In the comfort and secrecy of the Veil, the Island of l'Oubliée stood still—breathing, nurturing, and guarding the Amazon women who called it home. Born not of man but of heart, they rose in strength, wielding both weapon and power. Through unity and sisterhood, the Amazons endured, their legacy echoing across time—past, present, and future.

  Now, at the dawn of the 500th cycle, within the famed Warborn Arena where the Spire Trials were set to begin—a sacred rite of convergence where all Amazons came to be tested—two warriors faced off in the misty light of morning. Their clash was not for sport, but for honor. For legacy. Surrounded by the watchful eyes of their peers, a clear difference emerged between them—Virelya and Seraphine, daughters of the last great champion.

  “Ahh!” shouted Seraphine, launching an arrow at blinding speed. “Still retreating, Vire?” she said in a sarcastic voice, trying to irritate her opponent but mostly her sister.

  “We are training, Seraphine,” Virelya replied, her voice steady, annoyed at the provocation. “Do not call me that. here I am not your little sister, so focus.” she yelled launching a sharp strike. almost hitting her opponent.

  With intense eyes narrowed and mischief glinting, Seraphine smirked. “Then show me what you’ve got, little sister.”

  With that, the duel intensified, erupting in a cloud of sand that blurred all vision.

  Arrows sang from Seraphine’s bow, swift and sharp. Virelya met them with the edge of her blade, countering with slashes that shattered the air—each strike pulsing with unseen force. Their blows cracked the protective barriers that had long held firm, shaking the arena with magic and might.

  Virelya shouted, her voice sharp as lightning, as her blade rose into the sky. With a surge of power, she swung—disorienting Seraphine in a single, swift strike.

  Seraphine narrowed her eyes, stepping back with a grin. “So this is your soul fire, Virelya. Come, then!”

  Virelya gripped her sword and rushed forward—fast, strong, her form precise. She aimed to finish it.

  But Seraphine moved too quickly—her momentum wild, untamed. She slipped, her foot catching the edge of the platform. In a blink, her body twisted through the air and hit the ground hard, the sound echoing across the stone.

  Virelya stumbled, dazed, her thoughts scattered like windblown ash. She reached for her sword.

  In that heartbeat of hesitation, Seraphine moved. Her bow swung down in a wide arc, the tip rushing toward Virelya’s face—not to wound, but to remind.

  Surprised, Virelya stretched for her blade—but it lay too far, just out of reach.

  From the distance, Seraphine raised her bow again, preparing to deliver her final strike—

  Then, a deep, resonant gong echoed through the grounds.

  Training was over.

  It was time to face the Head of the Island for evaluation.

  Shrouded in a cloak of sacred crimson, her voice like thunder wrapped in silk, the Head ascended the pedestal overlooking the trainees. With a gaze that could silence storms, she prepared to speak.

  “I see that we have all improved over the last millennia,” said Head Ilsa, her voice calm and cold. “But do not mistake effort for excellence. Many of you are still lacking.”

  Virelya felt her gaze settle on her like ice. There was no doubt. Her stillness, her hesitation—she had not measured up.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Seraphine whispered, brushing her shoulder. “You’re great, little sis.”

  But Virelya heard it—the pity in her tone. And deeper still, the ache they both carried—for the approval of all. In the eyes of Ilsa, only one thing mattered: perfection.

  With nothing more to say, Ilsa turned, leading the way.

  Virelya followed, knowing what awaited her. She left her sister continue alongside the others, even though the unspoken words still rang in her mind—words whispered by all who knew what she knew. La Maudite—a name for the curse of the Amazons, the imperfection in the Champion’s legacy.

  She turned toward the exit. leading to where:

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  The Thalemer stood at the island’s center, making up the soul and spine of L'Oubliée. It stretched thirty-two kilometers wide and two kilometers long. L'Oubliée was a land of varied clans and layered power structures. In the island’s northern crown, flanked by two towering spires, rose the sacred Triad of Tamal. The buildings stood like sentinels, their golden and silver surfaces catching the light, glowing with divine purpose. The very air shimmered with ancient power. I

  In the south stood the Order of the Veil, guardians of the Living Core—the giver of all life and the endless energy that pulsed through Oubliée’s magic and people. Farther in its embrace stood the enchanted grove, surrounding the Warborn Academy, where knowledge and strength thrived in sacred balance. Polished stone paths wound through glowing sand flower gardens, and beneath their brilliance, the Amazons trained—not for glory, but for honor.

  Only the most gifted ever touched the distant threshold of the Order of the Veil.

  As she walked, Virelya sensed it: beneath the island’s beauty beat an undying pulse—a force that both gave and took, without forgiveness. The Living Core was not feared, but neither was it challenged. To defy it was unthinkable. To reach for it—unforgivable.

