To The Red Line

Spirits are ethereal and ancient beings. They are inherently more powerful than mankind. With pointed ears, sharpened claws, and inborn instincts for violence. They walk the line between divinity and destruction. They are predators of grace.

Footsteps echoed—heavy, deliberate—through the otherwise silent corridors of the castle.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed through the otherwise silent corridors of the castle. The metallic clink of golden chain mail, adorned with the blazing phoenix crest of Kingdom of Zágan’s royal line, accompanied the sharp rhythm. The phoenix, its wings outstretched in mid-rise, gleamed with an otherworldly gold that shimmered with each step.

The tall figure moved with urgency, winds sweeping through his long, tied maroon hair as he sprinted through stone halls bathed in morning light that filtered through stained-glass windows. Each stride was fuelled not just by haste, but by dread. Something gnarling inside him — an instinct honed by both love and leadership — knew this day would break him.

Finally, he reached his destination. Massive dark coral doors that loomed like sentinels of fate. With a breath to steady his racing heart, he gripped the doorknob. Fingers trembled. He pushed it open.

Emerald eyes scanned the chamber. By the grand bed, a regal figure knelt. Tall, broad-shouldered, his face aged by grief. One hand rested over his chest as if to still the breaking inside. A woman stood beside him, clad in flowing white robes of silky armoured fabric, trimmed with silver thread that caught the light like moonlight on fresh snow. Both turned as the newcomer entered.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” the knight said solemnly. “We’ve tried everything within our powers to save her. But...” The words hung, unfinished.

The Spirit King fell to his knees. His hands trembled as they covered his face, and the world seemed to crumble in his silent grief. Reliana, his beloved... gone. The weight of their final moments, of words unspoken, bore down on his shoulders like stone.

A gentle hand rested on his shoulder. “Though Her Majesty is no longer with us,” said the woman in robe softly, “She has bestowed upon us her undying love.” She lifted the King on his feet, guiding him toward a small cradle behind her.

He froze. The tears stopped. His breath caught.

A pink-swaddled infant lay asleep in the cradle, her tiny form serene, untouched by the storm of sorrow around her. Her soft skin seemed to glow in the morning light, a stark contrast to the heaviness in the room.

“...Ferid,” the knight murmured, placing a hand on the King’s shoulder.

Ferid stepped forward, his grief-stricken face softening into a tender smile. He reached in and lifted the newborn carefully, holding her close, pressing a trembling kiss to her forehead. A warmth bloomed in his chest, like a spark of life rekindled from ash.

“Our daughter... Thank you, Reliana,” he whispered, voice catching on the edge of his breath.

“May I present — Her Royal Highness the Crown Princess and future Queen of Zágan,” the robed woman announced, her voice full of reverence.

A sob caught in the knight’s throat. “There’s more than just one… Ferid.” He held out a second bundle, in blue, this time. “A double blessing.”

Ferid’s golden eyes flickered to the infant boy. He gently laid the princess in his arms, next to her brother. His hand lingering on the carved cradle. For a moment, the silence returned, but it was different now.

Expectations. Tense.

“What shall we do with this little one?” The robed woman asks, pointing at the blue bundle.

A weighted silence fell.

In the Spirit community, twins were rare and powerful symbols. Identical twin daughters meant blessings beyond measure. Twin sons, however, were believed to bring misfortune and ruin. Many families, fearing divine wrath, exile, or worse, execute such children.

Fraternal twins, though rarer still, brought their own grim burdens: a son born with a daughter was seen as a shadow to her light, an omen cast from divine displeasure.

The Royal Family was no exception. Where princesses were heralded in celebration, sons faced assassination, abandonment, or lives of political enslavement. Few survived. None ruled.

Inside the King’s chamber, tension cracked the air.

The knight stood ready. If ever Ferid uttered the order to kill the young Prince, he would disobey and draw his blade, against his own King. Too many times he had seenghosts of past princes, silenced in their cradles, haunted his conscience.

Ferid’s emerald eyes stared at his children. Slowly, he sighed with a resolve.

“We shall raise them both,” Ferid declared, voice firm but gentle. “No child of mine shall suffer beneath archaic superstitions. These two are not burdens or omens. They are the loves Reliana and I shared. More than heirs. More than symbols. They are ours. Our blood. Our legacy. Our future.”

The knight exhaled deeply, relief etched across his face. He had known Ferid would not bend. As a commoner-turned-King, Ferid had seen what blind tradition did to families. He’d seen children cast into snow, mothers stripped of joy, fathers forced into betrayal. When Reliana’s health waned during her pregnancy, he had sworn to end the cycle. It was a promise carved into his soul.

“The Prince shall become his own person,” Ferid continued, “Not a pawn to marriage nor a name on parchment. He will rises through study and strength, and rules beside his sister as equal. Together, they will protect this Queendom and rewrite what legacy truly means.”

The woman smiled warmly. “What would you call them, Your Majesty?”

“Makai and Mika,” Ferid answered. “Makai means ‘Protector’, and Mika means ‘Future’. Let them be our lights. Our burning flames in the darkness.”

Word of the Queen’s passing swept swiftly across Zágan and beyond. Mourning cloaked the Queendom in silence. Yet, amidst sorrow bloomed fragile hope—the birth of a future Queen.

But hope curdled into fear.

The news of her twin brother ignited panic. Whispers turned to demands. Many called for the Prince’s execution, convinced disaster would follow if he lived. The old beliefs ran deep. Fear, deeper still.

Fearing for their safety, Ferid confined the twins within castle grounds. A secluded manor was built, hidden behind fortified walls laced with protective runes. Only trusted servants tended them. Even among knights, dissent festered—some still hungered for the prince’s blood, believing his existence cursed.

Years passed. On the twins’ seventh birthday, exactly five centuries after the Peace Treaty’s signing, tragedy returned with vengeful force.

Human forces launched a brutal surprise attack on Zágan.

Sanctified lands, believed blessed by the ancients, were drowned in blood and fire. Spires crumbled. Ritual halls were scorched. Any hope for reconciliation between the realms turned to ash.

At the centre of it all was the battlefield known as the Red Line—so named for the crimson sands at the border’s heart. It had once marked unity. Now it bore only death.

The conflict was swift and savage.

Then… A force, unknown and devastating, erupted amidst the chaos. It tore through both Spirit and human armies with neither mercy nor logic. The very sky split open. The earth groaned. The remaining Fulainan soldiers stood frozen, unable to explain what they had witnessed. Some wept. Others ran. Most never spoke again.

Whispers in Fulaina spread like wildfire. Stories of divine wrath. of Ifrat, the God of Peace and Justice, punishing the Spirits for violating sacred balance. That was the tale they told.

Soon after, a man called Master Oracle Khulai emerged from solitude. A mystic of great power, he sealed the portal between realms. His chants echoed across the border for days. When silence fell, the realms were forever divided.

The humans returned home as victors.

History called it “The Great Man’s War.”

But the truth—who started the war, why it truly began—was buried beneath propaganda and fear. Only a few knew what really happened. They were silenced either by blade, or by fear. The fate of the Spirits that day remained unknown. Vanished without a trace.

Until now.