Chapter 1: The Ceremony of Three Realms

Rosamila forced her eyes open, barely keeping her heart inside her ribs. Her thin nightgown clung to her, damp with sweat. This was the second time this week she'd had the same nightmare—chased by a creature with dark, terrible wings. Every time, it was the same. The creature would swoop down from nowhere and drive her into a strange, misty land, where a mysterious man waited for her. She could never make out his face. He would lead her to a vast, eerie mansion, and just as she started to sense danger, her vision would blur, taking away her chance to flee. She'd wake up.

It's only a dream, she told herself, pushing the fear back.

Dreams aren't real. They're just random thoughts, things the mind makes up.

Bad dreams were just unlucky, she decided. The body's way of clearing out the dark thoughts, she decided. Nothing more.

She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet brushing the cold floor. She loved that feeling—the chill against her skin, waking her up fully, as if grounding her back to the real world.

Elva groaned and threw her favorite pillow at Rosamila, who had just flung open the curtains, flooding the room with light. The sun was already high in the sky, but Elva stubbornly kept her eyes closed, much to Rosamila's frustration.

"Come on, wake up!" Rosamila tugged the blanket away, exposing Elva to the cool morning air. "The ceremony is in two candles' time, and we're nowhere near ready!"

As Elva muttered in protest and slowly stretched awake, Rosamila dashed around their cozy cottage, gathering the things they'd need. She carefully laid out their dresses on the bed, placed a bright ribbon bow to match each gown, and polished two new pairs of shoes until they gleamed in the light.

Finally, she slipped into her dress—the deep emerald green, woven from fabric she had dyed herself with crushed leaves and herbs. The bodice was fitted and elegant, adorned with subtle swirls stitched in silver thread, while the skirt flowed down in soft layers like cascading forest leaves. She brushed her bright red hair, twisting it into an elegant bun at the nape of her pale neck. It was the only hairstyle she knew, but she made it look graceful.

Today, of all days, she wanted to look her best; after all, this was the day she'd be of marriageable age, marked by the Ascendance Ceremony.

In the Kingdom of El Arga, the Ascendance Ceremony was the pinnacle of anticipation for every seventeen-year-old. It was the day they'd stand beneath the willow arch and face their fate. The tree was said to be older than any living memory, its roots entwined with the magic of all three realms. Its branches and leaves held quiet but powerful magic; when someone stepped beneath its arch, the tree would awaken the hidden powers within them, revealing their true path.

Based on the powers revealed within them, each young soul could find themselves banished to the Demon World to live in misery, accepted into the Saint World to fulfill noble expectations, or—if fortune smiled—be granted a peaceful, happy life as an ordinary human.

Rosamila's heart raced as she thought about it, wondering what the future held for her.

She slipped on her mother's favorite pendant, a delicate silver locket engraved with the symbol of the three realms: a twisting vine for the human world, flames for the Demon World, and a star for the Saint World. The pendant was old and precious, handed down through generations, and she felt its reassuring weight against her chest. Her mother had worn it at her own Ascendance Ceremony, and now it was Rosamila's turn.

In the front yard, Povilas, the nation-famous apothecary, stood on the porch, humming softly to himself as he tended to his potted herbs. When he noticed Rosamila bustling around the garden, he chuckled warmly.

"Are you ready, dear?" he asked, his voice gentle. "The royal carriage will be here any moment now."

As he watched her, a mix of pride and melancholy settled over him. Since the tragic passing of Rosamila and Elva's parents, he'd taken them in as his own at a young age of 27 years. For a man as busy as he was—the trusted right hand of King Samuel—this quiet life with two bright young women had been an unexpected joy. Now, with both of them nearing the age of marriage, he could feel the bittersweet pull of change on the horizon.

"Yes, Popo," Rosamila called back, a bit breathless. She quickly finished her errands and darted back inside for one last check on Elva.

When she opened the door, she stopped in awe.

"Wow, Elva, you look incredible," she said, admiring her sister's radiant look.

Elva's dress was a soft lavender, the color of fresh lilacs in spring. The gown hugged her form gracefully, with tiny embroidered flowers trailing along the neckline and sleeves, giving her a delicate, almost ethereal appearance. Her dark red hair was loosely pinned back, with a small golden clip glinting among her loose curls.

Elva grinned and pulled Rosamila in front of the mirror. "And you look like you could rival any royal, my beautiful sister."

Rosamila blushed, barely recognizing herself in the mirror. She took a deep breath, nerves and excitement buzzing within her.

"Let's do this," Elva said with a grin, linking arms with Rosamila as they headed for the door.

