In the world of Evergreen, Aether was the Breath of the World. It was life given light, a river of raw magic that flowed through the city of Valerian. For farmers, it made crops grow overnight; for children, it was a shimmering playmate to chase through the streets. It lit the lanterns, filled the fountains with liquid light, and flew through every DNA in the kingdom, awakening the slumbering potential within all living things.
But such power could not be contained. Magical creatures arose, twisted by the raw energy, and began to claim the land as their own. Some lived in peaceful solitude, while others associated only with war and conquest. Nevertheless, they were the same at their core, beings of Aether, struggling for their place in a changed world.
But sadly, for the human race, all men are not the same.
The city of Valerian basked in the golden afternoon, its towers threaded with drifting ribbons of soft, blue Aether-light.
"Hey! No fair! You're using the Aether-stream to run faster!" Zorr yelled.
He skidded to a halt, his small chest puffing out. A few strands of his messy violet hair stuck to his forehead with sweat.
"I'm not! I'm just faster!" another boy called back, his hand glowing faintly as he sprinted through a shimmering patch of lightwater.
"Are too! Damian, tell him!" Zorr said, turning to his brother.
Damian, ten years old and already possessing their mother's composed demeanor and her same short, neat brown hair, looked up from his book. "He's right, Zorr. The rules say no channeling Aether for an advantage," Damian said.
"See!" Zorr said, triumphant.
"The rules also say," Damian continued, closing his book with a sigh, "that you're supposed to be inside, cleaning the mud off your boots before Father returns."
Zorr's triumph vanished. "Oh. Right," he mumbled.
Just then, a series of clear, bright horn calls echoed from the city's main gate. The royal banners along the parapets began to rise.
Zorr's green eyes went wide. "He's here! He's back! Race you to the gates!" he shouted. Without waiting, he took off, a tiny bolt of grass-stained cloth and flying purple hair.
"Zorr! No running in the courtyard!" Damian shouted, but he was already shoving his book into his satchel and running after his little brother.
Zorr didn't make it far. The grand staircase leading to the royal gardens was a wall of gleaming marble. He managed two steps before his untied boot betrayed him. He stumbled, his small hands slapping against the cool stone.
Damian caught up, not even breathing hard. "You have to tie your laces," he said, but his tone wasn't mean. It was the patient, slightly weary tone of a big brother who'd said it a hundred times.
Zorr just grinned up at him, all gap-toothed excitement. "He's really back, Damian."
Damian's stern expression softened completely. "I know." He reached down. "Come on. Mother's waiting."
Instead of taking his hand, Zorr scrambled onto Damian's back, tiny fingers clutching his tunic. "Faster this way!"
Damian sighed, a long-suffering sound, but his hands hooked securely under his little brother's knees. "You're a menace," he said, and started the careful climb up the stairs, carrying his bouncing, violet-haired burden.
From the top of the stairs, Queen Seliora watched her sons approach, Damian, the serious young prince, dutifully carrying his giggling, grass-stained brother. Her heart swelled, a familiar, fierce love warming her from within.
Zorr nearly tumbled off Damian's back in his haste to get to her. "Mother! He's here!"
She caught him as he collided with her silver gown. "Whoa there, little lion," she said, her hands steadying his small shoulders. She knelt, her gentle eyes taking in his dirty knees and wild hair. "Did you have a good adventure?"
"He was dueling the topiary bushes again," Damian reported, arriving just behind them, barely winded.
"It was a monster!" Zorr insisted, puffing out his cheeks.
Seliora laughed, a sound like soft chimes. "And did you win?"
"...I had to do a 'strategic retreat'," Zorr mumbled, repeating the phrase he'd heard the soldiers use.
"That's a fancy word for running away," Damian clarified.
Seliora smiled, brushing a leaf from Zorr's hair. "A wise general knows when to retreat." Her eyes, the same warm brown as Damian's, softened as she looked toward the city gates. "But now, the greatest general of all is coming home. We must be ready to greet him."
"Will he have a trophy?" Zorr asked, his small fingers clutching her gown.
"He brings us peace," Seliora said, her voice softening. "That is the only trophy that matters."
