Long ago, the world was shaped by sacred elements.

  It is said the gods bestowed these gifts upon chosen mortals, that balance might be kept across the land.

  But time eroded divinity.

  What was once holy became corrupted.

  And the corrupt became despised.

  Now, in this age, those born with power are few—and hunted.

  Not by kings, but by the very masses they once ignored.

  The common folk, once humble, now march beneath the banner of Solara, the Empire of the Sun, and call themselves Sunnites.

  Among them, a select few rise above the rest through sheer strength and unwavering discipline.

  Those who attain mastery are chosen to serve beneath one of the Eight Banners of Solara—sacred orders that burn at the empire’s core.

  Each Banner is led by a Lightbearer, a captain revered not for any gift, but for their devotion to the Sun, and the might to crush those who defy its light.

  The Lightbearers are the Empire’s burning swords.

  They command legions trained not only for war, but for the Hunt—a holy crusade against those born with a gift.

  To the Sunnites, these mortals are not gifted.

  They are Tainted—a living blasphemy, a stain left behind by forgotten gods.

  And the Lightbearers do not kill them outright.

  They capture them.

  They bind them.

  And they are taken to Lake Lysara, a silver mirror cradled high in the mountains—where the sun touches the world before all else.

  It is said the gods once wept into its waters, and that within them lies the power to purge the Taint.

  What truly happens beneath the surface is known only to the Lightbearers.

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  But none who enters the lake returns unchanged.

  Most do not return at all.

  On the edge of the Empire lies a hill once famed for its beauty—Crescentspire.

  Named for the way its ridgeline curved like a silver crescent beneath the full moon, it had once been a place of quiet wonder. On moonlit nights, lovers climbed its slopes, and poets claimed the stars whispered clearer from its peak. But that was before the discovery of Moonsteel.

  Now, Crescentspire is stripped and scarred, its serenity buried beneath the grind of pickaxes and the hiss of smelted ore. The hill is a mining zone, guarded day and night. Moonsteel is rare—and the Empire has claimed every vein. Forged into blades and armor, it is the preferred metal of the Eight Banners, prized for its pale gleam and eerie resilience. What once reflected moonlight now echoes with hammerfall.

  Amid the clang of forges and the hiss of quenched steel, Ferrin worked.

  A blacksmith’s apprentice at the Empire’s edge, he knew the rhythm of hammer and flame better than most boys his age. He didn’t complain. He didn’t tire. Because Ferrin loved swords—not just the forging of them, but what they stood for.

  Every stolen moment, he trained in secret, swinging broken blades behind the forge long after the fires had gone cold. He dreamed of one day joining the Eight Banners—of earning his place among the Sun Empire’s elite. And maybe, if the gods still listened, of rising higher still. To become a Lightbearer. Polished armor. The crest of Solara. A sword at his hip. His Banner at his back.

  Lightbearer Ferrin.

  The name alone made his chest swell.

  His hammer slipped. The half-shaped blade clattered against the anvil and nearly fell.

  Ferrin blinked, snapping from his daydream. “Idiot,” he muttered, and reached out to catch the blade—

  —but it rose to meet him.

  The metal groaned, shivering, and arced gently upward like a branch swaying in windless air. It moved before his fingers even touched it.

  He froze. His hand hovered, trembling, just inches away.

  No…

  No, that wasn’t possible. But he had felt it. The pull. The connection. The blade hadn’t just moved.

  It had answered him.