Echoes of the Ascended: Crown of Defiance: Elysian Realms, #1

​Chapter One

Applause crashed around Lyrien like a relentless wave, bright and deafening, yet it barely touched him. He stood at the edge of the stage, guitar strapped comfortably across his body. With a weary gesture, he pushed the guitar behind him, letting it rest against his back as he took a shaky breath. His heart hammered painfully against his ribs, club lights swirling and pulsing, colors bleeding into each other, magnifying his disorientation. His chest felt tight from the performance—and from the hum that surged beneath the city, stronger tonight than ever.

The resonance had always been there, a quiet vibration threading beneath Earth's surface, but tonight it twisted violently, nearly overwhelming him mid-song. Only years of practiced control had carried him through his set. Sharp jolts coursed through him now with each breath, warning him something was wrong, something had shifted irreparably.

Sweat trickled down his temple as he forced a tight smile, offering the audience a brief nod before retreating backstage. He stumbled into the shadows, grateful for the muffled cheers behind him. Leaning heavily against the wall, he steadied himself, waiting for the spinning world to right itself. The walls seemed to pulse in time with the resonance beneath his feet, an uneasy reminder of what he couldn't ignore. His fingers trembled slightly, betraying a fragility he worked hard to conceal.

Incredible set, man! a stagehand praised, fist outstretched.

Lyrien mechanically returned the gesture, murmuring, Thanks, though the words tasted hollow.

Carefully placing his guitar into its case, he lingered a moment, his fingers brushing gently across the polished wood as if seeking comfort in its familiarity. Then he slipped through the back corridor toward the bar, head bowed slightly to avoid drawing attention. Despite his desire for anonymity, heads turned as he passed, whispers trailing in his wake, drawn by the magnetic aura he struggled to suppress. Every gaze seemed heavy, carrying silent expectations he knew he could never fulfill, amplifying the isolation shadowing him constantly.

Amazing show tonight, the bartender greeted warmly, sliding Lyrien's usual whiskey across the polished surface.

Lyrien nodded politely, savoring the fiery burn as it steadied him. Leaning against the bar, he felt eyes linger, particularly from a group of women nearby, their smiles hopeful, inviting. But their expectations only deepened his emptiness, intensifying a profound loneliness he'd never quite escaped. He turned slightly away, quietly signaling his disinterest, relieved when they eventually drifted back to their table.

You okay? the bartender asked quietly, noticing the shadows in his eyes, a genuine concern softening his voice.

Just tired, Lyrien offered with practiced ease, though both knew the truth was deeper.

Before he could retreat further into solitude, a voice sliced through the noise, sharp and painfully familiar, puncturing his carefully maintained indifference.

You always did know how to captivate an audience.

The glass nearly slipped from his hand. Slowly, reluctantly, he turned toward the source.

Zionael stood in the crowd, untouched by the surrounding chaos. Lilac hair gleamed softly beneath the shifting lights, eyes piercing into his with painful clarity. For a heartbeat, the world fell away, years of exile collapsing into a single, aching moment.

She opened her mouth to speak, but emotion tightened her throat as she absorbed the truth of him—the weariness etched deeply into his features, the lonely shadows behind his gaze, the bitter lines carved by a decade she'd never experienced. Tears sprang suddenly, blurring her vision, sharp and unbidden. She blinked rapidly, desperately trying to reign them in. This was supposed to be a mission, not a reunion, yet her heart refused to comply.

Lyrien saw the tears before she could hide them, and a tempest erupted within him—pain, longing, anger, and something deeper, something he'd stubbornly refused to acknowledge for years. But outwardly, he steadied himself, forcing calmness into his voice.

To what do I owe this unexpected visit? His voice was smooth, practiced—hiding wounds so raw he half-expected the humans nearby to flinch.

Her jaw tensed, eyes scanning the room before returning to him. I thought you’d be somewhere less exposed.

He gave a dry laugh. You show up unannounced, and your first concern is my discretion?

It’s not concern, she said evenly, though the lie trembled just beneath the surface. It’s habit.

He took a slow step forward, folding his arms. So is evasion. Try again.

A pause. Then, tightly, she admitted, I’m here because I had orders.

His mouth curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Of course you are.

She held his gaze. There’s been a breach. The resonance is leaking into Elysia—from Earth.

That landed. The air between them shifted.

They don’t know why, not yet, she continued. But your connection to resonance—your House—makes you valuable now.