She stood, taking each boy by the hand. As they turned toward the palace, the joyful noise from the city seemed to swell, a wave of celebration rushing up to the palace walls. Zorr bounced on his toes, feeding off the energy, while Damian stood a little taller, trying to mirror the posture of the honor guards.
For a fleeting moment, Seliora's smile wavered. Her gaze grew distant, as if she could hear a single, dissonant note hidden deep within the city's triumphant song. A whisper of cold, there and gone.
She pushed the feeling down, squeezing her sons' hands. "Come, my lions. Let's go welcome your father."
Far from the gleaming city, where the air itself was thick with the residue of spent spells, the true cost of that peace was being counted.
The sun bled low over the Wyrmwood Frontier, painting the blackened, Aether-scarred land in shades of rust and old blood.
The beast of stone and molten light roared, a sound that shook the very bones of the valley. It charged, its eyes like twin suns, scorching the earth where it stepped.
King Zorrfin Valerian stood firm.
He didn't flinch. He didn't shout. He simply raised his sword, Lion's Fang, and the Aether in the air responded. Veins of gold pulsed beneath his armor, flowing into the blade until it shone like a piece of the sun itself.
He moved.
One blinding arc of light cut through the chaos. The creature's roar turned into a choked gasp, then a long, fading groan. It shuddered once, twice, and then its body crumbled into shimmering, silent dust.
For a heartbeat, there was only the whisper of settling ash. Then, a soldier broke the silence.
"Victory for the Lion King!" he cried.
The cheer that followed was thunderous. Men slammed their swords against shields, laughter and relief washing over the scarred valley.
But the king did not cheer.
He stood silently, watching the last motes of dust fade on the wind.
His trusted knight, Sir Almarion, approached, wiping soot from his brow. "A triumph worthy of a feast, sire," Almarion said.
Zorrfin's gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "Tell me, Al," the king said, his voice low. "When you slay a beast that only ever knew hunger... is that triumph, or mercy?"
Almarion was quiet for a moment. "Perhaps it is both, my king," he said gently.
"And which one do the men cheer for?" Zorrfin asked.
"Whichever one helps them sleep at night," Almarion replied.
A faint, tired smile touched the king's lips. "Then let them sleep well," he murmured.
He turned from the dissolving remains, his eyes old and heavy.
"You've grown quiet after these hunts, sire," Almarion noted softly.
"Have I?" Zorrfin said.
"There was a time you would have roared with them," the knight said.
Zorrfin let out a slow breath. "There was a time I thought roaring could change the world," he said.
Almarion gave a soft chuckle. "You've grown wise."
Zorrfin looked down at his sword, the golden light within it now dim. "No," he said quietly. "Just tired."
The road home was a river of light, cutting through fields of glass-blue grass. By the time the army saw the soaring spires of Valerian, the sky was a deep, burning gold.
And the city was waiting for them.
The music hit first, horns and drums and the roar of a thousand voices. Crimson and white banners unfurled from every balcony. The crowd poured into the streets, a living, cheering river.
"Long live the King!"
"Valerian stands eternal!"
At the head of his army, Zorrfin sat straight in his saddle, the stoic mask of the Lion King firmly in place. The dust of the frontier was still on his boots, the creature's fading roar still a whisper in his ears.
But then he saw them.
On the palace steps, standing apart from the crowd. Seliora, a vision of calm grace. Damian, trying so hard to look like a soldier. And Zorr, a small, bouncing splash of violet hair, unable to contain his joy.
The king's mask shattered. A true, weary smile broke through as he dismounted.
"Father!"
Zorr broke from his mother's side, sprinting down the avenue with no regard for royal decorum. After a stunned second, Damian was right behind him.
The crowd laughed and cheered as the two princes barreled toward their king.
Zorrfin caught them, scooping one into each arm with a grunt that was half laugh, half true effort. "Oof! My lions. Have you been eating boulders while I was away?"
"You're just old," Zorr said, giggling and burying his face in his father's cloak.
"Zorr!" Damian hissed, horrified.
