It was the kind of night Veldenhar specialized in.
Low fog. Cold stone. Lanterns burning weak and yellow.
The city breathed in whispers. Plans. Secrets. Lies.
At the Dustpetal Inn, nothing unusual stirred.
Except for a new scent.
⸻
Aether—still using that name, still folding sheets in the back room—tilted his head faintly as he caught the faintest curl of smoke from the hallway. Not the usual oak-ash and wine barrel musk.
Something… floral.
Rot-sweet. Subtle. Clinging.
Dreamroot.
Of course.
⸻
The innkeeper didn't know. He'd been paid well by a quiet, hooded man earlier that day to "burn this rare calming incense—impress your patrons, make your inn smell fancy."
He'd lit it without question.
The scent wafted through the main room like a whisper from forgotten temples.
And Aether, seated at a small corner table, exhaled slowly.
So they've begun, he thought.
Dreamroot was no joke.
It worked on spirits. Shapeshifters. High demons. Even minor gods.
But not him.
⸻
Still, he played the part.
His hand trembled. Just barely. Enough to catch the eye of the girl pouring drinks at the next table.
His pupils dilated. He blinked twice, sluggishly.
Then coughed—once—like something caught in his throat.
"You alright?" the barkeep asked from across the counter.
Aether nodded weakly. "Yeah… just tired."
He slumped forward just a little.
Looked… sick. Human.
Convincing.
⸻
On the rooftop across the street, Mordane crouched beneath a cloaking veil, eyes sharp behind alchemical lenses. Two alchemists beside him whispered readings. One held a crystal reader humming faintly.
"No anomaly yet," the younger whispered.
"Wait…" said the older. "Pulse spiked. Just a second. Now back to baseline."
Mordane's jaw clenched.
"Was it real?" he asked.
"…Could be false positive. He reacted… but not like any known divine masking."
"He could be sick," the young one muttered. "Star fever. Arcane rot. Or just… allergic."
Mordane didn't respond.
Just stared.
Aether stood up.
Walked slowly to the kitchen. No flare. No glow. Just a mortal boy stretching his back.
The crystal flickered again—barely. Then went dead.
⸻
"You're clever," Mordane thought.
"But so am I."
⸻
In the shadows, Saela watched too.
Not from a rooftop. From the hallway, behind the stairwell, knife ready.
She saw the same thing: a boy who acted tired.
But whose exhaustion was too well-timed.
And her suspicion only deepened.
"You're hiding something," she murmured.
"But maybe not from me…"
⸻
That night, Aether returned to his small room, sat cross-legged on the floor, and stared at the dying candle flame.
Behind his stillness was a smirk.
Dreamroot.
That was their test?
"Try harder," he whispered, just for the stars to hear.
*
Sealed in night-black wax.
Stamped with the sigil of the Crimson Vulture, once again.
Dispatched through a silent courier who rides without rest, across forests and mountains, where no one would dare ask questions.
This is what the warlord receives:
⸻
To Warlord Malric of Dravarn,
The bait was taken.
The test was conducted.
The Dreamroot was burned—pure, undiluted, harvested from the tongues of your cursed orchids.
The boy reacted.
But not as we predicted.
No convulsions. No shedding of false skin. No divine flares.
Just a tremble. A minor disorientation. A feigned weakness. One that could be easily missed, or worse—acted.
He walked like a human. Breathed like a human. Drank broth. Cleaned tables. Complained about dust.
But my instincts, Warlord, remain sharp.
There is something about him that refuses to be seen. Like a shadow that chooses its angles.
I do not yet say he is divine.
But he is not simple. And not alone.
There is another. A girl. One of royal blood, lost and long presumed dead. She watches him. Tracks him. Possibly protects him.
Or perhaps—she suspects as I do.
I propose the following:
• Double our observers. No further magical tests—they may alert him.
• Target the girl. She may break more easily.
• Consider a localized false-flag event—something to provoke him emotionally. See how far the mask bends before it breaks.
I remind you:
If he is what you fear, then brute force will only amuse him.
But if he is simply an artifact—then we might still harness him.
Your fire waits for my signal.
Let me draw the line.
— Chancellor Mordane
⸻
The warlord reads it.
Twice.
Then burns it in silence.
And from his steel throne, he leans back and says just two words:
"Send the Black Flame"
*
The city moved like a tired beast.
Carts rumbled. Chimneys coughed. Cats screamed in the alley like demons arguing theology.
And Aether?
He stood behind the inn's kitchen counter, sleeves rolled to the elbows, carefully slicing turnips.
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.
No magic. No divine symbols. No flash of ancient power. Just a boy, a knife, and a smell that was slowly turning his nose inside out.
"Why can't I just… be normal?" he muttered.
⸻
He wasn't asking the gods.
He was one.
And gods didn't listen to each other anyway.
⸻
He paused, wiped the sweat from his brow. Looked at the warped reflection of himself in the brass pot hanging above the stove.
It was strange, seeing a face that had no temples built for it.
A voice no longer feared by tyrants.
Eyes that hadn't burned with judgment in centuries.
This was freedom, wasn't it?
The freedom to be nothing. To walk unnoticed.
To fail at mopping floors.
To burn the stew.
To smile at a girl and wonder if she saw you, or just the steam behind your eyes.
"I fought wars beside Aurora."
"I broke the chains of the First Circle."
