Paradise

Alveretta.

To most, it was a name gilded in the history of Paradise, a symbol of rebirth forged from flame and blood. It meant "Fiery Rose," a poetic relic from a forgotten elven dialect, equal parts warmth and defiance. But among all those who bore it, only one lived as though it were truth carved into his bones.

Joselyn Alveretta.

The boy stirred.

"Ngh…"

Golden light spilled through the latticed balcony windows, brushing across his features like a whisper. The warmth danced over pale silk sheets and carved cedar beams, scattered by the rippling glass vases of houseplants that lined the window's edge. Crimson hibiscus, his chosen flower, bloomed with unruly grace, like tiny hearts made of velvet and fire.

The walls of the chamber were hung with painted portraits, each one of himself. Not out of vanity, but ritual. Painted by servants under his command, by friends who had once dared to call him brilliant, by visiting dignitaries who saw him as a symbol more than a child.

With a yawn sharp as a sword draw, he rose, feet brushing the cool marble floor. A rusted watering can waited on the balcony ledge. He grasped it like a weapon, the weight familiar in his small hand.

"Drink up, my little things…" he muttered. His voice still thick with sleep, but tinged with reverence.

As he poured, the water trickled over leaves that shimmered faintly in the light. He didn't simply water them, he honored them. They were his soldiers. His court. His audience. He spoke to them when no one else listened.

Below the balcony, voices drifted upward, deep and formal, like a knife drawn across fine linen.

He squinted, narrowing his eyes against the light. His gaze caught on the courtyard's edge.

A man in steel-gray robes. And beside him, a girl in a sleeved dress trimmed with obsidian embroidery.

"Lucia?" he breathed, eyes widening. "Lucia!"

A burst of adrenaline sent the watering can clattering into the garden box as he spun and dashed inside, barefoot over polished tile. He raced past columns shaped like twisted vines, through vast atriums and echoing corridors. This palace, Paradise's heart, was a place carved by hand, not by architects, but by freed slaves who once followed a dreamer named Azralyn Alveretta.

Joselyn's father.

People called Azralyn a hero. But to Joselyn, he was just any other father. He didn't recognize the weight of his father's accomplishments like freeing slaves and leading rebellions as something to tell stories about. After all, he was only 12 years of age.

He nearly tumbled down the final staircase. But then, there she was.

Lucia Lenorre. Her eyes like flint, her smile carved from moonlight and mischief. She was beautiful. Joselyn could not deny that. They ran toward each other, two pieces of the same spark, colliding in a joyful embrace.

"Lucia!"

"Joselyn!"

They laughed, tangled in each other's arms as their fathers stood at a polite distance, murmuring things like "security" and "diplomacy," which to the children meant absolutely nothing.

"You two don't go causing any trouble," Azralyn called, his tone dry and ceremonial. "It's a privilege, Joselyn, not a right."

"Yes, Father," Joselyn replied with a perfect mask of obedience, one honed over years of evasion.

As their fathers disappeared into the hall's deep mouth, Lucia tugged his hand.

"What now?" she whispered, eyes gleaming.

A thousand answers rushed forward. But one outpaced them all.

"We could watch my cousins spar!"

She grinned, a predator's grin wrapped in courtly silk. "Let's do it."

They fled down the corridor hand-in-hand, laughter trailing behind like streamers of ribbon torn by wind. The Fight Room was a long chamber beneath the east wing. Its windows were fogged by age, but still let through the spectacle within.

Inside, steel clanged and fists cracked against flesh. Blessings ignited like fallen stars, flashing blue and crimson with each clash. Joselyn's cousins, adopted, not blood, but still loyal, dueled with a wild grace, blades tracing arcs that left afterimages in the air.

Joselyn leaned close to the window, nose nearly pressed to the glass.

"I could do better," he muttered, a soft boast that wasn't quite a lie.

Lucia stood beside him, arms crossed, eyes sharp. "You always say that."

"It's always true."

Even now, in his twelve-year-old frame, there was a coiled ambition inside him, like a spring waiting to be set alight.

"You think we'll get Blessings?" Lucia asked, voice quiet, distant.

Joselyn didn't answer immediately. His gaze remained locked on the sparring below.

A Blessing. Powers that lingered after the deaths of Heroes and the end of their Pendigrams. The question shook Joselyn to his very core ever since her figured out what it was.

Be the Savior and their magical powers, or the Luminary and their unimaginable intellect, or even the Feared but that was out of the realm of possibility.

Joselyn didn't care which. He only wished to be able to fight alongside Lucia. One time. That's all he asked.

"I know we will," he said at last.

Lucia turned toward him. "How can you be so sure?"