Bitterness rose fast and sharp. So I’ve been promoted from exile to asset. How generous—suddenly I’m useful again.

She didn’t look away. When I heard what was happening, I pushed to be assigned. I thought maybe I could help. Or at least make sure you didn’t face it alone.

He scoffed, voice tightening. What is this—parole with a chaperone?

She hesitated, carefully choosing her words. You're still exiled. That hasn't changed. But this goes beyond exile—this is about survival. We need your sensitivity to resonance.

Why should I care? he demanded sharply, bitterness erupting like a sudden flame. Fuck them. They cast me aside, exiled me here—let them figure it out.

She moved even closer, eyes intense and pleading. Because it's your home at stake now. If Elysia falls, exile won't matter. There’ll be nothing left to return to.

Home? he spat, his voice brittle with barely restrained fury. Elysia is no longer my home. They made sure of that the moment they threw me away like garbage. I hoped, year after miserable year, they'd see their mistake, bring me back. But no—this place, Earth, it's my home now, whether I like it or not. And Elysia? It can burn for all I care.

Sadness clouded her expression, and beneath it, he saw genuine pain. I know it doesn’t feel like home anymore, she said softly, her voice gentle but resolute. But it's still part of you, even if you wish it weren't.

He laughed bitterly, the sound harsh and hollow. Part of me? You think I still owe them something? After everything they did, after all these years alone, suddenly I'm supposed to drop everything and help? For what—so they can exile me all over again the moment they're done with me?

Zionael shook her head gently, stepping closer, her expression earnest. Lyrien, it’s not like that. They didn’t send me here lightly. There's a team assembled—a team carefully chosen to address this crisis. Elysia is fracturing. If the resonance shatters completely, it'll destroy both worlds. They need you.

They need me now? His voice cracked slightly, betraying a raw pain beneath the anger. Where were they ten years ago? Or five? Or even one? You have no idea what it's been like, watching, waiting, hoping they'd call me back home. But the call never came. Because it was never going to come, was it?

She looked away briefly, guilt flickering in her eyes before she met his gaze again. No, it probably wasn't. But the circumstances have changed. Elysia’s survival—and Earth’s—is at stake. I'm here because I had to see you, and because you're needed more than ever. Please, Lyrien.

He stared at her, emotions warring visibly in his eyes, anger gradually yielding to reluctant acceptance. His voice came out tight, subdued. This team—who else did they send?

Zionael hesitated slightly, clearly choosing her words carefully. Vaelion Stoneveil and Aelaryth Tenebryn. They're specialists, carefully chosen by the Council. They’re waiting uptown.

He exhaled sharply, frustration lingering beneath his tone. Of course. Specialists. Another team sent to clean up their mess. His gaze hardened, bitterness still evident. I suppose they expect me to lead them?

They're good men, Lyrien, she replied gently, sensing his defensive walls rising again. We're all here because we believe you're the only one who can help us understand what's happening.

Lyrien stared at her, feeling the heavy weight of her expectation and the undeniable truth beneath her words. Finally, he nodded slowly, the sharp edges of his anger fading slightly. Then let’s not keep them waiting.

The night air pressed heavily around them as they walked silently toward an abandoned park. Their footsteps echoed quietly through empty streets, tension thickening the air around them. Two figures stood near a cracked fountain—Vaelion Stoneveil, solid and watchful, and Aelaryth Tenebryn, shadowed and sharp.

They bowed slightly at his approach. Your Highness, Vaelion began respectfully.

Lyrien immediately raised a hand, discomfort clear. None of that. Humans notice. We're not in Elysia anymore.

The men exchanged brief glances before nodding. Aelaryth spoke calmly. The resonance disruptions are worsening. You’re essential.

He studied them briefly, jaw tight as he reluctantly accepted their presence. We shouldn’t discuss it here. Come—I have a place.

They slipped into the night, keeping to the edges of the city as Lyrien led them through cracked sidewalks and faded neon.

So this is Earth, Aelaryth said quietly as they moved. Smells like rust and fried oil.

It’s not the scent, Vaelion muttered. It’s the noise. Everything’s humming.

Zionael said nothing, but her gaze moved constantly— taking in the graffiti, the tangled wires overhead, the distant sirens. Her expression was unreadable.

Keep your voices down, Lyrien said, not unkindly. You draw more attention here with your eyes than with your mouths. No one’s looking for us, but don’t tempt fate.

Noted, Aelaryth murmured, falling into step beside Vaelion.

