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."
"Wet bread is still food," Arian muttered defensively. Then he paused. "Wait, is throwing bread a technique somewhere?"
Briar raised an eyebrow. "Only in taverns during bar fights."
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.
The next morning, Arian and Briar journeyed to Eloryn's small trading square—a cobbled, bustling half-circle of stalls, chatter, and livestock with an unfortunate habit of pooping mid-transaction. The sun, already high, warmed the stone paths, and the air buzzed with the familiar rhythm of village life. Children chased stray chickens, their laughter echoing through the market, while merchants hawked their wares with booming voices. Arian inhaled the scents of fresh-baked bread, dried herbs, and a faint, underlying hint of manure—the essence of Eloryn.
They passed the baker's booth first, where Old Marla, a woman with flour permanently dusted on her apron and a voice that could curdle milk, was yelling at a pigeon for "staring suspiciously at her cinnamon rolls."
"Do birds even have suspicious eyes?" Arian asked, pulling a face.
"Depends on the bird. Never trust geese," Briar replied gravely, a twinkle in his eye. "They're always plotting."
Arian giggled, imagining a goose in a tiny, villainous cape, meticulously planning a bread heist. He felt safe, utterly and completely safe, in this ordinary moment, beside his father. He couldn't have known then that this peace was as fragile as an autumn leaf.
They stopped by the blacksmith's forge, where the rhythmic clang of hammer on anvil vibrated through the ground. The blacksmith, a burly man named Gorok, whose arms were thicker than Arian's legs, nodded a greeting to Briar. They picked up new nails, still warm from the forge, and Arian watched, mesmerized, as Gorok quenched a glowing piece of steel in a trough of water, sending a hiss of steam into the air.
Next, they headed to the herbalist's stall, a vibrant explosion of color and scent. Bundles of dried flowers hung from the awning, and jars of strange, colorful concoctions lined the shelves. Briar haggled good-naturedly with Elara, the herbalist, over a salve for his old shoulder wound—a lingering ache from some past adventure he rarely spoke of. Arian listened, fascinated by the names of the herbs: moonpetal, sunfleck, whisperwort. He imagined their magical properties, weaving fantastical stories in his head.
That's when it happened.
A rough voice, like gravel dragged across stone, cut through the market noise, sharp and unwelcome.
"Oi, lookie here. The river rat and his little eel."
Arian's playful imagination vanished. He felt a prickle of unease. Five men stood near the butcher's cart, their figures looming, casting long shadows. One had a lazy eye that seemed to dart independently, another was missing a few fingers from his left hand, and the tallest of the bunch, a hulking figure with a jaw so square it looked like he chewed bricks for breakfast, smirked. Their clothes were coarse, their movements uncouth, and their eyes held a glint of malice that was alien to Eloryn.
"Bandits," Briar muttered under his breath, his hand subtly moving to rest near the hilt of his short sword, always strapped to his back, though rarely drawn.
Arian blinked. "How do you know?"
"They smell like old steel, wet rope, and bad decisions," Briar said, his voice flat, devoid of its usual warmth.
The tallest one swaggered forward, his boots scuffing the cobbled path. "Been a while, Briar. Thought you were dead." His grin was ugly, revealing gaps where teeth should have been.
"Almost was," Briar said, not even looking at him, his gaze fixed on a particularly plump pumpkin at a nearby stall. "Shame I wasn't. Would've spared me this conversation."
Arian grinned, a spark of pride flashing through his unease. "That's my dad."
The bandit leader's face darkened. "You've got a smart mouth, kid."
"And you've got a dumb face," Arian blurted out, the words escaping before his brain could register the danger. It was a childish retort, something he might say to another boy during a game, but in this moment, it hung in the air, thick with tension.
The entire market fell silent. Even the suspicious pigeon stopped pecking at Old Marla's cinnamon rolls, its beady eyes fixed on the unfolding drama. Arian felt a flush creep up his neck.
Briar closed his eyes, a low groan escaping his lips. "Why do you test me, child?" he muttered, the words barely audible.
"I panicked," Arian whispered back, feeling a wave of regret.
The bandits drew small, wickedly glinting blades, trying to act tough—though a few villagers had already started arming themselves with brooms and ladles, their faces set in grim determination. Before things could spiral into a full-blown confrontation, Briar stepped forward, his shoulders squaring.
"Five of you. One of me. I like those odds." His voice was calm, almost conversational, but there was an underlying current of steel that made the air hum.
The shortest bandit snorted, a nervous tremor in his voice. "You're outnumbered, old man."
