2025-11-19 16:46:59“Blood should protect blood—but some blood only thirsts for gold.”
The night the twins vanished from the Phoenix Realm, the mortal world slept beneath a quiet moon. No one in the small village of Emberfall knew that two divine infants—marked by ancient power—were about to return.
Not even the people who should have protected them.
A shimmering tear in space opened just above a shabby wooden crib inside Rylan and Seraphina’s tiny cottage. Light spilled across the walls in soft waves of white and gold. Then—gently, almost lovingly—two bundled infants drifted down onto the straw mattress.
Lyra whimpered.
Arin coughed once, then fell silent.
The house was empty.
The air smelled faintly of ash, as if Rylan’s life had burned away hours ago.
The twins, barely born, were already orphans.
But they were not alone for long.
A shadow moved outside the window.
Then another.
Whispers carried through the cracks in the wood. Ugly, greedy, excited whispers.
“Are you sure the Phoenix woman left treasure here?”
“I heard it from Elder Bram. She married into a divine clan. They must’ve gifted her something priceless.”
“Good! That fool Rylan didn’t deserve it anyway. That bastard hid everything from us!”
Rylan’s cousins.
His aunt.
All the people he had trusted since childhood.
Now circling his home like hungry wolves.
The cottage door creaked open.
A tall, wiry man stepped inside holding a lantern—Joren Vale, Rylan’s cousin, and the first to betray him when the Phoenix Clan arrived at the village weeks ago.
He sneered at the small, dimly lit room.
“So this is where the ‘great immortal bride’ lived.”
Behind him came Mirra—Rylan’s aunt—plump, sharp-eyed, and cruel in the gentle way only greedy relatives could be.
“Search everything,” she ordered. “We find the Phoenix gold before anyone else.”
The men spread out, tearing through shelves, ripping out floorboards, smashing furniture. Wood cracked, old memories shattered, and the twins began to cry from the crib.
Joren turned, startled. “What—?”
Mirra gasped. “Infants? Whose are—”
A third voice cut in.
“Look at their blankets.”
Everyone froze.
The speaker stepped forward—Elden Vale, Rylan’s uncle and the quiet ringleader behind every scheme the family had ever pulled. His eyes narrowed as he inspected the golden embroidery on the edges of the twins’ cloth.
“Phoenix sigils,” he whispered.
Gasps erupted.
Joren grinned wickedly.
Mirra clasped her hands with glee.
Elden’s smile was razor-thin.
“It means those children may have phoenix treasures hidden with them. Power. Artifacts. Maybe even divine inheritance.”
He stepped closer to the crib.
Arin flinched.
Elden’s pupils shrank.
“Careful,” he warned. “They might have something… dangerous.”
Mirra scoffed. “Dangerous? They’re infants, Elden!”
She grabbed the edge of Lyra’s blanket—and a spark of divine light shocked her backwards.
“AH!”
Elden crouched, intrigued. “So the rumors are true. These brats are part-immortal.”
Joren rubbed his hands eagerly. “Let’s sell them!”
Mirra gasped. “Sell them?! To who?”
“To traveling cultivators, of course,” Joren said like it was obvious. “To alchemists. To sects who experiment on—”
“NO,” Elden interrupted sharply. “We don’t sell the children.”
Everyone stared.
Elden’s eyes gleamed with ambition.
“We take whatever treasure they were sent with…
Mirra hesitated. “But—”
“No one will know,” Elden snapped. “The phoenix witch is gone. Rylan is gone. These children will only bring trouble.”
Lyra let out a small, frightened cry.
Arin reached out a trembling hand toward the man looming above them.
Elden ignored both.
He reached into the blankets—searching.
Searching for anything that shined.
And then he found it.
A small wooden box, the size of a fist, carved with divine runes and sealed by phoenix flame.
The moment Elden touched it, a warm pulse of power surged through the room.
Mirra inhaled sharply.
Joren’s eyes flashed greedily.
“I’m trying,” Elden grunted.
But the box didn’t budge.
Lyra’s glowing eyes turned toward the box.
Arin whimpered, pulling closer to his sister.
Mirra snapped her fingers.
Elden snarled. “I will NOT smash a divine artifact, you fool! We take it with us and break the seal later.”
“Fine,” Joren said. “But what about the children?”
Elden didn't even look at them.
Lyra suddenly screamed, her tiny voice trembling with terror.
The last thing their mother left behind.
Mirra sneered.
She reached toward them again.
This time, the divine protection seal did nothing.
The seal Seraphina placed only guarded against death.
Not cruelty.
Elden stuffed the artifact box inside his coat, ignoring the babies’ cries.
“Take the blankets too,” he said. “Phoenix fabric sells for high price.”
Mirra ripped the embroidered blanket off the infants. The sudden cold made both twins sob louder.
Their tiny bodies shook.
Joren laughed.
Elden smirked.
He turned toward the door.
But before he could step outside, a strange wind cut through the cottage—cold and sharp despite the summer night. The lantern light flickered.
A faint whisper traveled through the room.
Almost a voice.
Almost a warning.
“…mine…”
Elden froze.
Mirra’s skin prickled.
Joren swallowed. “The wind… it sounded like—like someone speaking.”
The whisper came again, louder.
“…my children…”
The twins suddenly stopped crying.
The air grew heavy.
And then—every flame in the room blew out at once.
Darkness swallowed the cottage.
Elden stiffened.
No answer.
Only the sound of a heartbeat—
But from the artifact box inside Elden’s coat.
Thump…
Thump…
Thump.
A seal awakening.
A warning.
A promise.
And then—
“…release them… or burn.”
The cottage walls shook.
Joren screamed.
Elden stumbled backward, clutching the artifact with trembling hands.
“This—this can’t be—”
The heartbeat in the box grew louder.
THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.
Lyra’s eyes glowed red-gold.
And the whisper rose again—
Not from the room.
But from inside Elden’s mind.
“…you have taken what is mine…”
And then—
A spark ignited.
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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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