Page 1 of A Sunwoven Ascent

Prologue

The Light That Stayed

Velenshire, centuries ago

She should have been on the ship with the others, beneath sails kissed by the Solwyn Tree’s blessing, bound for new lands where light would bloom again. She should have answered the call of her blood and crossed the sea to the Southern Isles, giving herself to the rites of her kin. But somewhere beyond her sight, the ships were already slipping past the horizon.

And Lumira remained behind.

She stood within the ivy-strangled ruins of the old sun shrine, where lightwoven magic had once been revered and now lay forgotten, decaying alongside the legacy she was about to abandon. The grove around her was quiet, the air still, as though the land itself held its breath. She knew they were already gone.

Let them sail with their rituals and roots. I will stay, she thought, pressing her forehead to Galen’s. And if I must bury the light to love him, then so be it.

Galen’s fingers tightened around hers. “Let’s go,” he whispered.

She followed him through the gray stone archway, past mosaics of old rites dulled by dust, and into the quiet streets of Velenshire. Dawn had just begun to pale the sky, and the town still slept, completely unaware of the girl walking away from centuries of magic. She should have been afraid, but her heart felt steadier with each step beside him.

She loved Galen—his gentleness, the way he always asked before taking, and listened when others did not. She loved the unruly curl of dark brown hair that refused to stay in place, the quiet way he laughed with his eyes, and most of all… the warmth of his golden irises, rich as sunlit amber. He was the mortal son of a noble lord, yet unlike the heirs of wealth she had been warned about, Galen never treated her as a symbol or a curiosity. He saw her. Not as a Sunweaver, not as a secret to unravel, but simply as herself.

Lumira had spent most of her life among the Solgrove Kin—the Sunweavers, as they were known beyond their circle. Even the covens of Velenshire kept their distance, treating them as something fragile, something too radiant to be handled. Their bond to the Solwyn Tree was “pure,” her mother would say, “beautiful.” Their magic did not destroy. It healed, it cleansed, it brought life back where it had faded. And though no harm had ever come from it, her kind believed the covens had begun to envy that beauty, that closeness to the land’s most sacred source of power.

At first, it was only whispers. Soft concerns spoken behind closed doors. Fears of imbalance. Of a beauty the world had grown too dim to understand, let alone share. And in time, those quiet doubts deepened into distance, until a rift settled between the Solgrove Kin and the covens of the southern territories.

The witches of Velenshire changed with it. Their rituals drifted farther from the grove, their voices growing more distant, more restrained, though no open hostility was ever spoken. Only a lingering stillness remained, heavy and watchful, like a breath held too long. The Solgrove Kin did not challenge it. They chose peace, as they always had. Rather than remain where they were no longer welcome, they turned toward the sea, intending to journey to the Southern Isles, where they would plant a sister tree, Elarwyn, and continue their rites in quiet solitude.

It had frightened her at first, but Lumira chose to believe her mother. The witches did not mean harm, only caution. And although Sunweavers had always used their magic to heal and restore, they were too unfamiliar… too misunderstood.

And so, they left.

All of them, except her. Because Lumira had met a boy hiding among the branches that crowded an old shrine, watching her with wide eyes and muddy boots. He thought he was being clever. But humans were never light on their feet.

“I see you,” she had called out, her hands still glowing with power. “You’re not as sneaky as you think.”

He had stumbled, struck his shoulder against the shrine’s moss covered base, and muttered something about being curious, not spying.

“You’re terrible at both,” she’d replied, smiling.

He returned the next day. And the day after that. And never once did he press her about the magic he had seen. Instead, he asked about her favorite flower, whether she preferred honey in her tea, and if the sunlight felt different when it touched her skin. Once, he brought her wild strawberries, slightly crushed in his pocket, but sweet all the same.

Then came the day she healed the small scratch on his thumb with a simple flick of her fingers, and he looked at her as though she were made of starlight. In that moment, she had never felt more seen. And that was what made it dangerous. He became her secret, just as she became his, and somewhere between stolen glances and soft laughter, she fell in love with him—and he, impossibly and without hesitation, fell in love with her.

On the night before her people were to sail for the Southern Isles, they met one last time in the place that had become theirs: the sun shrine within the grove, quiet and worn by time, illuminated only by the gold in his eyes and the soft glow of her skin.

“Please stay with me,” he whispered, his voice barely carrying through the stillness.

His words echoed within her, a desperate plea for her to remain. They wrapped around her heart so tightly that Lumira could not imagine a life without him, not in any world. When words failed her, she kissed him instead, slowly, and knew deep within her bones what it meant to truly love. And not the kind she had felt for her mother or father. Not the loyalty she shared with her siblings or the reverence she once held for her magic. This was something else entirely. The kind of love she could not live without. Fierce and consuming, intoxicating in a way that left no room for anything else. The kind that made her choose to stay.

Lumira never summoned her light again. She buried it deep, hiding her lineage from a world that would not understand it. She married Galen, built a life, and bore his children. And slowly, the name Solgrove Kin slipped from memory, becoming first a story, then a myth, until only whispers lingered behind.

But blood and magic never forget.

Part One

A Shadow Through the Passes

Chapter 1

“Get over here!” Heidara called, her green eyes dancing between joy and something more alluring as she backed toward a nearby stream. They were just outside the quiet town of Wrenford now, and the air, at last, was warmer.