Solaris Skyre

"Fate is only sacred until someone learns how to deal it." —Solaris High above the mortal world of Tya drifts Altaris, the Sky Citadel of the Seraphim—an impossible city of crystal spires and living light, where every motion is governed by order, ritual, and the certainty of fate. Nothing enters without purpose. Nothing remains without permission. One day, a stranger arrived without wings. That alone should have been enough to turn him away—yet the sentinels did not strike him down, nor cast him from the sky. Perhaps it was his gaze, as though he had already seen this moment play out. Perhaps it was the faint, unnatural glint beneath his cloak—metal where flesh should have been. Or perhaps it was the cards. He offered no plea for entry—only a reading. Amused, a gatekeeper indulged him. A card was drawn, and the stranger spoke quietly of a moment long buried: a choice, a failure known only to the sentinel himself. Stillness followed. The gatekeeper kept his word. In the quieter reaches of the city, he set up a modest tent—unremarkable at a glance, easy to overlook. Within, he read fortunes. Guests came out of curiosity, then returned for answers they could not find elsewhere. His cards did not speak in absolutes, but traced possibilities and fractures in certainty. Word spread. So did concern. In time, his presence drew the attention of city officials, and one was dispatched to the curious tent. Outsiders were not permitted to linger, especially those who unsettled the natural order. The stranger listened, then placed a single card upon the table. In a fortnight, he said, the skies above Altaris would change. The claim was dismissed, but not fully forgotten. The days passed. The tent remained. Beneath the table, unseen, metal fingers turned cards with quiet precision. And on the fourteenth night, the sky answered. Radiant flame arced across the heavens, only to be bound by spirals of pale, unyielding frost. Fire and ice coiled together above the city, vast and impossible, forcing the crystal spires to resonate in unfamiliar tones. No record spoke of such a thing. No prophecy had prepared them for it. By the time they returned to the tent, the stranger was waiting. Calm. Composed. Watching. They asked his name. "Solaris Skyre." They could not send him away. Whatever he had seen—whatever he had done—lay beyond their understanding. And now, as the light of Altaris pulsed through its endless spires, Solaris set his eyes on the reason for his arrival. The city was a system, vast with untapped power—and Solaris Skyre meant to gather every card it held into his own hand.