The royal carriage stood in line with the others, gleaming with silver and deep royal purple trim. Each was emblazoned with the kingdom's crest: a golden willow leaf intertwined with a crown. Nearly three hundred years had passed since the Kingdom of El Arga made the Ascendance Ceremony—known as the Spirit Awakening—mandatory for every young human coming of age. Initiated to protect the realms from demonic or saintly infiltration, the ritual revealed one's true nature. Only after proving their humanity could candidates marry, join society fully, and serve in government.

Though ancient in tradition, the Day of Ascendance remained one of the most cherished, meticulously prepared events in the kingdom.

Why do I feel so anxious?

Rosamila gripped Elva's hand tighter with each step closer to their destination.

"You have nothing to worry about," Elva whispered, sensing her tension. She brushed a stray hair from Rosamila's face, her smile warm and reassuring. "You've done so much good, Rosamila. You've healed so many people—if anything, you're destined for the Saint World."

Rosamila tried to mirror her sister's calm, but a chill crept up her spine. She glanced around at the fluttering banners and the flickering torches casting long shadows across the cobblestone path. The kingdom's finest had decorated the hall in golden garlands and silks that shimmered like liquid light, a radiant celebration of faith and fate. Yet, something about the grandeur felt oppressive, as if the beauty were a mask over something darker.

"Everyone feels anxious, Elva," Povilas interjected, flipping through his worn book. "We all know that if the golden willow vines choose you, you must leave your family behind for the Saint World. It's natural to feel this way."

Rosamila swallowed, her gaze fixed on Povilas's warm expression. "But… what if I get chosen for the Demon World?" she murmured, her voice barely audible. The very thought was terrifying. She had never left the human realm, never spent a single day away from her family.

Povilas's eyes softened as he placed a steady hand on her trembling slender fingers. "The Demon World hasn't taken a candidate in over fifty years," he said, his deep voice now calm and even. "That path has remained closed longer than I've been alive."

As Povilas's words sank in, Rosamila's heart began to slow, the edge of her fear dulled, though something deep within her remained unsettled.

Still! What is this unsettling feeling seeping deep inside my heart!

As the carriages climbed the mountain peak, where the ancient willow tree stretched its heavy branches toward the sky, the hum of excitement among the people grew. Friends and families gathered along the path, sharing loud cheers.

At the summit, beneath the willow arch, the ceremonial platform is ready, adorned with ribbons of blue, red, and white that swayed gently in the breeze. The scent of sacred herbs—lavender, sage, and sweetbark—wafted through the air, along with the faint chime of ceremonial bells.

The time had come for each candidate to be led by their family to the platform, under the watchful eyes of the entire kingdom. Every step held the weight of a family's fate. Rosamila embraced her sister, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead before turning to take Povilas's hand. They walked together through the crowd, weaving past royal families and noble houses as they approached the platform. Cheers erupted from all sides, especially from the young women, whose voices rose in excitement.

After all, it wasn't just any father leading his daughter to the platform of fate—it was Povilas Mare, the most handsome man in the kingdom, guiding his beloved Rosamila forward.

As they walked arm in arm through the crowd, Rosamila glanced up at Povilas, a playful glint in her eye. "Listen to those cheers, Popo," she teased. "Seems like you're still the heartthrob of the kingdom. I don't think your killer looks have dulled one bit."

Povilas chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, they're here to see you, my dear," he replied, squeezing her delicate hands that wrapped around his arms. "It's your wonderful fate they're excited for—not your old man's wrinkles!"

Indeed, the people have gathered to know the fate of a girl marked by the tragedy of a villainess but raised like an almost princess.

The platform loomed ahead, framed by the ancient willow's heavy branches, and Rosamila felt her heart pounding in her chest. Soon, she would stand beneath that enchanted tree, the magic of the three realms coiling around her, ready to reveal her path—whether it would lead to glory, misery, or the quiet life of an ordinary soul.

After guiding Rosamila to the platform, Povilas place one last kiss on her hands, reassuring her before stepping back. He made his way to the seating area reserved for nobles, settling himself beside Elva and the Woen family, just a row down from the royal family. Despite his calm demeanor, he could feel the weight of a hundred anxious eyes on him, each person watching to see how the trusted right hand of King Samuel would react to his beloved daughter's fate.

The sun hits the right angle with the horizon filling the entire sky with a faint purple hue. It was time.

King Samuel, draped in a dark blue robe embroidered with stars and vines, raised his scepter to the sky, signaling the ceremony's start. His crown glinted in the fading sunlight as he spoke.

"Today, we gather to honor the ancient pact that binds us to the realms," he announced, his voice calm yet firm. "As each soul stands beneath the sacred willow, may it reveal their destined path."

The crowd fell silent, their gazes locked on the platform. The priests stepped forward, each murmuring an incantation as they raised their hands to the arch.

As the first candidate approached, Orson leaned closer to her. "I know you're nervous," he whispered, "but you'll be fine, Rosamila. I can feel it."