But Zorrfin's laugh was a great, rolling thunder. He set them down, his large, gauntleted hand resting gently on Damian's shoulder. "And you, my eldest. You look taller."
"I've been practicing my forms every day," Damian said, standing as straight as a spear.
"Good." The king's eyes, however, were already looking past them, to where Seliora stood. The world seemed to quiet for a moment as he looked at her. "The realm is safe," he said, his voice meant only for her.
"For now," she replied softly, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. That strange chill from the garden returned, a fleeting shadow behind her gaze. Then it was gone.
Zorr tugged on his father's cloak. "Did you bring a monster tooth? A big one?"
"I brought myself home. That's enough," Zorrfin said, but his eyes promised a later story.
Sir Almarion stepped forward, bowing slightly. "Valerian stands unshaken, sire. The people await your words."
Zorrfin turned toward the sea of hopeful faces. He took a breath, and when he spoke, his voice carried over the noise, warm and kingly. "My people! The frontier is safe! The darkness retreats once more!"
A new wave of cheers crashed against the marble towers.
"But our true strength lies not in war," he continued, his voice softening yet still reaching every ear. "It lies in the peace we protect! In the home we come back to!"
The cheer that followed was deeper, more heartfelt. The Aether-light in the streets seemed to burn brighter in response.
As the crowd celebrated, Zorrfin turned back to his family. He offered his arm to Seliora.
"Tonight," he said, his tone warm and final, "we feast."
The heavy marble doors of the palace thudded shut behind them, and the roaring celebration faded to a distant hum. The air in the Grand Foyer was cool and quiet, smelling of polished stone and silver-leafed lilies.
Zorr, who had been buzzing with energy moments before, suddenly yawned so wide his jaw popped.
"Tired, my little lion?" Seliora asked, smoothing his wild violet hair.
"No," he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "My bones are just... getting heavy."
Damian smirked. "That's called being tired."
"Come," Zorrfin said, his voice much softer now within the palace walls. He guided them toward the Grand Hall. "Let's get you both to the table. I hear the cooks have outdone themselves."
As the towering doors to the hall opened, the rich scent of roasted meat and fresh bread washed over them. Zorr's fatigue vanished instantly.
"I smell pie!" he shouted, and darted inside.
The Grand Hall was a symphony of light and laughter. Aether-flutes floated near the vaulted ceiling, weaving melodies that seemed to dance with the light from the great chandeliers.
Zorr poked a tower of mashed potatoes with his spoon. "It needs a moat," he declared.
Damian didn't look up from his meticulously arranged plate. "It needs to be eaten before Mother sees you playing with it."
"I'm not playing! I'm a culinary engineer," Zorr said, puffing his chest out.
"You're a goblin," Damian replied, finally slicing one of his perfect meat squares.
"Boys," Seliora said softly, drawing their attention. She nodded toward their father. "Listen."
King Zorrfin was watching them, a faint smile on his face. "The monster today," he began, and Zorr immediately dropped his spoon, leaning forward. "It wasn't just a beast. It was... loud. And sad."
"Sad?" Zorr's nose scrunched up. "How can a monster be sad?"
"Everything can be sad, Zorr," the king said. "Even things that don't know why they're hurting."
"But you still had to fight it, right?" Damian asked, his voice serious. "It was a threat to the realm."
"We did," Zorrfin said, his eyes holding his eldest son's gaze. "A king must be a warrior when the world demands it. But he must never enjoy it. Do you understand?"
Damian nodded slowly. "Yes, Father."
Zorr was quiet for a moment, his small brow furrowed. "Were you scared?" he whispered.
Zorrfin's smile was gentle. "Every single time," he said, his voice low. "The day I stop being scared is the day I become the monster."
Suddenly, the Aether-flame in the great chandelier above them flickered violently. The light didn't just dip; it choked, dimming for a full, heavy second before recovering.
Zorr flinched back, his eyes wide. "Whoa! Did you see that?"
"See what?" Damian asked, glancing around the still-celebrating hall.
"The light! It coughed!" Zorr insisted, his voice rising with alarm.
Seliora reached over, placing a calming hand on his arm. "It's just the draft from the doors, my love. The Aether is sensitive to the air."