Briar cracked his neck, a sound like dry branches snapping. "I was talking about you."
One second later, Briar exploded into motion. He moved with a speed that belied his broad frame, a blur of controlled power. A swift uppercut knocked one man into a melon cart with a loud thwack, sending melons scattering like bowling pins. Another's blade clattered to the ground as his wrist was twisted with surgical precision, a yelp of pain escaping his lips. The third tried to run, but tripped over a confused chicken and was pecked into submission, squawking louder than the poultry itself.
The leader and the last remaining bandit raised his weapon, a crude, rusted cleaver—
Arian, fueled by a surge of desperate courage and a flash of his father's earlier stone-skipping lesson, stepped forward and flung a rock. It bonked the man right in the forehead with a dull thock.
"Ow! That actually hurts, you little—" The bandit rubbed his forehead, a comical look of confusion on his brutish face.
Then Briar, with a sigh that sounded almost bored, punched him unconscious. The bandit crumpled to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
The villagers erupted into cheers. The tension broke like glass, replaced by jubilant shouts and laughter. Old Marla even threw a cinnamon roll to Briar, which he deftly caught. Someone, a young woman from the dairy stall, handed Arian a steaming meat bun, its aroma suddenly intoxicating.
He raised it triumphantly. "Victory bun!" he declared, taking a huge bite.
"Don't get cocky," Briar said, though a faint smile touched his lips. "You almost started a riot with your mouth."
"But I ended it with a rock."
"Barely," Briar chuckled, shaking his head.
That night, Arian was full of energy, bouncing on his straw-filled bed, his mind replaying the market fight. He recounted it to himself like a bard mid-performance, embellishing details, adding dramatic pauses, and exaggerating his own role. "And then I said, 'You've got a dumb face,' and the crowd gasped! You could hear a pin drop! And then, with the speed of a charging boar, I flung my trusty pebble, striking the villain down!"
"You flung a pebble like a confused duck," Briar interrupted from the other room, his voice muffled by the thick wooden wall. "And the 'villain' was already reeling from my punch. Eat your stew."
"Victory stew?" Arian asked, still buzzing with adrenaline.
"Regular stew," Briar's voice responded, a hint of amusement in it.
Still, Arian smiled. The stew tasted especially good tonight, rich and savory, a comforting warmth spreading through him. He imagined it infused with the spirit of victory, though he knew it was just his mother's recipe.
They laughed more that night than usual. Briar, perhaps still basking in the glow of Arian's enthusiasm and the villagers' quiet respect, let down his guard. He talked about the cities he had seen in his travels: the grand, sprawling capital of Eldoria, with its towering spires that scraped the clouds; the bustling port of Anchor's Reach, where ships from distant lands docked, laden with exotic goods; and the hidden mountain monasteries where monks allegedly meditated for decades on end, seeking enlightenment.
He spoke of foolish nobles who wore ridiculous wigs and carried tiny dogs, of floating sky barges that drifted silently through the air, carrying cargo between distant kingdoms, and of a king who, Briar claimed with a straight face, wore socks on the outside of his shoes for "fashion." Arian dissolved into fits of laughter, picturing the king in such a ludicrous state. Briar even told him how he once got kicked out of a particularly stuffy castle for calling a general a "boiled pear" to his face—a story that had Arian rolling on the floor.
These were the kind of nights Arian wished could last forever. Nights filled with stories, laughter, and the comforting presence of his father. Nights when the world felt small and safe, contained within the four walls of their humble home, protected by the man who was both his father and his hero. He wished he could bottle these moments, preserving them against the inevitable tide of time.
But Eloryn's peace, like all things in a world touched by ancient magic and lingering shadows, was not built to last. It was a fragile illusion, a whispered dream that the world outside would soon shatter.
One night, it all changed.
A distant rumble jolted Arian awake. At first, he thought it was thunder, a summer storm rolling in, but the sky outside his window was too clear—too calm, showing only the gentle twinkle of distant stars. Then came the red light. It seeped through the wooden slats of their home like blood through linen, casting an ominous glow on the familiar walls. It pulsed, grew brighter, and with it came the acrid scent of smoke, sharp and metallic, biting at his throat. The air was thick and wrong, heavy with an unspoken dread.
He stumbled out of bed, barefoot, his heart pounding a frantic drum against his ribs. "Father?!" he called out, his voice thin with fear.
