"They call me blessed.
But I've never known freedom."
The Palace of Caelum stood suspended in the sky, carved from clouds and gilded stone. Seraphic music echoed faintly through its crystal corridors, as if the walls themselves hummed with divine elegance. But none of it mattered to the boy behind the veils.
Lysander Caelum, youngest prince of the Angelic Realm, sat curled in the corner of his chamber—his breathing shallow, eyes glazed with pain.
He looked nothing like a warrior prince.
At seventeen, his limbs were slender, almost delicate. Silvery-white hair spilled over his shoulders like moonlight, and his skin held the softness of untouched snow. But beneath the ethereal beauty was a body too frail to carry the weight of his name.
He coughed into a silk handkerchief—blood again.
Third time today.
A pair of healers rushed toward him. "Your Highness, you shouldn't sit by the window. The wind chills your lungs," one whispered gently, lifting him from the cold marble floor.
"I like the wind," Lysander murmured. "It reminds me of... something I've forgotten."
His voice, soft and melodic, carried an ancient ache. Even the healers paused, exchanging wary glances.
He wasn't supposed to speak of dreams. Or feelings. Or shadows in the light.
Lysander's chambers were enormous, but they felt like a cage. Sunlight poured in through arching windows, but it only made the shadows stretch longer.
He was royalty—but not like his brothers.
Prince Elion, the second-born, was a military genius.
Prince Aldros, the eldest, was power incarnate—a commander blessed by the Celestials themselves.
And then there was Lysander.
Weak. Fragile. Unworthy.
He had never been allowed outside the palace. His wings—though beautiful, feathered in soft blue and pearl—had never once tasted open skies. Every time he tried to walk the hallways unescorted, servants bowed in fear, priests whispered blessings, and guards subtly shadowed him.
Even his parents avoided him.
The Royal Family:
King Thalion, Lysander's father, hadn't looked him in the eye in over a year.
"Duty is above affection," the King once said. "A flawed vessel must not define the throne."
Queen Celestina was... different. Her eyes always looked like she wanted to say something, to reach out—but something held her back. Guilt, maybe. Or fear.
Lysander often caught her watching him from the grand staircase, expression unreadable.
He wanted to hate them.
He couldn't.
"If I can't make them proud... maybe I can at least make them see me."
Only one person treated him like more than a burden.
Erielle, his handmaiden and secret friend.
She wasn't of noble birth—just a garden girl who snuck into the palace kitchens once and got caught. Instead of punishment, Lysander had asked for her to be assigned to him.
"I need someone who doesn't lie with smiles," he told the High Steward.
Now she sat cross-legged on his bed, peeling fruit with her dagger. "You look like death again," she said bluntly, tossing him a slice.
"Isuppose I'm halfway there."
She rolled her eyes. "Don't flirt with death before you've even been kissed."
Lysander flushed. "Erielle!"
She cackled. "I'm serious, Your Pretty Sadness. You're almost eighteen. You've never been outside, never touched snow, never broken a rule. You need to live a little before the gods decide to play dice with your soul."
He bit into the fruit silently.
Eighteen.
The age the prophecy whispered of. The age his "mate" was supposed to find him.
Except... how could anyone love a prince too sick to stand, too isolated to speak?
That night, he dreamed again.
Of flames and blood, of lips whispering his name in a voice low and raw. A name that wasn't Lysander.
Seraphina.
In the dream, he stood naked under a blood moon, staring into eyes black as a void and burning gold in the center—eyes that watched him not with fear... but worship.
"You died for me."
"I'll burn the worlds again if you don't come back."
"Find me."
Lysander woke gasping. Sweat drenched his body, his pulse thundered in his ears.
Erielle rushed to his side. "Another nightmare?"
"No... not a nightmare," he whispered, trembling. "It felt real. Like I was someone else. Like I... knew him."
She stiffened. "You need to be careful. That sounds like soul memory. Forbidden magic."
He stared at his reflection in the window. His eyes shimmered silver... but for a split second, he saw fire in them.
At sunrise, High Priest Alvinar came to his chamber. The old man bowed, his white robes glowing.
"Your Highness. The stars align."
Lysander sat up. "What do you mean?"
"The prophecy. Your mate... is awakening. Soon, he will come for you. You must be ready."
Lysander's breath caught. "My... mate?"
Alvinar nodded solemnly. "If you do not meet him, you will die before your birthday. Your soul was split once. Only he can restore it."
"But who is he?" Lysander asked, voice cracking.
The priest hesitated.
"A soul long banished. From the realm you were taught to hate. He is—"
The old man coughed violently, blood spilling from his lips. His eyes widened with fear.
"Who did this?!" Erielle screamed.
The priest collapsed.
Before he died, he whispered one last thing into Lysander's hand:
"He waits. Two thousand years... in flame and agony.
When your wings turn black, he will come."
Lysander stands alone by his window again. This time, there's a pulse in the air—like a heartbeat from far, far away.
His wings flicker once.
The tips of his feathers are no longer blue.
They're turning black.