Light has no place here.
Not true light. Not the sunlit warmth of morning or the steady glow of torches. This is something else. Pale. Soft. Like the echo of illumination, not the thing itself.
The door closes behind me. It makes no sound. But it might as well be thunder.
Lyra is gone.
The hall has become a chamber. No movement. No draft. The air is still, as if afraid to stir. As if it knows what comes next.
And then I hear it.
The sea.
Not loud. Not crashing. But distant, calm. A steady rhythm like breath. And when I turn, the stone walls are gone.
Sand beneath my feet. The sky painted in warm golds and deep lavender. A beach. One I know. One I shouldn't be in.
The Pendragon coast estate. We came here when I was very young. Before the academy. Before Echoes. Before expectations carved trenches into my heart.
I'm running. I can feel it now. I'm small. Light. Laughing. The sea breeze tastes of salt and promise. The sun kisses my skin with the gentleness reserved for children who still believe the world is kind.
And someone's chasing me. My father.
I know it's him. I feel it. The certainty of a memory that still hums warm in the chest. His laughter carries on the wind, a melody I once knew by heart.
"Can't catch me!" My voice is high, bright with innocence.
But when I turn to look—
His face is wrong. Blurred. Like watercolors left in the rain. Like trying to remember a dream when the day has already begun.
I stop. The joy freezes in my chest. I try to see. To listen. His voice is gone too. I remember the idea of it. Not the shape. Not the sound. Just the distant knowledge that it once filled spaces now hollow.
"Father?" I call out. My chest tightens.
Nothing. The sky flickers.
I reach for his face, desperate fingers grasping at mist. "Please," I whisper. "Let me see you."
It hurts. Like discovering a favorite story has no ending. Like realizing something precious is already gone. A knife of grief twists in my chest – not the sharp pain of new loss, but the dull, persistent ache of absence that's become familiar.
The sand shifts beneath my feet. The sea turns still.
He was real. I know he was real.
So why can't I remember?
I fall to my knees. The grains of sand cool against my skin as tears burn hot trails down my cheeks. "Come back," I beg. But the figure only blurs further, dissolving into the air that suddenly feels too thin to breathe.
The wind breaks. And with it, the illusion.
The sand fades. The warmth fades.
The chamber resets.
And when the walls reform, they bring another time.
The Pendragon estate again. Not the beach. The main halls. Bright with reliclight, humming low against polished stone.
I'm ten.
The halls are full of movement. Servants rushing like leaves caught in autumn wind. My mother is giving orders, her voice sharp and certain. Halric is reading something with narrow eyes, tension written in every line of his face.
They say her name.
"Lyra."
"The scan shattered the reader. No delay. We must act now."
"This is a resonance unlike anything we've seen."
They speak with urgency. With awe. With reverence reserved for miracles and omens.
And I'm standing there. Forgotten. A ghost in my own home.
It is my birthday.
I've been waiting since dawn. Counting hours. Anticipating the moment my mother would look at me with pride instead of assessment. When she would see me as her son, not her legacy.
There is no celebration. No gift. No word. Only a passing glance from my mother, not even aimed at me but through me, as if I were made of glass.
I stand straighter. Chin high. The way a Pendragon should.
"Mother," I say, voice small but steady. "I turned ten today."
She pauses. Blinks. Confusion crosses her face before recognition dawns.
"Of course," she says, distracted. Her hand brushes my shoulder, too quick to feel like affection. "Happy birthday, Juno. We'll celebrate properly when this matter is settled."
But her eyes are already back on the papers. On Lyra's name.
And I know, with the terrible clarity of childhood disappointment, that there will be no celebration. That this girl I've never met has already taken something from me I can never get back.
The chamber shifts again.
A training hall.
A week later.
I've just finished a spar. The instructor is nodding with approval. My bladework clean. Precise. The other kids praise me, their voices a balm on wounds still raw.
"Form perfect as always, young Pendragon," the instructor says. "A natural talent with the blade."
Pride blooms in my chest, warm and bright. This is my domain. My birthright. Here, I matter.
A name catches my ear. On the sparring list.
Lyra.
I turn to watch, curiosity mingled with the arrogance of assumed superiority.
She's smaller than I expected. Her hair dark and tangled, tied back poorly. Her uniform doesn't fit. The sleeves hang past her wrists, the collar too loose on her thin neck. A commoner. An outsider. Nothing like the prodigy they whispered about.
She stumbles in the stance drill. One foot catching on the other, her balance wavering like a candle in the breeze.
I smile. Not kindly.
A nobody, I think. I've been called a prodigy. A Pendragon through and through. My footwork is crisp. My strikes like clockwork. My name carries weight that hers never will.
She trips again, and laughter ripples through the training hall.
And I relax. Some part of me giddy with relief. The world makes sense again. Order restored. Whatever they saw in her scan must have been a mistake. It had to be.
But then the instructor calls for a match. Not against me. Against a boy five years older. Sixteen. Already a knight in training. His body hardened by years of discipline, his eyes confident with victories I've counted with envy.
I blink. Mistake. Has to be.
"She's just a girl," someone whispers behind me.
"She's too small," another agrees.
They set it anyway.
And I watch, a smirk playing at the corners of my mouth. Ready to witness the natural order reassert itself.
What happens next is not a duel. It is a performance. A weaving of movement and grace.
She doesn't just fight. She flows. Each motion is a melody of instinct and form.
She dances between his strikes. Her spear sings. It's no longer wood and metal but an extension of her will, tracing patterns in the air that seem to follow rules of another world entirely.
The older boy lunges. She isn't there. He strikes. Her spear meets his blade with a sound like bells. He pushes forward with strength that should overwhelm her, and she turns it against him, like water redirecting a stone's fall.
And the moment she lands the final blow, clean and quiet, the entire room is frozen.