Briar burst into the room, already dressed in his travel worn leather armor, his sword—a simple, practical blade he called 'Rustbreaker'—drawn and gleaming dully in the encroaching red light. His face, usually so composed, was set in a grim mask. "Stay behind me," he ordered, his voice low and tight, devoid of any playfulness.
"What's happening?" Arian stammered, clutching his father's tunic.
"Raiders. Not ordinary ones," Briar replied, his eyes scanning the windows, his hand tightening on his sword hilt. "Something… more."
A scream pierced the night, sharp and agonizing. Then another, closer this time, followed by the sound of splintering wood and desperate shouts. Outside, houses blazed, silhouetted against the inferno. Shadows with glowing red eyes moved like wraiths through the smoke, their forms vaguely humanoid but twisted, unnatural. Black-cloaked figures, indistinct but terrifying, flung fire from their hands with casual cruelty, lighting homes and villagers alike. The very earth shook as something massive roared from deep in the woods, a sound of primeval fury that vibrated in Arian's bones.
Briar shoved a small, worn leather pack into Arian's hands. It was heavier than it looked, containing a water skin, a few dried rations, and a small, strangely ornate compass that Arian had never seen before. "Take the back path. Go west. Don't look back, Arian. No matter what you hear. Don't look back." His voice was a raw command, etched with desperation.
"But—!" Arian started, his eyes wide with terror, unable to comprehend the sudden shift from peace to utter chaos.
"Arian! You must live. That's my only command." Briar's voice broke slightly, cracking with an emotion Arian rarely heard—fear.
Arian's legs froze. His father's voice had never sounded so desperate, so utterly without hope. He wanted to argue, to cling to his father, to refuse to leave him, but the raw intensity in Briar's eyes paralyzed him.
And then—
The wall behind them exploded inward with a deafening roar, showering them with splinters and dust. A cloaked figure stepped through the gaping hole, its eyes glimmering with a malevolent red light, its silhouette outlined by the flames outside. Briar was already moving, Rustbreaker flashing in his hand. Aether crackled around him, blue and vibrant, like a river coiled to strike, enveloping his form in a protective aura. He drove the attacker back with a furious, wordless roar, his Water Aether lashing out like whips.
"GO!" he roared, his voice ripped from his throat.
Arian ran.
He didn't know where he was going, only that he had to obey. The forest clawed at his arms and legs, branches tearing at his clothes, but he didn't stop. He pushed through the undergrowth, tripping over roots, scrambling up inclines, his lungs burning, his heart a frantic drum. Behind him, the village screamed and burned, the sounds of battle and destruction growing fainter with every desperate stride. The world he'd known, the safe, comforting world of Eloryn, shattered in a single hour, reduced to ash and screams.
He tripped. Fell. Scraped his knee on a jagged rock, a sharp pain that momentarily cleared the fog of terror. He scrambled back to his feet, ignoring the blood, ignoring the stinging pain. Kept running.
When he finally collapsed beneath a gnarled, ancient tree, far from the village, his body shaking uncontrollably, the world was quiet again—too quiet. The kind of silence that follows after something dies, a hollow, echoing emptiness. The smoke, though still a faint presence, no longer choked him. Only the faint, distant glow of Eloryn's demise painted the horizon in hues of orange and red.
At dawn, a cold, grey light began to seep through the forest canopy. Arian, shivering, his body stiff and aching, crept back. He moved like a ghost, his bare feet making no sound on the scorched earth. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to flee, but something deeper, a terrible, morbid curiosity, pulled him back to the ruins of his home.
What he saw broke him.
Eloryn was gone.
The buildings were nothing but skeletal remains, charred timbers reaching like grasping fingers towards the indifferent sky. The stream, once shimmering and clear, was blackened, its banks smoking. The golden wheat fields, once a source of life and abundance, were nothing but cinders, a vast, desolate wasteland. He staggered through the rubble, his voice raw, calling names—friends, neighbors, Old Marla, even the suspicious rooster—but no one answered. Only the wind whispered through the ashes, carrying the scent of death and destruction.
Then he saw a familiar shape at the edge of the forest, near where their home once stood.
"Father…" he whispered, his voice cracking, barely a breath.
Briar lay still, twisted at an unnatural angle, blood soaking the earth around him, turning the grey ash to a dark, sticky paste. His short sword, Rustbreaker, was broken in two, its blade snapped near the hilt. One hand still clenched its hilt, a final, defiant grip.
"No. No no no—" Arian dropped beside him, tears finally stinging his eyes, hot and painful. He grabbed his father's still hand, it was cold, so cold. "You said I'd see the world. You can't die now! Not like this!"