It’s a wonder anyone survives this long in it, Vaelion muttered. The pressure here’s all wrong.

You get used to it, Lyrien replied, tone flat. Or you break.

The warehouse loomed ahead, an old shipping building tucked behind rows of derelict storage units. The outer walls were faded brick, the steel door scraped raw by decades of use.

Lyrien paused, his hand on the latch. Try not to break anything. Some of it matters to me.

He pulled the door open, and the space exhaled around them—cool, quiet, cavernous.

Inside, the air felt different. Not cleaner, but reverent. The entire space was filled with light and shadow, where dozens—no, hundreds—of works of art leaned against walls and filled makeshift shelves: oil paintings, sketches, statues, broken stained glass fragments set in wooden frames. Some pieces were ancient, others much newer. All of them had one thing in common.

Angels.

Ethereal, terrifying, winged or wingless. Painted in suffering, cast in worship, blurred in myth.

The others stepped inside slowly, the door closing behind them like a breath held too long.

Aelaryth moved first, drawn to a cracked mosaic in shades of gold and crimson. These aren’t just human imaginings, he said in quiet awe. Some of these... they feel close.

They are, Lyrien said from the far side of the room. Dreams aren’t made from nothing.

Zionael paused before a sculpture carved from pale wood, its wings arched high in agony and reverence. Her fingers hovered just above the surface. You’ve surrounded yourself with humanity’s memories of us.

Memories they were never supposed to keep, he said bitterly.

No, she said softly, meeting his gaze. Reminders of home.

He didn’t answer.

Vaelion stepped into the center of the space, glancing up at the metal platform above—what had once been the foreman’s office. A bed sat there now, spartan but lived-in. You built this alone?

I had time, Lyrien said, walking past shelves stacked with weathered books and charcoaled sketches. Exile gives you plenty of that.

Aelaryth crouched beside a wall of framed portraits, each one styled differently—classical, surreal, modern. They see us as gods, he murmured. Or monsters.

Depends on the century, Lyrien muttered.

Doesn’t it weigh on you? Vaelion asked. All this... longing?

Lyrien finally turned to face them, exhaustion bleeding through the brittle calm. It reminds me that we mattered. That we left an echo behind, even if the Council wants to pretend we didn’t.

You don’t believe in the veil anymore, Zionael said, not accusing—just stating.

I believe in the noise, he replied. And how easily truth gets drowned in it.

Silence settled for a moment as the others wandered— Zionael tracing faded scripture on the frame of an icon, Aelaryth lost in the details of brushstroke wings, Vaelion standing like a sentinel among ghosts.

Then Vaelion broke the stillness, his voice level. The resonance is intensifying. It’s not just chaotic—it’s unpredictable. Timelines are slipping. There are tremors in the fabric of reality itself.

We don’t know what’s causing it, Aelaryth added. Only that it’s coming from here. Somewhere beneath the surface.

Lyrien walked to the wide windows, his hand resting against the glass, eyes scanning the cityscape beyond. He could feel it, just beneath the concrete and steel—a humming that didn’t match Earth’s natural rhythm. A disharmony. A warning.

It’s not just unstable, he said quietly. It’s accelerating. Like the planet’s trying to shake something loose.

That’s why we’re here, Zionael said, stepping forward. Her voice held calm conviction, though her gaze still lingered on him. You hear it clearer than anyone. That’s what makes you dangerous. And that’s what makes you needed.

Lyrien turned slowly, her words cutting sharper than she intended. He met her gaze, and for a flicker of a moment, there was no mask left to wear. Just the ache of being needed too late.

For the first time in years, he wasn’t alone. But that didn’t mean he was safe.

And somewhere beneath them, in the fracture of silence between frequencies—something had already begun.

Chapter Two

Zionael studied Lyrien from across the room, her hands gently folded in her lap as she watched him with concern. His palm was pressed to the glass of the window, his profile shadowed in the faint glow of the city lights.

It wasn’t like him to hesitate. Lyrien Vaelcrest, prince of House Evercall, had always been decisive. Even in their training days, his confidence had bordered on arrogance, but she’d learned to trust it because beyond the arrogance was a quick mind. He had a knack for turning even the direst situations to his favor. Yet now he hesitated, and that disturbed her.

Her gaze flickered to his hand on the window. She almost imagined she could see the faint tremor in his fingers, the tension in his posture. He needed his space, so she looked away and then stood and moved quietly near one of the larger canvases. Her eyes traced the strokes—not casual admiration, not polite interest. She was studying it.