"But it didn't feel like a draft," Zorr mumbled, unconvinced. He looked at his cup of water. The surface was trembling. "Look! My water's shaking too!"
Damian peered at it. "You probably kicked the table leg."
"I didn't!" Zorr shot back.
"Zorr, enough," Seliora said, her tone a little sharper. She shot a worried look at her husband. "The Aether-conduits must be overcharged from all the celebration. It's making the energy unstable."
Zorrfin hadn't taken his eyes off his own wine goblet. The rich, red liquid inside was shimmering, tiny waves lapping against the crystal. He placed a single finger on the table and felt it, a deep, rhythmic hum, like a giant's heartbeat far below.
He finally looked at Seliora, his face grim. "It's not the conduits."
The King's low words hung in the air between them, a cold truth that the festive music could not disguise. The feast around them continued, a bubble of false security.
Zorrfin gave a nearly imperceptible nod to Sir Almarion, who immediately began moving through the hall. The mood at the high table had shifted entirely.
"Perhaps... the boys should retire," Seliora suggested softly, her hand finding Zorr's shoulder.
"But the honey-cakes haven't even been served yet!" Zorr protested, though his complaint was half-hearted. The strange flickering and the deep humming had stolen his appetite for adventure.
Before anyone could answer, the Aether-flutes in the air wavered, their harmonious notes twisting into a faint, dissonant chord.
That was the cue.
Far below their feet, in a darkness so deep it drank the very memory of light, the ritual reached its peak. The festive music from above was a ghost here, a taunting whisper.
The cloaked man, Kaelen, raised his voice in a final, desperate shout.
"Lothor! I call you! I free you!"
The red sigil on the gate flared one last time, like a dying star. And then, it shattered.
Darkness…not an absence of light, but a devouring of it…exploded outwards. The stone chains turned to dust.
From within the void, a figure stirred. A man, tall and clad in the shroud of his own broken prison, opened eyes that were pits of burning darkness.
A voice, calm and cold and ancient, spoke. It did not echo. It simply was.
"Who dares speak my name?"
The cloaked man fell to his knees, trembling. "My lord Lothor! I am Kaelen! I have served the cult of the Forgotten in the world above! I have freed you!"
Lothor's gaze fell upon him. The air in the chamber grew heavy, pressing down like a mountain. Kaelen gasped, feeling an invisible force seize him, crushing the air from his lungs. He was lifted, dangling in the air, his bones groaning in protest.
"A servant?" Lothor's voice was a whisper that scraped against the stone. "The last servants I knew built this cage. Their loyalty was a lie."
"I am... not... them!" Kaelen choked out, his vision spotting. With a final, desperate effort, he tore the amulet from his neck—a twisted piece of iron that mirrored the broken sigil on the gate. "I bear... the mark! My blood... my family... kept the faith... through centuries... of silence!"
He threw the amulet. It clattered onto the stone at Lothor's feet.
The pressure vanished. Kaelen dropped to the ground, heaving, clutching his throat.
Lothor was silent for a long moment, looking from the gasping man to the amulet. He bent down, his movements fluid and unnaturally smooth, and picked it up.
"The blood of Elric," Lothor murmured, recognition in his hollow voice. "The one who wept as he sealed me." He closed his fist around the amulet. When he opened it, the iron was gone, absorbed into his shadowy form. "So. His line remembers its sin. And seeks to atone."
He looked down at Kaelen, a new, calculating coldness in his void-like eyes. "Rise, Kaelen of the Faithful. Your service... has just begun."
Up in the palace, every single light went out.
For three full heartbeats, the Grand Hall was plunged into absolute, silent blackness. A child screamed.
Then, the Aether-lights flared back to life, brighter than before, as if trying to compensate.
The nobles looked around, laughing nervously, brushing off their clothes. A close call. A strange fluctuation.
But at the high table, no one was laughing.
Zorrfin was already on his feet.
"Almarion," he said, his voice low and sharp as a blade. "Seal the southern corridors. Now."
The knight didn't hesitate. "Yes, sire!"
