1. The dream
Kaelios fell back into the dark water of a memory like plunging a hand into an old well: cold, deep, and familiar. The dream brought him back—with an almost cruel clarity—to the land of before, where his bones knew the dust of the village and the taste of hot milk in the morning. The song of the crickets merged with the distant beat of a drum; the air carried the raw scent of crushed leaves and hearth smoke. He saw himself as a child, thin, barefoot, hair badly braided, crowned only by audacity.
There were rules the elders spoke of only in hushed tones. A line of roots, an imaginary bank, a mark on the ground that one dared not cross. "Over there," they said, "lives what the forest keeps for itself: spirits, ghosts, beasts that speak of before man." Ma Yaga had said—Ma Yaga, guardian of stories, the woman who carried all the village's fears in a dry gaze. The children stood at the edge, laughing, throwing challenges like one throws pebbles. Thulo clung to a branch, his mouth full of orchids and air, his knees scraped. Kulu, his head full of a courage not yet weighed down by fear, felt the invisible crown he imagined belonged to him.
"You know what Ma Yaga said," a mocking voice called out.
"She's always telling stories to hold us back," Kulu (Kaelios when he was on earth) replied without hesitation. "I am the son of the Naaba (Mooré: king). A king is not afraid. Who here would refuse to follow a future king?"
The other children laughed briefly. Kulu's impulsiveness was not just bravery, it was defiance: he knew he was already burning with a desire that had nothing to do with caution. He crossed the line. Thulo followed him, because brothers often follow by instinct before they understand loyalty.
The bush changed. The trunks became closer, the shadows took on strange angles. Roots jutted out like fingers. A silence, so thick, that you could hear it breathe. The other children stayed behind, their laughter scattering into echoes that seemed to get lost. It was then that the scream tore through the air—a wail from deep within the woods, high-pitched, ancient, and empty of mercy. Thulo looked up, pale. The scream had a nerve: fear.
Kulu froze. "Baaba!" someone cried, a child's voice, louder than fear. But it was Thulo, and the voice that cried out did not have a child's delicacy: it was the rage of a beast that believes it is protecting its territory. The two brothers felt, all at once, the fragility of their small bodies.
In the village, panic rose. The children who had been watching fled, screaming. The cries reached the outskirts; Ma Yaga ran, her step quick, her fingers clutching a string of prayer beads. The adults gathered, listening to the confused version from the kids: "The sons of the Naaba (Mooré: king) entered the Forest-of-Spirits… we heard Thulo scream…"
The Naaba himself mounted his horse. He separated from his men to search the bush, covering more ground—it was the old kings' tactic: divide and conquer. He called out:
"Thulo? Kulu? Answer me!"
Silence answered him, wide and heavy. His voice faded into the foliage. He plunged deeper, spear in hand, sniffing out fear as one smells a wind. Kulu and Thulo, perched in a tree, saw the king's silhouette descend the slope on horseback; his features were hard, his gaze strained by urgency. And then the panther sprang.
Black as the absence of a moon, the panther flowed from the ground, muscles tensed, eyes glowing like embers. It tried to climb the tree where the children huddled together, claws digging into the bark. Thulo held his breath; Kulu felt the entire basket of his existence tighten. Then, the plain seemed to fill the air with another sound: the gallop of the Naaba, the clang of hooves.
The king did not hesitate. He had a spear forged for him from a metal alloy said to be "harder than stone," a dark, polished metal that made no sound as it sliced through the air. He charged full speed toward the beast in the tree. The horse, in turn frightened by the flash of a shadow, wheeled around and fled, leaving the Naaba isolated, standing, facing the panther.
The fight was primitive and beautiful. The king, without the butt and distance offered by a horseman, threw himself into the space of the struggle as if in an ancient dance—he rolled, grappled, using a martial art inherited from the villages: an African wrestling style, flexible and powerful, that knew how to use the hips and back as much as brute force. He blocked the panther's paw, pushed it back with a gesture, rolled onto his back, and managed to get behind the animal—a move learned in the fire of ceremonies, a move of a man protecting more than just himself. The claws sought his skin. The beast howled, and the howl tore the silence; it made the wood resonate and sent birds fleeing, setting a rhythm.