"And now I'm dodging roaches behind a wine barrel."
A tiny snort escaped him. Not divine. Just tired.
⸻
From the other room, someone called out:
"Aether! Orders up—room 3!"
He grabbed the tray. Balanced it like a mortal. Tripped slightly like a mortal. Smiled awkwardly like a mortal.
But inside?
He was screaming.
⸻
"Why do they get to have this?"
"Why are they allowed to be small and loved and forgotten without consequence?"
"Why can't I?"
"Why do I always have to be the one to save the world—when I just want to live in it?"
He stepped into the hallway. Took a breath.
And walked up the stairs.
⸻
Above him, far beyond cloud and star, Aurora felt the ache through the echoes.
But she whispered to herself,
"Hold on, old friend. You're not alone."
⸻
And far below, in a hidden vault in Veldenhar's undercity…
The Black Flame arrived. "I smell the ash of broken gods," it whispered.
*
They met in a mausoleum, because of course they did.
Veldenhar's oldest graveyard. Forgotten by city records, remembered only by ravens and cultists.
Mordane came cloaked, no sigils. His hair tied back like a common monk.
The Black Flame? It wore no face—just a hood filled with smoke, and a voice that sounded like a burnt violin string.
⸻
"You called," it rasped.
"I did," Mordane replied, calm, hands behind his back. "He's clever. Maybe divine. But careful. I need him cracked."
"Dreamroot failed."
"Yes. And I expected that. Which is why we escalate."
⸻
A pause. The sound of water dripping from the ceiling onto old stone.
"I assume," Mordane continued, "you've brought the agents?"
The Black Flame tilted its head. The smoke within writhed.
"Three," it said. "Masked. Enthralled. Not mine—they were born in fire. Useful. Disposable. Untraceable."
"Good. Then we begin the lie."
⸻
The Plan:
• A small riot, staged in the lower district, sparked by food shortages.
• One of the agents would strike down a child—a beloved orphan under the inn's protection.
• Aether would be present.
• The child would die—publicly.
• And if he truly was divine, he wouldn't be able to not act.
But the genius?
The riot would feel real.
Guards pulled back. Locals bribed. Rumors stirred.
And when it's over? The kingdom blames poverty. Hunger. Politics.
"No magic. No divine detection. Just human misery," Mordane said. "The perfect mirror."
"Cruel," said the Black Flame.
"True," Mordane corrected.
⸻
They stood in silence, planning blood.
Before parting, the Black Flame asked softly:
"And if he doesn't act?"
Mordane looked into the void beneath that hood and smiled like a wolf in velvet.
"Then we kill the girl next."
*
Morning dawned like a bruise.
Veldenhar's lower quarter—the Street of Petals—was misnamed, like everything else in this city. No petals bloomed here. Only rot. Only hunger.
Aether carried a tray.
A small pot of boiled lentils. Two crusts of bread. One pear, half-rotten.
"Room 3's old man said give this to the widow across the way," the innkeeper had muttered.
"Don't linger. It's boiling down there."
He wasn't wrong. The tension hung thick in the air, like a thunderstorm that refused to break.
Aether passed broken windows. Shouts behind shutters. Dogs gnawing old bones in gutters. And then—
A smile.
A small girl with curly red hair and two missing teeth grinned up at him from behind a broken crate.
"You're late!" she chirped.
Aether blinked.
"You know me?"
"I watch." She held up a crudely carved piece of wood—a tiny figurine. Rough, but detailed.
"Made you. For good luck."
He stared at it.
It wasn't divine. Wasn't even symmetrical.
But it was… precious.
"Thanks," he said softly. "I'll keep it."
She giggled, then skipped away, back into the shadows of the alley.
Her name?
He hadn't even asked.
⸻
Then—the shout.
"Thief!"
A crowd stirred. Somewhere near the market stalls.
More shouting.
Then a rock flew—struck a vendor's stand.
Then screaming.
⸻
Aether moved without thinking. His tray hit the ground with a crash. He pushed past two drunks, ducked under a laundry line, turned a corner—
—and saw it.
People pushing, stumbling. Three figures in black masks pulling carts over. One swung a rusted blade. A man fell. Blood sprayed. Children scattered.
This isn't natural.
He reached forward with his mind—just a little—to see if the crowd was truly panicked.
They were.
But the panic had been sown.
He could feel it.
Threaded in, like poison in water.
⸻
And then—
That same little red-haired girl.
Standing in the chaos.
Alone.
One of the masked figures turned to her. Raised his club.
She looked up.
She smiled.
Because she recognized Aether.
⸻
His heart twisted.
Not again.
Not this time.
But he couldn't move.
Not like a god. Not yet. Not here.
So he ran. Like a human.
Sprinted.
But too slow.
The club came down.
Crack.
She fell.
And the masked man turned—and was gone in the swarm.
⸻
Aether knelt beside her.
Held her.
Her doll slipped from his pocket into the dust beside her face.
She wasn't breathing.
His hands clenched.
His knuckles turned white.
The figurine began to tremble, just slightly, in the dirt.
⸻
On a rooftop, the Black Flame watched.
Crystal lens flickering.
Mordane's voice echoed through the speaker rune:
"Well?"
"He ran. He wept. He mourned," the Flame answered.
"But he didn't glow."
"So he's not divine?"
"…He's dangerous. But still wearing the mask."
"Then we escalate."
*