His breath slowed. He could feel it, in his chest, in his skin, in the blood that remembered battles he hadn't yet fought.

"Because it's in my heart."

Silence settled between them, as solemn as an oath. Then—

"This is boring!" Lucia declared, suddenly. "Let's go scare some maids."

Joselyn blinked.

Then he smiled. "I like how you think."

In the high chamber beyond the courtyard, Azralyn Alveretta motioned his guest to sit. The room was cast in stained-glass hues, emerald, crimson, lapis blue. Servants moved like phantoms, placing down tea and honeyed bread without a word.

***

"I'm grateful you came," Azralyn said, voice low and steady. "I know Pyraquartz Hold is… occupied."

Lord Lenorre, tall and straight-backed, gave a curt nod. "The seal of Paradise still holds weight, even in the mountains."

He sipped once, then added, "And my daughter spoke of nothing else for weeks but your son."

Azralyn allowed a faint smile. "They're alike, those two. Troublemakers, both."

"Maybe they should marry in the future." Lord Lenorre joked. But his words did carry a sense of truth. That Joselyn marrying Lucia wasn't something he'd be reluctant about.

Azralyn stood at the balcony, overlooking the unfinished wall. A pale line of stone stretching like an open wound across the lush horizon.

Lenorre joined him, his boots clicking once against the mosaic tile before falling still. He said nothing at first, letting his gaze trail along the breached perimeter. The gaps were unmistakable. Wide enough to ride three horses through. Wide enough for regret.

"You're vulnerable," he said.

"I know." Azralyn's voice was calm, but not at ease.

"Which is why I'm asking granite, basalt, whatever you can spare. We need the wall completed before the rains come. Before something else does."

Lenorre measured him. "You'll have it. Three convoys' worth. And limestone too, for trim, if you're still aiming for beauty in a time of war."

Azralyn nodded slowly, relief held tight behind his eyes. "You're generous."

"I'm also practical. If Paradise weakens, so do the rest of us." Lenorre's tone darkened slightly. "Though I suspect you'll hold out longer than most. You're not exactly aging, are you?"

Azralyn didn't respond at first.

He turned back to the valley.

The wind stirred his hair, long, silver-black strands that shimmered in the light, like steel smoothed by centuries.

"Yes," he said finally, his tone neutral. "I am an elf."

It was not a secret, but neither was it something he often voiced aloud. Not here. Not in Paradise, where humans outnumbered elves twenty to one. Where the myth of equality still hung above their heads like stained glass. Beautiful, fragile, and always at risk of breaking.

He had "lived" longer than anyone in this kingdom in a sense that he's experienced more than most. He remembered the taste of snow from Hapirothyn's barren frostlands, remembered the weight of chains and the color of his first kill. Those memories never faded. They etched themselves into him like carvings into marble.

That, perhaps, was why he built Paradise with such reluctance. Because he knew how long kingdoms could last and how suddenly they could vanish. Paradise itself was only 30 years old.

"So," Lenorre said, his voice dropping a shade. "Paradise will stand for centuries, won't it? Under your care."

Azralyn's jaw tensed. There was a subtle unease in Lenorre's tone. Not suspicion but something colder. Like the creeping edge of expectation.

"That's the idea," Azralyn replied, softly. "Though eternity is rarely kind to those who chase it."

Lenorre's eyes narrowed, but only for a breath. Then: "I'll send a detachment of knights, along with the stone. My best. You need protection."

Azralyn turned sharply. "No."

Lenorre blinked. "It's a precaution, not an insult."

"I understand." Azralyn folded his arms behind his back. "But I won't have armed men marching through my city under another banner. Paradise is a place born from chosen freedom. Outsiders with swords—no matter their good intentions—send the wrong message."

"You think your people will revolt?"

"No. The people of Paradise—my people, would never revolt against me. My relationship with my people was built on trust."

For a long moment, neither man spoke. The wind moved through the hall, catching the corner of a velvet curtain. In the courtyard below, faint laughter rang out. Joselyn's voice, bright and unburdened.

Lenorre sighed. "You're stubborn."

Azralyn allowed himself a thin smile. "Stubbornness allowed me to build this nation. The youngest in this continent."

"And pride destroys them."

Azralyn turned away, his expression unreadable. "Then let's hope Paradise remembers the difference."

They returned to their seats. The momentary tension cooled with the steam rising from their untouched cups.

"I'll send word to the masons tonight," Lenorre said. "You'll have your stone before the moon wanes."

Azralyn lifted his tea in a silent toast. "To stone," he murmured. "To peace."

But even as those words slipped Azralyn's mouth, he knew his clock was ticking. After all, despite heralding the appearance of an elf, with pointed ears and divine skin, he had the life span of a normal human. And his clock would soon strike 12.