Above, the Black Falcon emitted a halo of light. The Mama (this is what the queen mother is called), who was piloting the craft from the black sky, had aimed the prow and the searchlight at the ground in response to the signal. The light cut through the night and blazed on the panther's coat, as if a thousand moons had been lit at the same time. The animal recoiled, terrified, and fled. It sensed—in those moments when instinct is even finer than fear—another image: the silhouette of a crowned lion that appeared in its gaze, projected onto the king. Perhaps it was life itself that placed this image like a seal: the beast recognized sovereignty, lowered itself, prostrated its body, and vanished.
The Naaba, out of breath, his spear stained with mud, watched the Mama descend in a gondola toward them. When she was close, he straightened up, one hand on his chest, the other pointed toward the children.
"Get us out of here, queen mother," he said in a hoarse voice.
She held out her arms; gravity seemed to approve her oath. With the technology of the Black Falcon, with the controlled gentleness of its engines, she levitated the king and the children toward the gondola. When they were safe, she let out the breath of the ship, the winches clattered, and the Black Falcon climbed into the sky at a speed that made the branches tremble. The light, immediately, faded, and the forest resumed its murmur.
Kaelios awoke in the center of a breath: a heavy headache like a drum struck too hard. The memory slowly faded, like a painting whose varnish is rubbed off.
2. The Awakening, Aeni and the Announcement
Reality returned to him in layers: the frame of his hut, the cold glow of a sylph lantern, the metallic taste of a dream that was too vivid. Aërya had already gently shaken him; she was the human counterpoint to his visions, a tangible reminder that time here on Aetherion was not made of the same measures as back there.
"Kaelios," she said, "outside. I have news. Selindra—you need to come."
"Give me a second," he breathed, rubbing his temples.
Aërya moved away to report that the spy had brought something back. She soon returned, a focused silhouette, a goddess's eyes tracing invisible paths. Kaelios remained still for a moment; the pain behind his eyes beat in time with the memory of the panther. When Aërya was gone, he pressed a hand to his ear: Aeni's transmitter, as discreet as a grain of sap, vibrated.
A neutral, emotionless voice echoed in his head:
> Aeni: Analysis in progress... Dream sensory data—weak correlation with Aetherion's meta-maps... Information not available. Initialization: Universal Memory. Provisional conclusion: non-Aetherion origin.
>
Kaelios let out a short, dry laugh. "I noticed," he thought, in a low voice. "These dreams are becoming more frequent." He felt that the echo of the bush still held him. "I'll have to look into this seriously. But for now, Aërya is waiting for us."
He stood up, took the time to put on a coat with simple embroidery, made the Ba'koro gesture—the lion's oath: right fist closed placed on the left chest, two small taps, bowed his head—a salute that the village of Havelune wore like a talisman. The inhabitants, passing him in the square, responded with the same gesture: a custom born in the village, soon consecrated by the founding of the kingdom.
Outside, the breeze was reminiscent of the forest, but it was an Aetherion forest—soft, charged with magical humidity and a scent of dawn. Aërya was waiting, accompanied by the spy and a small circle of guards. The spy's eyes fell on him; her features were hard, and the news that followed fell like a stone.
"Selindra could be in Thyamar," she said. "Thyamar, on Roogaya."
"Thyamar…," Kaelios repeated, like one repeats a name to tame it. "The kingdom of the druids."
Aërya nodded. The spy added that Eldran Varleth—who had become a county lord—had been seen establishing a residence in Thyamar. It was more than a clue: it was a lead. But Thyamar was on Roogaya—and Roogaya was separated from Asunra by a body of water that no one had the right to cross without preparing for the journey.
The debate fell almost immediately on the possibility of a "sea passage": taking to the banks, forging a ship, embarking. The spy shook her head.
"Building a boat will take months. Havelune is in the center of Asunra. To reach the coasts, we have to cross lands we don't control. It's risky."
