyes hunted for leftover scraps from the market three streets away.But inside a narrow alley, beneath a collapsed roof held together by old rope and desperate faith, Arin and Lyra sat huddled beside a shivering stray dog.It had followed them for two days—limping, ribs showing, fur matted with dried blood. Arin had tried to scare it off at first. One more mouth meant one more problem. But Lyra… Lyra couldn’t walk away.She never could.“Arin,” she whispered, cupping the dog’s head gently. “He’s going to die.”Arin looked away. He hated this feeling—the helplessness of wanting to save but lacking the power, the food, even the freedom to try. He had nothing. He was nothing. And the world made sure he never forgot that.“We can’t save every dying thing,” Arin muttered.
Chapter 10 — Growing in Filth
The slums changed slowly—rotting boards collapsing here, a new layer of grime added there—but for Arin and Lyra, change happened whether they wanted it or not. Days turned into months; months slid into years. The world did not pause for abandoned twins.And so, they grew.Not in comfort or warmth, but in filth.The slums of Ember Hollow offered no kindness. The air always smelled of spoiled rice and smoke. Beggars fought over scraps. Children disappeared without a trace. Gangs controlled the alleys like miniature tyrants. But even in this cesspool, two small figures endured—thin, hungry, and clothed in stitched rags.Yet, they were always together.Always.At age five, Arin already possessed the shoulders and arms of a child who worked far beyond his years. Every morning, he hauled buckets of water for a local tavern in exchange for stale bread. Every afternoon, he carried wooden crates for vendors—sometimes for coins, more often for kicks to the ribs.But he didn’t complain.He could
Chapter 9 — A Miracle of Survival
The slums of Ember Hollow were places where even the moonlight hesitated to fall. Cracked rooftops leaned like broken ribs, and foul-smelling mist rose from open drains. Scavengers prowled the alleys—rats, thieves, and worse. In this forgotten corner of the realm, the cries of abandoned children were no more significant than the whistling of the wind.Tonight, however, something stirred differently.A faint, whimpering sound came from a dirty bundle near a collapsed wall. Two infants huddled together—one boy and one girl—wrapped in torn cloth that still carried the faint scent of phoenix ash. Their cheeks were smeared with dust, but their eyes glowed with unusual brilliance. The girl, Lyra, slept fitfully, clutching her brother’s sleeve. The boy, Arin, remained awake, tiny brows scrunched as though he sensed danger crawling closer.They were only a year old—soft, fragile, defenseless.Or so it seemed.A group of bandits moved through the slum path, boots splashing through muddy puddle
Chapter 8 — The Night of Abandonment
“Some stories begin with love. Theirs began with being thrown away.”Night fell harshly on Emberfall Village.A storm gathered above the rooftops, stirring dust and dead leaves through the narrow alleys. Windows shut early. Dogs hid under porches. Even the wind felt afraid.Two infants—one boy, one girl—shivered in an old wicker basket as they were carried under the cloak of darkness.Lyra’s tiny fingers clung to the frayed cloth.Arin, barely awake, whimpered against the cold.Joren Vale cursed under his breath as thunder rumbled overhead.“Damn these brats,” he spat, struggling with the basket. “Should’ve drowned them when we had the chance.”Mirra, walking beside him, hissed sharply, “Quiet! Elden said no bodies. Just leave them. Quick and clean.”“Clean?” Joren sneered. “We already burned their house.”Mirra slapped his arm. “Shut up!”Behind them, the burned remains of Rylan’s cottage still glowed faintly—embers simmering beneath the ash. The smell of smoke clung stubbornly to th
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