Briar's eyes fluttered open, barely, the light within them fading like a dying ember. His lips moved, a faint, ragged breath escaping.
"Arian… Good. You're… safe." His voice was a faint whisper, raspy and thin.
"Don't talk. I'll get help. I'll—" Arian sobbed, his voice choked with despair, frantically looking around the desolate landscape, knowing there was no help to be found.
"There's no time," Briar murmured, a faint, sad smile touching his lips.
Tears welled up, hot and stinging, blurring the ruined landscape. "Why didn't you come with me?!"
"Because… if I hadn't stayed… you wouldn't be alive." His gaze, though fading, was filled with an overwhelming, selfless love. "You always look at the sky like you lost something," Arian sobbed, the memory of their last conversation tearing at him. "Don't let it be me."
Briar reached up with the last of his strength, his cold fingers brushing Arian's cheek. "Live. Don't chase death. Don't lose yourself to hate."
"Then what do I do?!" Arian cried, desperately clinging to his father's touch, to his fading warmth.
"Remember who you are."
Then… nothing.
No final warning. No secret legacy revealed in the last breath. Just a fading touch, a last, soft whisper of wind through burned trees, and the terrifying, absolute silence of death. Briar's eyes, fixed on his son, glazed over, and the light within them finally extinguished.
Arian cried. He cried until his eyes bled, and a primal sound of agony and despair that ripped through the desolate silence. He collapsed against his father's lifeless form, his body shaking with uncontrollable sobs.
Then, as the sun rose on the ruins of Eloryn, a strange warmth began to burn in his chest, radiating outwards, a sensation like molten moonlight.
The silver mark—always faint, barely noticed, a tiny swirl on the palm of his left hand, like a birthmark—now glowed, vibrant and alive, pulsing with an inner light. His veins, beneath his skin, pulsed with something ancient, something that felt like ice and fire all at once.
Aether.
But not like his father's Water Aether, which had felt like the ebb and flow of a river, cool and protective.
This was different.
It was calm, fluid, intangible—yet utterly unbreakable. Like mercury flowing through his blood, smooth and powerful, carrying an inexplicable energy. It didn't feel like water, or fire, or earth, or wind. It felt… fundamental. Primal.
It whispered a single word, echoing in his mind, clear as a bell:
"Remember."
Arian gritted his teeth, his jaw aching. "Remember what? Who am I really?"
The Aether didn't answer. But it stayed with him—warm, comforting, dangerous. A latent power, awakened by profound grief and terror, a silent guardian in the face of desolation.
He buried his father with his own hands, digging a shallow grave in the scorched earth, his knuckles raw and bleeding, his tears mingling with the dirt. One grave among many, in a village that had become a sprawling cemetery. He placed Rustbreaker, broken though it was, beside him. Then, with ash clinging to his skin and firelight behind his eyes, he gathered what little unburned wood he could find and lit a pyre, a final, defiant beacon in the encroaching darkness.
As it burned, casting flickering shadows on his face, he whispered, his voice raw:
"Thank you… for everything."
Then he turned his back on the only home he'd ever known, in the last vestiges of his childhood.
No destination. No map.
Only a faint pull in his chest, as though the Silver Aether within him had chosen to awaken with purpose.
The pyre burned until the first embers of morning light crowned the horizon, painting the sky in soft hues of rose and gold. Arian sat before the dwindling flames, knees to chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, watching the fire consume the only thing left of his father. Smoke curled around him like ghostly arms, and the rising heat warped the air, making the world itself look as if it were weeping.
He didn't cry right away. His eyes were wide and dry, too shocked to function properly, too frozen to do something as human as weep. The enormity of his loss, the utter devastation of his world, was a weight too heavy for his ten-year-old mind to process.
But as the fire began to collapse into crackling coals, its fierce glow dimmed, the weight finally crashed down. The dam holding back his grief, built of shock and terror, breached.
He broke.
Arian screamed. He screamed until his throat tore raw, a guttural sound of pure anguish that echoed in the silent, ruined landscape. And when his voice gave out, his body still shook with the sobs that had built up inside his chest like a dam breached too late. He clawed at the ground, fingers digging into ash and soot as if trying to bury himself beside Briar, to somehow rejoin the peaceful silence of death.
The wind, once gentle and playful in Eloryn, now howled like it mourned with him, whipping strands of ash into the air.