Aeni, who was always present as a thread of analysis in Kaelios's consciousness, proposed an idea—but in a tone that belonged only to the cold intellect of machines:
> Aeni: Suggestion: vessel comparable to the one observed in your dream. Capability: possible transoceanic travel. Estimated construction time: very high if we start from scratch.
>
Kaelios felt Aeni's thought vibrate in his mind; he replied in the same intimacy:
"We don't have a blacksmith who works metal at that level. Even if the materials were here, it would take months, even years. We have neither the resources nor the know-how. We don't have the time."
While he was speaking in his head, an old man who stood apart, always in the background, raised his voice as if the words came to him from an abyss where old stories cradle.
"Maybe there's someone who can help us," he said. "Before we took refuge near the World Tree, we lived elsewhere. We knew days when we rode creatures that flew, mounts with a bond. I will tell you a story."
Kaelios glanced at Aërya; she gave him an imperceptible sign, allowing him to speak. The old man placed his hand on his cane, and the market seemed to quiet down, ready to listen.
"A long time ago," he began, "before the invasion that forced us to flee, we did not live near the World Tree. It was only after the attack, when the village fell, that the Tree took us under its boughs and offered us a refuge. At that time, we lived on open lands and we shared the road with majestic beings: the Griffons. These beasts—claws and wings—flew above our heads like protective ancestors. They obeyed only one elf: Nilu. She had woven a bond with them that few humans or elves could understand. They had chosen her."
He paused, looking at Kaelios as if the young man could draw certainty from this story.
"When the Orcs arrived, sent by the one named Shujarok—Oshira of Shujaa (Swahili: war)—they came in a horde. The Fort Breaker led the charge. Our people wanted to flee. Nilu refused. She said: 'Mother Nature supports us. The Griffons will lend us a hand if I call them.' We didn't want to fight. We bent, and we fled. Nilu still launched the battle alone. She lost Mel—her Griffon—and her brother was massacred. She made the roots spring forth—an attack that crushed enemies—and she disappeared, taking what was left with her to the mountains. We found refuge near the World Tree, and Nilu fled into isolation."
The old man spoke with the cadence of storytellers. His words were not all proof; they were fragments, legends passed from mouth to mouth. But Kaelios felt, behind the images of the panther and the forests, a door that was ajar: the Griffons might still exist; Nilu, perhaps, was still there.
Aërya met the old man's gaze, weighed his words, then asked a simple question:
"Do you believe she is still alive?"
The old man stroked his old beard, his eyes lost in an invisible point.
"These are stories that parents tell. But stories always contain a part of the truth. If someone can help us cross or provide an escort, it would be her."
Kaelios then felt the certainty of the need arise: he had to go find Nilu. Aërya wanted to accompany him.
"I'm coming with you," she said.
Kaelios shook his head, resolved. There was no luxury of a duo: someone had to stay in Havelune to protect the village.
"No. Someone has to stay here. The Oshira could find us even here. I will leave alone tomorrow," he said. "I will take a moon-canis."
The moon-canis—a creature of the night, fast and discreet, that moved like a breath—was the most common mount for crossing the mountains. It was decidedly wiser to send a scout.
Aërya placed her hand on Kaelios's shoulder. Her gaze was both proud and anxious.
"May the ancestors guide you, then," she whispered. "And if ever… anything."
He gave her a slight smile in return. The decisions were made; the paths were opening, and the dreams, they now knew, were perhaps not just ghosts in the night.
4. The Tale of Nilu and the Griffons
The square of Havelune emptied a little; the parents returned to their businesses, and the small assembly dispersed. But the old man's story remained stuck to the lips of the listeners like tree bark. The images of Griffons and a stubborn elf did not fade.
The truth, Kaelios thought, could be buried under tales; but it is often in legend that one finds the way. If Nilu had tamed Griffons, then she possessed the power to recall them. And the recall of a Griffon could be worth more than a poorly equipped army. The hair on his heart bristled at the thought: the sky filled with Griffons carrying Havelune warriors on their backs. But Kaelios also knew that the fable had a flip side: Nilu had lost her Griffon Mel and her brother during the assault. Wounded spirits close themselves off.