I feel something cold settle in my chest. Ice spreading through veins that moments ago ran hot with confidence.
I look down at my hands. At my perfect stance. At the training sword, I've mastered.
And none of it matters anymore.
My smile doesn't return.
Another memory bleeds in.
I'm fifteen.
A story is being told. An old soldier with a voice like dry parchment is recounting the campaigns of Emperor Caelus Vire. His face is a map of scars and wrinkles, each line a story unto itself.
"The emperor stood alone," he says, voice reverent. "The enemy host before him, his own men fallen behind. And he raised Aegis to the heavens—"
I listen. Captivated. Even though I know the history. Even though I've read the texts. Even though I've heard this tale a dozen times before. There is something in the old man's voice that brings it to life – makes it real in a way books never could.
"And the gods themselves answered," the soldier continues, eyes distant with memory not his own. "Light broke from the shield like dawn after the longest night."
I lean forward. Heart racing with possibility. With ambition.
He speaks of the shield. Aegis. Divine Echo. The object of my desire.
And I think of the vault.
Later, I visit. Alone.
The shield rests on its mount. Timeless. Divine. Gold and silver swirling in patterns that seem to move when I look away. Ancient power sleeps within it, I can feel it humming in the air, in my bones.
I press my hand to it.
Nothing.
Again. Nothing.
The third time, I close my eyes. I focus. I pour every drop of my Pendragon blood, every ounce of my will, into the touch.
Nothing.
I don't feel ashamed. Not really. Aegis is legendary. One does not tame a legend in a day.
"I'll be worthy," I whisper to it. "One day. I'll be worthy."
And I believe it. I am Juno Pendragon. I am destined for greatness. The failures are temporary. Stepping stones.
And yet...
One week later.
Lyra walks the estate. Invited. Honored. A commoner treading the halls built by my ancestors.
I see her again. She's taller. Her features are sharper. But those eyes are the same. Deep, simmering red, like embers beneath frost. Her skin holds the warm bronze of desert earth after rain. Beauty that doesn't belong in our cold, stone halls.
We tour the vault.
She stares at the relics with wide-eyed wonder. Until she sees it.
Aegis.
She approaches it slowly. Not with the confidence of a Pendragon. Not with the reverence of someone who's heard the stories since birth. But with curiosity. With innocence.
I watch. Curious. Jealous. Silent. A stone in my throat that I can't swallow past.
She reaches out. Her hand, smaller than mine, delicate where mine is strong, touches the shield.
It glows.
It sings.
And it moves.
Syncs.
I hear the gasps. The disbelief.
A guide drops his quill. The sound echoes like thunder in the sudden silence.
My uncle stares as if witnessing prophecy, his face pale with awe.
"Impossible," he whispers. "She's just a child."
She turns. Her eyes are wide with surprise. With wonder. Not with the triumph I would have felt. Not with the arrogance I would have worn.
The shield settles on her back. Ancient gold against her simple clothes. Divine light illuminating her commoner's face.
And I feel something in my chest twist so hard it leaves an ache that never quite fades. A wound that won't heal. Because this was to be my moment. My destiny. My birthright.
Instead, I stand in her shadow. Again.
I turn away. I cannot bear to look. Cannot bear to see what was never mine to claim.
The scene changes again.
I'm seventeen.
The Academy arena.
A sea of students. Professors. Observers. Even my mother, her face a careful mask of indifference that doesn't quite hide her interest.
I've worked for this. Years of discipline. Of study. Of pain. Of pushing my body past limits that should have broken me. All for this moment.
Lyra stands across from me.
Spear in hand. Calm. Focused. Her hair tied back neatly now, her uniform fitting perfectly. No longer the stumbling girl. No longer the outsider.
I hold my blade. Ready. This is my chance. The gap has closed. It has to have closed. I've bled for it. Sacrificed for it.
"Begin!" calls the master.
We fight.
And the world forgets to breathe.
We trade blows like storm and fire. She parries. I press. The crowd roars. My blade whistles through the air, finding nothing. Her spear darts like a viper, testing, probing.
I'm good. Better than good. I'm exceptional. Every instructor has said so. Every peer has acknowledged it.
I drive her back three steps. Satisfaction burns in my chest. I see surprise in her eyes. Good. Let her know. Let her see what a Pendragon truly is.
The crowd's energy fuels me. Their gasps at my technique feed something hungry inside me.
And then—
She changes.
Her movements refine. Transcend. It's as if she's been holding back. As if everything before was mere pretense.
Her spear becomes a blur of motion. Not just fast, impossible. Not just skilled, divine.
I can't keep up. For all my birthright. For all my proclaimed gifts. For all my training.
She disarms me. My blade spinning away like a child's toy.
Defeats me. The point of her spear at my throat, her eyes not triumphant but apologetic.
The crowd doesn't cheer.
They stare.
At her. At what they've witnessed. At the impossible made flesh.
And I feel the final break.
The realization that the gap never closed.
It only widened.
All my work. All my pain. All my sacrifices. For nothing.
I kneel in the dirt. Defeated not just by her spear but by the truth it reveals. That some heights cannot be reached by will alone. That some talents cannot be earned through blood and sweat.
That I will always be second.
I fall to my knees.
The chamber fades around me. But I stay kneeling.
My hands shake.
The dungeon is silent.
But it knows.
It has seen me.
And it remembers too.
The taste of salt on my lips isn't from the memory of the sea. It's tears. Hot and bitter with truths I cannot escape.
Second best.
Almost enough.
Never her.
I press my hands to the cold stone floor. Ground myself in its solidity while my mind threatens to scatter like leaves in the wind.
I am Juno Pendragon.
But what does that mean when the name itself isn't enough?
What am I when the shadow I've lived in has grown so large I can no longer see the light?