"Zorrfin, what is it?" Seliora asked, her face pale.
But Zorr wasn't looking at his parents. He was staring, frozen, at the great chandelier. One of the Aether-flames in the center had not relit. It was a dark, swirling orb of black smoke trapped within glass.
He pointed a trembling finger. "Mother," he whispered. "Something's awake."
The silence that followed Zorr's words was heavier than the darkness had been. The air itself felt thick, charged with a strange energy that made the hair on Zorr's arms stand up.
King Zorrfin stood perfectly still, his head cocked, his eyes closed. He was listening, but not with his ears. He was feeling the Aether itself, the Breath of the World that flowed through his city, and it was sick. A cold, invasive sickness was spreading through its veins, a poison working its way up from the roots.
"Almarion," Zorrfin said, his voice dangerously calm. "The conduits in the lower city. Seal them. Now."
"My King?" Almarion asked, confusion on his face. "That would cut off the Aether to the outer districts…"
"Do it!" Zorrfin's eyes snapped open, blazing with a terrifying intensity. "It's not a fluctuation. It's an infection. And it's spreading."
As Almarion rushed to carry out the order, Zorrfin's gaze met Seliora's. No words were needed. The same memory flashed between them: a prophecy, a warning of a "Breath of Shadow" that would one day seek to choke the light.
Below, the infection found its source.
Lothor stood at the center of the consuming dark, his form seeming to draw substance from the shadows themselves. He flexed a hand, and the remnants of stone chains that still clung to his wrists crumbled to dust.
"So the world still spins," he murmured, the words tasting of forgotten ages. He looked down at Kaelen, who knelt, trembling, before him. "Your family's loyalty will be remembered. Now watch what your faith has unleashed."
He raised his hands, and darkness pulsed outward like a wave.
In the palace gardens, the silver-leaved trees began to wither. The glowing fountains sputtered, their Aether-light choking into plumes of black smoke. The flowers crumpled into dust.
In the city streets, the cheerful blue Aether-lights lining the avenues flickered and died. The music faltered as instruments fell silent. Children cried out as the protective dome of light above the city began to crack like glass.
In the Grand Hall, the tremors became violent shakes. A tapestry depicting Valerian's founding ripped from the wall and burst into black flames. The air grew cold enough to see breath.
"It's not just below us!" Sir Almarion shouted over the chaos. "The darkness is spreading through the entire city!"
Zorr pointed a shaking finger out the window. "The lights! All the lights are going out!"
Below, Lothor smiled. "Can you feel it, Lion King?" he whispered. "Your kingdom dies by inches."
He raised his hand, and from the swirling darkness, a sword formed in his grip. It was the absence of light, a blade of pure, devouring night.
"Once, I was your shield," he said, his voice still soft, almost tender. "Now, I will be your judgment."
The blade sang its terrible note, and this time, the ground didn't just tremble - it split. Cracks raced up through the palace foundations, black tendrils of energy snaking through the marble.
Up in the hall, the floor fractured between tables. The great chandelier swung wildly, its lights dying one by one until only the single orb of black fire remained, burning like a malignant star.
Zorrfin grabbed his sword, the gold veins in Lion's Fang pulsing frantically. "Almarion! Get the Queen and my sons to the secure chambers! Now!"
"But sire…"
"That's an order!" Zorrfin roared, his voice cutting through the panic. He turned to Seliora, his eyes filled with desperate apology. "I have to stop this before the whole city falls."
She grabbed his arm, her fingers cold. "Come back to us," she whispered.
He touched her cheek once, then looked at his sons. "Protect your mother," he said, and the weight of a kingdom was in those three words.
As he ran toward the collapsing corridors, Zorr called after him, "Father! The dark fire is growing!"
Zorrfin didn't look back. He couldn't. Every second meant more of his city dying.
Below, Lothor watched the destruction ripple outward through his senses. "Your people built their homes over my prison," he told Kaelen. "Now they will learn what sleeps beneath their foundations."
He raised his blade toward the ceiling. "Let's see how much light your kingdom has left to bleed."
The sword of darkness fell, and the world of Valerian screamed.