Rosamila felt her heart race, her cheeks warming at the way his words seemed to settle over her like a gentle promise. She forced a small smile, though it barely masked the fluttering in her chest.

Despite her doubts, Rosamila offered a faint smile. "I hope so. Every year I hear stories about the arch. I keep telling myself it's all just nerves."

Orson's gaze shifted from her beautiful eyes to her nervous fingers his smile playful yet reassuring. He reached out, lightly brushing his fingers over hers, sending a shiver through her. "Just be yourself, Rosamila," he murmured, his voice low and warm. "That's all it ever asks."

The first candidate stepped beneath the branches. Everyone held their breath. Nothing happened—the arch remained calm, the leaves barely moving. Relieved, the girl's family cheered softly as she passed through.

The candidates continued one by one, their faces mixed with nervousness and hope as they crossed under the willow. With each passage, the tree stood silent and unmoving.

Elva's eyes stayed fixed on Rosamila as the line moved, and Orson's turn arrived.

"Maybe see you on the other side," Rosamila teased, offering a final, hopeful smile.

Orson took a deep breath, then glanced back over his shoulder with a sly smirk. "If it went well for the six before me," he said with confidence, "I'll be just fine." He shot her a playful wink.

"Don't get cocky," Rosamila teased, her laugh light and soft. "The arch is still watching."

Orson shrugged, grinning. He strode beneath the arch confidently, casting a glance upward. The branches were as still as ever, and he exhaled, relieved. Rosamila felt the tension drain from her shoulders as the Woen family broke into smiles.

Taking a deep breath, Rosamila walks towards the arch, "I'll be fine. Just like last year. No surprises."

As she approached the arch, Rosamila cast a glance at Orson on the other side of the arch, who mouthed, "I'm right here." Rosamila smiled nervously and then stepped forward, her hand slightly grazing the cool bark of the willow trunk.

But the moment she placed her foot beneath the arch, a sudden, fierce heat surged around her. Her breath hitched as a bright red flame erupted from the branches. She froze, feeling the searing heat against her skin as if the tree itself had come alive. Gasps filled the air, and the crowd stumbled back, shielding their eyes from the inferno.

Elva's voice broke through the commotion. "Rosamila!" she screamed, reaching forward, but guards held her back, their faces stricken with confusion.

The arch roared with an intensity that dwarfed the setting sun. A loud, cannon-like boom split the air as soldiers rushed to surround the king, their hands gripping their weapons.

Rosamila shielded her face, squinting through the light as people shouted in alarm. "What's happening?" she whispered, her voice barely audible in the chaos.

The high priest, who had been chanting moments before, stumbled back, his face pale. "This…this is the five-shade fire," he stammered, clutching his robes. "The realms are disturbed. The prophecy has begun."

As the chaos erupted, Povilas stood still holding Elva close to his chest. His heart pounded, a conflict raging within him. His hands, usually in power over life and death, usually so steady, trembled slightly as he watched the fiery inferno swirl around Rosamila.

He knew the rules, the consequences. The king's decree was clear: no one was to interfere with the arch's trials.

Elva struggled against Povilas holding her back. "Popo, Rosamila..!" she cried, her voice thick with worry. "What's happening to her—!" She glanced toward Povilas, desperation in her eyes. "Please, do something!".

Elva's cries for Rosamila pierced through the air, and Povilas's jaw clenched, his fingers digging into the arms of his chair as if trying to hold himself back from rushing forward. He could feel the weight of the kingdom pressing down on him, the rules suffocating him, yet he wanted nothing more than to break free and protect the girl he had watched grow, the one he had sworn to protect.

As the Royal guards separated the candidates, Orson was fighting to reach the arch just a few feet in front of him. But the strange flame has created a barrier around Rosamila that even the guards' weapons can't penetrate.

King Samuel's attention remained fixed on the willow, though a subtle frown creased his brow. "This flame… It has not been seen for over 400 hundred years," he murmured, his tone grave. He signaled for his advisors to hold their positions, his grip tightening on the scepter.

Queen Celestria, visibly shaken, muttered, "What does it mean, Your Grace?" her hands clenched at her sides as she sought reassurance from her husband.

"It means," the king replied, his voice low, "that an ancient magic has awakened. A magic left only in scripts of the ancient Saints of Aralieth.

Queen Celestria's lips parted, her hand instinctively rising to her heart. "The Saints…" she whispered, eyes wide with dread, recalling the ancient secret that even the most learned feared to speak of.

Standing beside the king, Queen Isol, was already alert, her hand instinctively grabbing the hilt of the sword in front of her that she brought even in these peaceful moments. Her sharp eyes darted to the growing chaos around them, sensing the echoes of the tragedies from fifty years ago—the war with demons, the loss of her family. She clenched her jaw, ready to spring into action if the horrors of the past sought to repeat themselves.