Lyrien glanced over, already knowing what was coming.

You never told me you kept all of this, she said softly.

He didn’t answer at first. Instead, he turned back to the window, the familiar city lights washing across his face. Didn’t think it mattered.

Zionael turned, eyes lingering on a sculpture to her left—fractured marble, a single wing split clean down the center. It wasn’t just beauty. It was memory. Grief. Identity carved in silence.

"It matters to me," she said.

Lyrien exhaled. Slow. They’re just pieces.

She stepped closer. "No, they weren’t. You collected fragments of Elysia. Old myths. Lost kingdoms. Pieces of the world that shaped us. But you didn’t bring them here to gloat. You brought them to remember."

A beat.

Then—softly—

"But why would you want to remember a place that wants to forget you?"

That landed harder than she intended, but she didn’t take it back.

Lyrien’s jaw clenched slightly, his gaze still distant. Because I never wanted to forget it.

Zionael studied him. The way his shoulders tensed. The way his fingers curled, then relaxed, as if letting go of something invisible.

He finally looked at her.

I spent so long trying to be what they wanted. When they threw me out, I thought it would erase who I was. What I was. But this— he gestured around them, to the brushstrokes and stone and etched glass "—this is what’s left. These are the pieces they can’t take from me. The pieces I get to choose."

Zionael’s voice was quiet. It’s beautiful.

Lyrien’s lips quirked into something like a smile. It’s mine.

She nodded. I think that’s what scared them most.

A long silence passed between them—comfortable, heavy with unspoken things.

He didn’t respond immediately. His violet eyes flicked toward her for the briefest moment before returning to the city below. She suppressed a shiver. That look—whatever he’d seen or felt—wasn’t something she wanted to name.

Behind her, Vaelion’s footsteps were a quiet but deliberate reminder of his presence.

What do we do? he asked, his tone low, practical, and edged with impatience. Are we just going to stand here and wait?

Zionael turned toward him, aware of the tension radiating from him. She offered a gentle yet firm rebuke. First, we trust Lyrien. If he says something’s wrong, then it is.

Vaelion's jaw tightened, his blue eyes narrowing slightly. Respectfully, he's been here alone for years. Who's to say he's still reliable?

The room stilled, a heavy silence settling over them like a sudden frost. Lyrien's shoulders visibly tensed, but he did not turn from the window.

Zionael rose slowly from her seat, the cushions whispering beneath her. Vaelion, she said quietly, the warning clear. Now isn't the time—

No, Lyrien interrupted, turning slowly. His expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes burned with quiet intensity as they fixed on Vaelion. Let him speak.

Vaelion stepped forward, folding his powerful arms across his chest. I mean no disrespect. But we've trained endlessly for this, and I fail to see how someone who's spent years separated from our world could possibly understand the current stakes.

The muscles in Lyrien’s jaw tightened. And I suppose you've already figured out the resonance shifts? You've felt the way the frequencies warp and fracture each day?

Vaelion hesitated, his confidence faltering slightly. I haven’t felt what you’re describing, but—

Then perhaps, Lyrien said coolly, cutting him off with quiet authority, you should refrain from questioning my understanding until you know what you're talking about.

Zionael exhaled softly, the tension in her chest easing at Lyrien’s familiar confidence, but Vaelion’s pride bristled openly, his shoulders squaring. He didn’t back down, though he said nothing.

Aelaryth, calm as ever from his perch on the couch, spoke into the taut silence. Perhaps before we question each other’s abilities, we should clearly define what we know—and what we don’t. We’re here to solve a problem. Not create more.

Lyrien didn’t look at him. His gaze stayed fixed on the window, the glass humming faintly under his fingertips.

You want to define what we know? he said, voice low, almost too even. Fine. I’ve felt it building for months—this pressure in the resonance. It’s not just background noise anymore. It’s pain. Constant. Like the planet itself is screaming through my spine.

He turned then, slowly, eyes landing on each of them in turn.

"I told no one. Because I knew no one would listen. And I was right—until it started spilling into your realm. Now suddenly I’m no longer a liability. I’m an asset."

He let that word hang, bitter and cold.

So let’s not pretend this is about trust, or teamwork, or redemption. The Council didn’t send you to save me. They sent you because they’re scared and I’m their last resort.

Vaelion’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.

Zionael stepped forward slightly, her voice careful. That doesn’t mean what’s happening isn’t real. That lives aren’t at stake.

