Aurelian Rosewood

The lanterns swayed in the hush of twilight, their glow soft and amber through the woven silk of spiderthread and glasswing. Aurelian stood barefoot at the edge of the Heartwood Tree’s root-ring, his long blue robes trailing like mist. High above, the first stars blinked into view: dim, uncertain, as though holding their breath.

The air was heavy with the scent of old rites: husks burned in sacred oil, petals crushed beneath smooth stones, the metallic scent of Velithra’s Kiss seeping from the ancient tree’s bark. The red-gold sap glistened along a shallow cut in the wood, catching moonlight. It dripped slow and steady into a polished wood bowl cradled in his hands. Myrri. He thought, closing his eyes. The Luna Moth sprite shimmered faintly in his aura, her wings barely stirring. Her calm was there — cool, silken, insistent. But, even she should not fill the hollow within his chest.

Tonight marked the end of the mourning vigil. It was meant to be a private closing, just him, the shrine, the tree, the stars. Thorne should have been here, but he had taken his vigil separately, privately. Away from me. The Glen had grieved quietly for a full lunar cycle. Now came the passing of the crown.

And yet no crown had been passed. No vows had been spoken.

He had delayed the rite for al long as he could, insisting on tradition, on reverence, on preparation. But, the truth lay dormant like ash in his chest. I am afraid, Myrri. He was afraid to rule and yet afraid not to rule. Thorne had challenged him for the crown, as was his right. They were twins, separated by mere minutes, and Aurelian had not argued his claim. It would be up to the Glen to decide, for their father had refused to.

He knelt slowly and poured the sap into the ceremonial flame at the shrine’s base. It flared violet, then gold, then settled into a steady glow. Visions curled within it: wings, smoke, war drums. His breath caught. Not again. He pushed the bowl aside and sat beside the flame, his head bent as his mind raced and he tried to see the path clearly. There could be only one king, only one prince could lead their kingdom, and Aurelian and Thorne had never been so split. The Glen was safe for now, but Velithra Noctis, known to the outsiders as Mothrisse, stirred in the night sky. Change was coming. Aurelian sought to defend against it, and Thorne sought to charge ahead, to wield change like a blade.

The shrine was so quiet. The wind was calm. Even the leaves seemed to pause, offering no guidance to the lost prince. “Father…” He murmured. “If I do this… Will I lose him, too?” The price seemed so steep. Footsteps sounded behind him and Aurelian straightened, turning to cast a blue-eyed glance over his shoulder as his silver hair fell down his back and against his large, splayed moth wings. “…This is a private vigil.” He said coldly, already slipping into his mask of serene indifference. But he did not want to be alone now. “State your purpose.”