"My Queen, I will be okay," King Samuel said, his voice steady but laced with a subtle tenderness as he turned toward her, seeking to calm her rising alarm. "It's just a prophecy."

King Samuel raised his scepter high, his voice ringing out over the stunned crowd. "Immortal Willow, we accept your prophecy; your judgment has been received."

He struck the ground with the scepter, and as its base met the earth, a powerful wave of energy rippled outward. In response, the blazing flame began to subside, retreating like a tide. The willow arch slowly returned to its original, silent form, the branches settling into gentle, swaying motions as if the eruption of fire had been nothing more than an illusion.

Queen Isol remained stoic, but her eyes were hard, focused, like the warrior she was. If history repeated itself, she would be ready.

Rosamila stood, her breath quick and shallow, glancing around in stunned silence as the searing heat lifted. The willow arch returned to its original form. Her skin still tingled, despite the cool evening breeze touching her once more. She could barely see, her vision hazy from the bright red flames that encircled her like a twisted upside-down crown.

Another priest, his voice trembling, called out, "All of you, step back! The arch has chosen—this is no ordinary passage. Only the marked one can remain."

Orson and the other candidates are forced off of the platform by the royal guards.

The king's eyes narrowed as he studied Rosamila, his expression darkening. "The last time we saw a flame was over fifty years ago," he said to Povilas, his voice heavy with finality that silenced the murmurs, "but your flame is not just any flame. It is the flame of the Demon World."

Rosamila's heart skipped a beat.

Flame of the Demon World? What does that mean?

Povilas' face drained of color as he took a step forward, his voice barely a whisper. "The Demon World?" he echoed, his brow furrowing in disbelief. "But... your Majesty, how is that possible? There hasn't been any sign of the demons for decades." His eyes flickered to Rosamila. "What does this mean for her?"

The high priest stepped forward, his face grim. "It means, your child, is bound to the realms in ways even we cannot foresee. She bears the flames of an ancient magic long buried and barely spoken of. To step from that arch is to walk between worlds."

Rosamila surrounded by the royal guards, searched the crowd until her eyes locked onto Povilas's. "Where are they taking me?" she murmured, her voice trembling. "I didn't ask for this."

Orson pushed his way to the high priest, desperation coloring his voice. "What will happen to her now? Will she be taken to the dungeons? Executed?" Panic flared in his eyes, for no one knew what happened to those marked by the willow's flames.

Before anyone could answer, a deafening roar shattered the tense silence. From the skies descended a monstrous creature, scales glinting as black as obsidian, with eyes like molten lava. Its wings spanned wide enough to cast a shadow that swallowed the entire mountain, turning day into night as it circled above. Screams erupted as people scattered, clutching their loved ones and fleeing for shelter.

"A Fior!" someone shouted from the panicked crowd. The name alone struck fear into every heart—a creature said to haunt the skies of the Demon World. The beast's shadow loomed across the trembling land, its breath hot enough to scorch stone.

Royal guards moved into formation, arrows nocked and ready, as soldiers surrounded King Samuel to escort him out of harm's way. Arrows flew skyward, disappearing into the darkened clouds that cloaked the Fior's body, but it swooped in, undeterred, unfazed by their futile attacks.

Povilas' hand instinctively reached for his blade as he stepped forward, his eyes narrowing with a fierce protectiveness toward the king. "Your Majesty, I will—"

"Save Rosamila first!" King Samuel's voice cut through the tension like a sharp command. "I have my soldiers and Queen Isol to protect me. Go!"

Povilas hesitated for a moment, but the king's words left no room for argument. His loyalty to the throne conflicted with his growing fear for Rosamila. With a determined glance at the king, he broke into a sprint, moving swiftly toward the beast.

Without a second thought, Povilas drew a pouch of poisoned spikes from his belt and hurled them toward the Fior. The spikes flew through the air, striking the beast's thick hide. But they clattered harmlessly to the ground, their poison unable to penetrate the creature's impenetrable scales.

Povilas cursed under his breath, realizing the futility of his attempt. But he couldn't stop now—not when Rosamila was at the mercy of this monstrous beast.

Meanwhile, Orson shoved past a guard, picking up a fallen sword. He extended his hand toward Rosamila, his determination cutting through the chaos. But the beast was faster. With a booming thud, its gigantic tail lashed out, coiling around Rosamila's waist like an iron chain. Her scream was muffled as the beast tightened its grip, lifting her from the ground.

"Let the beast take the girl!" one of the priests shouted to the guards, his voice cold and unyielding. "She is chosen for the demon world."

"No!" Povilas cried, rushing forward, but it was too late. With a flick of its tail, the Fior hoisted Rosamila skyward, pulling her into the clouds in one swift motion. The people below watched in horror as she disappeared into the dark, bound by the creature's monstrous grasp.

Elva stood frozen, her eyes wide with fear, watching helplessly as her sister vanished from sight.