Lyrien met her eyes, and for a moment, something in him wavered. Not softened—just cracked.

You think I don’t know that? he said, quieter now. You think I haven’t wondered if it’s already too late?

He looked away again, swallowing down whatever emotion had almost surfaced.

I’ll help. But don’t ask me to pretend this is anything more than what it is.

Lyrien’s gaze held Vaelion’s a moment longer, then softened as he gave a subtle nod of acknowledgement toward Aelaryth. Agreed.

Vaelion remained unmoving for a beat longer before he inclined his head slightly in reluctant agreement. Fine.

Lyrien stepped into the circle of light cast by the lamps, his presence drawing them instantly back to the issue at hand.

The resonance, he began, carefully choosing his words, is not just a vague disturbance anymore. It’s like a living pulse beneath the city. It twists, breathes, moves—and tonight, during my performance, it nearly overwhelmed me. Whatever’s beneath us... it’s becoming aware.

Aelaryth’s head tilted slightly. Performance?

Lyrien shot him a glance—measured, flat. Not the point.

What kind of performance? he added, voice light but probing. You juggling now? Magician? Cabaret dancer?

Aelaryth. Zionael’s tone was soft but edged, cutting clean through his amusement.

He glanced at her, eyebrows raised, then offered a small shrug. Just narrowing it down.

Lyrien didn’t respond, but the flicker in his eyes said enough—grateful for the interruption, even if he’d never admit it.

Zionael turned back to him, her voice more hushed now. The certainty in his tone lingered in her bones. It’s becoming aware of what exactly?

His gaze met hers, dark and unflinching. Of us.

Vaelion shifted, his stance sharpening. "How could something beneath Earth’s surface possibly be aware of us?"

Lyrien rubbed a weary hand over his face, frustration flashing briefly across his expression. I don't know exactly how—yet. But I know what I feel, and it's growing stronger by the hour. We aren't dealing with mere disruptions. This is something deliberate, sentient, and dangerous.

Vaelion shook his head, his doubt resurfacing. That sounds a little—

Impossible? Lyrien finished sharply, eyes narrowing. You've spent your entire life on Elysia, surrounded by its certainties. Earth doesn't play by our rules. Whatever this is, it doesn't care if you believe in it. It’s here regardless.

Vaelion bristled again, his jaw set stubbornly, but before he could retort, Aelaryth interjected calmly. What do you suggest we do then?

Lyrien drew a breath, forcing his agitation back under control. We rest. Recharge our energies. The resonance drains us faster than you realize. At dawn, we'll need to move quickly, blend in, and investigate further.

Zionael took advantage of the momentary calm to step closer to Lyrien, lowering her voice to a murmur meant only for him. What makes you think it’s aware of us?

His eyes met hers, the pain behind them subtle but unmistakable. "Because it felt me."

He looked away, his voice tightening. My singing—my resonance—it might be acting like a beacon. Maybe it always has.

He paused. I don’t know if it’s drawn to me out of curiosity... or hunger. But it’s listening now.

She studied him for a beat, brows drawing slightly. "You’re speaking about it like it’s sentient. Like it wants something."

Lyrien’s gaze returned to hers, steady this time. "I don’t think it’s sentient the way we are. But it’s reacting. It’s changing. And whatever’s buried beneath this city isn’t just leaking resonance anymore—it’s responding to it."

A chill crept through her at his words. She nodded slowly, the weight of his revelation settling heavily in her chest. Then we must be careful.

Behind them, Vaelion muttered under his breath, clearly still irritated but wise enough to keep his voice low. Lyrien shot him a brief, measured look, but didn't pursue the argument. Instead, he turned back to the window, as if pulled once more by whatever lay hidden beneath the city's dark heart.

The group slowly began to move again, tensions fading into quiet exhaustion. Aelaryth was drawn to the crystals that Lyrien had collected, carefully examining their resonance frequencies. Vaelion settled stiffly onto the worn leather sofa, eyes watchful and wary, still unwilling to fully let his guard down. Zionael returned to the stack of lounge pillows in one corner of the room, closing her eyes and allowing herself to relax slightly, despite the turmoil she still felt swirling around her.

Minutes passed quietly, filled only by the soft sounds of their breathing and the city's distant murmur. Yet the fragile peace was fractured once more as Lyrien’s voice quietly sliced through the quiet.

We're already behind, he murmured, mostly to himself, the frustration evident. "The