"What if she pushes us away?" a young Amazon from the village timidly asked. "Will she hold it against us for fleeing?"
"Maybe," the old man replied in a soft tone. "Maybe not. The dead do not speak. The living, sometimes, are silent to avoid poisoning themselves."
Kaelios felt patience knot like a rope. He stood up, looking at the village, at the World Tree that was now extending its protective roots around Havelune. The choice was simple and terrible at the same time: go to Roogaya in search of Selindra, or try to rally forces here, uncertain and slow. He had to find Nilu—or die trying to find her.
Night fell on Havelune like a hand closing a book. Kaelios lay down, the images of the bush and the panther still rolling in his pupils. Aeni, faithful, remained in the background of his mind, working on schematics, wind corridors, probabilities. The alert was not yet real, but the smell of urgency was.
5. The Voices in the Astral: The Oshira Conspire
While the village breathed calm, separated by mountains and woods, another council was held on a plane where the laws of the flesh had no hold: the Astral plane. There, the Orisha spoke to each other as one handles precious stones. Their tones had no throat, their laughs did not make the earth vibrate but troubled the flows.
Shujarok, Orisha of Shujaa (Swahili: war) and leader of the Orcs, posed the question like a stone thrown into a lake of ink.
"So... that girl is still alive after what happened a century ago?"
His voice was like a drum's rattle; it came from the hollow of a long-nourished anger. Kizaru—Orisha of Kiza and of the Demons—replied, without much indulgence:
"It's because you don't take the time to clean up the surroundings. You Orcs, you only think about massacring. A bunch of brainless idiots."
The retort was not just a reply, it was an oil spill on a poorly contained fire. Shujarok, vexed, fumed:
"You say that, and yet those... 'errors of nature' and that offspring of the Astral plane—" (he was talking about Aërya) "—managed to foil two of your extermination attempts. I wonder if you demons are failures incapable of doing anything. Ha! Ha! Ha!"
The laughter that followed did not belong to joy. The other Orisha, gathered like a constellation of hatreds, murmured. Barafael, Orisha of Barafu and of the Drows, intervened in an icy tone:
"Shujarok is not wrong... What happened to the great Kizaru, Oshira of Kiza, of the darkest darkness?" he said, casting doubt.
Segaru—Orisha of Sega and of the Oni—smiled in a way that split the sky like a knife.
"This little new guy is starting to interfere with our plans. Let me finish him off and that elf and her bird friends. You couldn't finish the job. Let's not forget what he did last time. His Alpha Omega attack was really scary."
The mention of "Alpha Omega" brought back a fresh terror in some divine memories: a world-scale attack, a blow that had left scars. Segaru let his voice fall like a promise:
"I'm going to finish him off for good. After all, I am the Oshira of Sega, and I represent evil."
Their laughter, growing thicker, rolled over the veil of the Astral; they took on a shade of promised menace. The plans were woven like a trap: combining the forces of the Orcs and the Oni, sharpening the rage of the Drows, urging the demons to more cruelty. The Orisha formed an alliance that smelled of rust and blood.
And it was on this dark agreement, on these laughs that clapped like threats, that the night in Havelune ended. A world of rocks and trees was unaware that gods were planning; but Kaelios and Aërya, in the morning, would learn that every step they took now had an echo on planes where revenge is polished and prepared.
Kaelios got up before dawn. The headache, now distant, had left him with a kind of sharpness. The dreams were not just dreams. They were doors. He looked at the horizon, toward the north where the mountain range drew the back of a stallion. He had chosen: tomorrow, he would leave. Alone. On the back of a moon-canis. His blood beat strong, like a call drum. He made the Ba'koro gesture, two dry taps on the chest, head bowed, then walked toward Aërya and the small group of allegiance.
"May the ancestors guide us," he said, "and may they undo the knots on our path."
Aërya placed her fingers on his cheek, a brief contact, loaded with promises.
"Go," she whispered. "And come back. The world is more fragile than our certainties."
He replied with a smile, but deep down he knew that fragility was a weapon and that tomorrow, the mountain awaited him as a test and perhaps a salvation.
End of Chapter 9.