  Far from the Thalemer at the outer gates stood the Hoolkeep, where the island’s officials carried out sacred duties. Within the Pillar Circle, ancient rites and trials endured, shaped by time’s hand. Hidden deep within its walls slept the Yt{e}ros Library—where forbidden tomes and powerful relics lay sealed. Only those granted personal sanction were permitted to glimpse its secrets.

  As Virelya approached the outer gates, a minor officer greeted her with a calm, unreadable expression.

  “The Head awaits,” she said simply, gesturing forward.

  She entered without ceremony, ignoring the glances and the unspoken scorn. Her connection to the Hoolkeep was strained, twisted by whispers that called her Maudite over and over as she passes through the Hoolkeep corridor rooms.

  The halls echoed only with her footsteps, each getting heavier than the last burdened form frustration, aguish but mostly quiet sorrow.

  At the corridor’s end, bathed in golden light, lay the Garden of Sunlight—the resting place of the reigning Champion.

  Two guards stepped forward; shoulders squared in ceremonial harmony.

  “Virelya of the Thirteen,” one spoke with robust voice that resonate in every rooms. “You may pass.”

  The great doors groaned open.

  A blinding light spilled in—warm, floral, golden. The scent of sun-warmed stone and blooming sunflowers filled her senses.

  Beyond, the Garden of Sunlight awaited.

  From within its golden bloom of the inner court, a voice rose—sharp, controlled, and unmistakable.

  “Virelya. What do you think of your performance today?”

  Virelya’s voice faltered as she stepped forward.

  “I… I have no excuse, Mother. I mean—Head. I didn’t mean to—”

  Her words tangled, caught between shame and frustration.

  Ilsa’s eyes, cold as polished steel, narrowed turn toward her.

  “It seems you are at least smart enough to recognize your incompetence and failure,” she said, her tone untouched by pity. Her silence after felt heavier than any blade. The mere presence of her will made it hard to breathe.

  Virelya clenched her fists. Her voice cracked.

  “I will do better. I swear it, Mother. Next time, I will—”

  “Enough.”

  The word fell like a judgment.

  “Excuses are for those who have something to prove. Compared to your sister, your name is a shadow. A storm without thunder. You are nothing.”

  Ilsa’s face twisted in restrained disdain, her golden robe whispering as she turned.

  Then, softer—without warmth, but not entirely without purpose: she continued

  “Walk with me.”

  Toward the balcony at the edge of the Garden of the sunlight, her mother walked, her robes trailing like golden fire across the marble floor. The evening light bathed the realm in amber, soft and deceiving.

  She paused, her hands resting gently upon railing carved stone.

  "Daughter... I must seem cruel to you. Do I not?" she said, her voice calm, almost kind.

  No!" Virelya shouted, too quickly—fear thick in her voice. She was afraid to say otherwise.

  Her heart beating against her ribs like drumsticks on a tambourine.

  "You were always good to me, Mother. My failure today... It’s all my fault "

  Her voice faltered, trembling with unshed breath, her soul caught in a net of obedience and sorrow.

  Ilsa turned to face her daughter, her eyes unreadable.

  "My daughter... I know I seem harsh. But it is for your good—and the good of L' Oubliée."

  She raised a hand, gesturing to the horizon where the sun dipped below the veil.

  "In the five hundred cycles since its creation, this island has never prospered as it does now—under my rule. I hold each citizen to the same expectations. But you, Virelya..."

  Her gaze sharpened, cold and unyielding as she grabbed her face.

  " My beautiful curse ... I place the utmost pressure upon you, so that you will not shame your family. So that you do not shame me. All this? The glory, the accomplishments? Is that not what we all want?"

  Her tone, though calm, cut like tempered glass.

  "Yes, Mother… That is what we all want," Virelya responded—her voice empty, distant. Not her own. As though the will to live her own life had been gently, quietly taken from her.

  Ilsa smiled—genuine, almost.

  "Good. I am grateful, my daughter. That we could speak like this. Now come. Dinner awaits, your sister is here as well, and I cannot wait for her to tell us all about her placement for the Spire "she said with excitement that felt both unfamiliar and almost infectious.

  She stepped closer, brushing a speck of lint from Virelya’s shoulder.

  "But first, change your clothes. You wouldn’t want eat dirty." Her mother in whispering in her ear.

  A long silence passed between them. Then, at last, Virelya raised her eyes.

  Her voice was soft. Broken. True.

  "No, Mother… That’s not what we all want," Virelya said whispered softly, repeating her mother’s words again as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the balcony. Night crept in quietly, wrapping the island in its cool embrace.