The sky above the village of Eloryn was a canvas of fading gold, streaked with the final blush of sunset. Birds dipped low over golden wheat fields, their wings casting brief shadows on the land below. A gentle breeze swept through tall grasses, rustling secrets only nature could understand. The scent of fresh bread cooling on windowsills mingled with river mist and fertile soil, creating an aroma so comforting it could lull a storm to sleep.
In this quiet corner of the world, far from the kingdoms' borders and the echoes of old wars, the people of Eloryn lived simple lives. Tales of Aether and ancient heroes were the stuff of bedtime stories. No one feared monsters, tyrants, or elemental calamities here. Peace was not just a dream—it was the routine.
And nestled within this sleepy hamlet was a boy with silver eyes.
Yoru Arian, ten years old, stood barefoot on the bank of a stream behind his home, skipping pebbles over the shimmering surface. His aim wasn't great—most stones just plopped in with disappointing bloops—but he kept at it with a stubborn frown.
"One day," he muttered, "I'll skip a stone clean across this river."
"It's a stream," came a gravelly voice behind him. "Barely wider than your armspan. And you've been hitting more fish than water."
Arian flinched, then grinned sheepishly. "Father, you always ruin the magic."
Briar stood tall behind him, his broad frame blocking the sinking sun. His arms were crossed, a slight smirk tugging at the edge of his lips—rare, but not unwelcome.
"I ruin it so it doesn't ruin you first," Briar said, stepping beside his son and crouching down. He picked up a stone and flicked it. It danced over the stream like it had a personal grudge against gravity—one, two, three, four skips.
Arian stared, awed. "You used Aether, didn't you?"
Briar snorted. "Boy, I don't waste Aether on rocks. That's just technique. Maybe when you're done throwing pebbles like wet bread, I'll teach you."
Arian laughed and flopped onto the grass, arms behind his head. "One day I'll be better than you. I'll skip stones, punch mountains, and make Aether blades out of air."
"Oh? Then maybe I'll retire early." Briar sat down beside him, voice low and thoughtful. "You really want power, Arian?"
The boy blinked. "Not power for power's sake. Just… I want to protect people. Like you do. And—well—maybe travel. See cities. Float in the sky. And eat meat that doesn't taste like regret."
Briar chuckled, low and deep. "You'll get your wish. But remember—power isn't just strength. It's what you do with it. Some folk burn villages with it. Others… save them."
Arian looked up at the sky, where stars were beginning to peek through the twilight. "Then I want power so I can help protect others and also reach my goals."
Briar didn't respond right away. But his gaze softened, as if he saw something in the boy that he hadn't dared to hope for.
Later that night, after dinner, the two shared a rare moment of stillness inside their modest wooden home. Arian pestered Briar with questions from a tattered book they'd bought off a passing merchant.
"Did dragons really exist?"
"Depends on who's drunk."
"What's the capital of Etheros?"
"Big place. Expensive food. Everyone smells like paper and perfume."
"Were you ever famous, Father?"
Briar paused mid-bite. "Infamous, maybe."
Arian squinted. "What's the difference?"
"One gets you free drinks. The other gets you hunted."
"Cool."
"Not cool."
They both laughed.
Days in Eloryn were quiet, but never dull. Arian helped with chores, though his attempts often resulted in mild disasters.
Like the time he tried to wash clothes in the stream and accidentally soaked all their firewood. Or when he helped old Mister Dallon gather eggs and got chased by an angry rooster for three hours.
"You're the only kid I know who can turn a chicken into a life-threatening enemy," Briar had muttered, rubbing ointment on Arian's peck wounds.
"I swear it had bloodlust in its eyes."
"It's a chicken."
"An evil chicken."
But Eloryn's peace was not built to last.
One night, it all changed.
A distant rumble jolted Arian awake. At first, he thought it was thunder, but the sky outside was too clear—too calm. Then came the red light. It seeped through the wooden slats of their home like blood through linen.
He stumbled out of bed barefoot, heart pounding. Smoke bit at his throat. The air was thick and wrong.
"Father?!" he called out.
Briar burst into the room, already dressed, sword drawn. "Stay behind me," he ordered.
"What's happening?"
"Raiders. Not ordinary ones."
A scream pierced the night. Then another.
Outside, houses blazed. Shadows with glowing eyes moved like wraiths through the smoke. Black-cloaked figures flung fire from their hands, lighting homes and villagers alike. The very earth shook as something massive roared from deep in the woods.
Briar shoved a pack into Arian's hands. "Take the back path. Go west. Don't look back."
"But—!"
"Arian! You must live. That's my only command."
Arian's legs froze. His father's voice had never sounded so desperate.
And then—
The wall behind them exploded inward. A cloaked figure stepped through, eyes glimmering red. Briar was already moving, sword flashing. Aether crackled around him—blue, like a river coiled to strike. He drove the attacker back.
"GO!" he roared.
Arian ran.
The forest clawed at his arms and legs. Branches tore at his clothes, but he didn't stop. Behind him, the village screamed and burned. The world he'd known shattered in a single hour.
He tripped. Fell. Scraped his knee. Kept running.
When he finally collapsed beneath a gnarled tree, the world was quiet again—too quiet. The kind of silence that follows after something dies.
At dawn, Arian crept back.
What he saw broke him.
Eloryn was gone.
The buildings were ashes. The stream was blackened. The fields were nothing but cinders. He staggered through the rubble, calling names—friends, neighbors, even the rooster—but no one answered.
Then he saw a familiar shape at the edge of the forest.
"Father…" he whispered.
Briar lay still, blood soaking the earth around him. His sword was broken in two. One hand still clenched its hilt.
"No. No no no—" Arian dropped beside him. "You said I'd see the world. You can't die now!"
Briar's eyes fluttered open. Barely.
"Arian… Good. You're… safe."
"Don't talk. I'll get help. I'll—"
"There's no time."
Tears welled up, hot and stinging. "Why didn't you come with me?!"
"Because… if I hadn't stayed… you wouldn't be alive."
"You always look at the sky like you lost something," Arian sobbed. "Don't let it be me."
Briar reached up with the last of his strength and touched his son's cheek. "Live. Don't chase death. Don't lose yourself."
"Then what do I do?!"
"Remember who you are."
Then… nothing.
No final warning. No secret legacy. Just a fading touch and the soft whisper of wind through burned trees.
Arian screamed until his throat bled.
Then, as the sun rose on the ruins of Eloryn, a strange warmth began to burn in his chest.
The silver mark—always faint, barely noticed—now glowed like molten moonlight. His veins pulsed with something ancient, something that felt like ice and fire all at once.
Aether.
But not like his father's Water Aether.
This was different.
It was calm, fluid, intangible—yet unbreakable. Like mercury flowing through his blood.
It whispered a single word:
"Remember."
Arian gritted his teeth. "Remember what? Who am I really?"
The Aether didn't answer. But it stayed with him—warm, comforting, dangerous.
He buried his father with his own hands. One grave among many. Then, with ash clinging to his skin and firelight behind his eyes, he lit a pyre.
As it burned, he whispered:
"Thank you… for everything."
Then he turned his back on the only home he'd ever known.
No destination. No map.
Only a promise whispered to the dead.
"I will not let this end here."
His journey had begun.
Not just toward vengeance.
But toward understanding.
Toward power.
Toward a truth buried in silver light.