"I hate this…" Arian choked, curling onto his side in the dirt, his body wracked with pain. "I hate this world… I hate them… I hate them all!" He pounded his fists against the earth, again and again, bruising his knuckles until the physical pain, sharp and immediate, momentarily outmatched the searing agony in his soul.
"I just wanted to protect people like you did! I just wanted to skip stones!" he wailed, the childish desire incongruous with the horrific reality around him.
The silver glow along his veins flared and dimmed, rhythmically—like a heartbeat. His Aether trembled, stirred by his raw emotions, shifting from warm to frigid in intervals, as if confused by the turbulent storm within him. It didn't offer comfort. It didn't guide him. It just… existed. A presence, silent and powerful, responding to his inner turmoil.
"I wasn't ready…" he whispered, the words choked with despair.
Hours passed. The sky shifted from rose to brilliant blue, and the birds, after a long, apprehensive silence, returned, timid and quiet. A few landed on charred trees, their small heads tilted, watching the boy who had become a statue of grief, lost in a world that no longer existed.
His clothes clung to his frame, still torn from the frantic forest dash, smeared with smoke and dried blood. Eventually, his tears dried, leaving harsh, clean streaks down soot-stained cheeks. His eyes, once vibrant and curious, now dulled with exhaustion, red-rimmed and swollen.
And yet, he sat.
The pyre had long died, reduced to a heap of cool ash. The wind had grown still, no longer carrying the scent of burning homes.
But Arian stayed beside the blackened earth where his father had been laid to rest, rooted to the spot by the sheer weight of his despair.
Then, as the sun arced high above him, its harsh light illuminating the full extent of the devastation, his body finally gave out. He collapsed, face-first, into the dirt and didn't move for hours. His breathing remained shallow, soft, a testament to his sheer exhaustion. Dreams didn't come. Only flashes—memories, sharp and vivid, a cruel kaleidoscope of what he had lost—
—his father's voice, deep and resonant, teaching him how to balance a stone, how to throw it just right—
—his father's calloused hands, strong and gentle, guiding his grip on a wooden practice sword, correcting his stance—
—sitting by the stream, learning to fish, the quiet patience of Briar beside him—
—the way Briar carried everything on his broad back and still found time to make Arian laugh, to spin silly stories, to truly see him.
And the last words, echoing in the emptiness:
"Live. Don't chase death. Don't lose yourself."
When he awoke, it was nearing dusk again. A second day had passed since the attack. His stomach twisted with hunger, a hollow ache, but the thought of food made him sick. His muscles screamed in protest as he slowly, painfully, stumbled to his feet, legs trembling like newborn fawns. The village around him was a graveyard, a silent testament to unimaginable cruelty, but he didn't have the strength to bury everyone—not yet. He knew he had to leave. If the raiders returned, if those glowing-eyed figures still lurked, he wouldn't survive another encounter. He was too small, too weak, too broken.
So, with a resolve born of desperation, he did what he could.
He made simple graves, small piles of rocks for those he could find, their forms barely recognizable. He fashioned small markers from burnt wood, etching crude symbols where names should have been. For some, all he could do was whisper their names aloud into the silent air, a mournful litany of loss. And for others, those reduced to ash or vanished without a trace, he had only silence, a heavy, aching silence.
When he came to the small hill overlooking what remained of Eloryn, the very same hill where he and his father had often watched the sunset, he knelt one last time. He looked down at the ruins, at the smoke still curling faintly from some deeper pockets of ash, at the stark, brutal reality of his new world. Then he whispered, his voice hoarse:
"I'll remember. I promise."
He turned away.
The road ahead was uncertain. He had no plan, no direction, no map. Only a faint pull in his chest, a strange, magnetic sensation, as though the Silver Aether within him had chosen to awaken with purpose, guiding him.
With every step he took, away from the destruction, away from the ghosts of his past, the soft, cool glow beneath his skin pulsed quietly. It didn't overpower him. It didn't consume him. It accompanied him—like a lantern in the dark, a silent companion on a terrifying journey.
And as he disappeared into the forest's edge, swallowed by the encroaching shadows of night, his voice was barely audible, a whisper against the vast silence:
"I'll find out what this is… what I am. I'll become strong. Not just for me… but for all of them."
The River does not forget. It carves through stone with time, relentless and patient. And now, so would he.
His journey had begun not in triumph, but in ashes. His path was not chosen, but forced upon him by fire and loss.
And still… he walked.
Not just toward vengeance, though a cold ember of it smoldered in his heart.
But toward understanding.
Toward power.
Toward pain. Toward discovery.
Toward destiny.
Toward a truth buried in silver light.