A whisper lost in the void can find its echo thousands of years later.
An ancient breath may find life in a new body.
The world was on the verge of remembering what it had long forgotten."
In the ancient forests of Velmora, the first rays of a misty morning brushed against Lyra's delicate face. The house was cloaked in peaceful silence. Wooden walls, carved with mana-infused patterns, seemed to hold memories of ages long past.
Outside, Orin checked the fishing nets by the small dock. Inside, Lyra tied the last knots on a delicate weave atop the table.
In one corner, wrapped in warm blankets, lay baby Aelion. Only a few weeks old, with snow-white hair and luminous platinum eyes, he was a beauty even elves struggled to comprehend. Born from pure mana, his past sealed away—yet here, in this little house, he was just a baby.
Across the room, their four-year-old daughter Elara spun with her wavy green hair trailing behind. Elara was brimming with energy, but since Aelion's arrival, a new protectiveness had awakened within her.
"Mom," she asked one morning, approaching Lyra, "why is my brother so quiet? Why doesn't he ever smile?"
Lyra hesitated. Aelion had never cried, nor had he laughed. The whole family felt a subtle, growing unease.
Days passed. Aelion continued to grow without tears. His curious eyes wandered the room, sometimes following the wind, sometimes tracing the mana patterns in the wooden ceiling.
One month later…
One early morning, Lyra took Elara deep into the woods to gather healing herbs. Orin had left at dawn to hunt. For the first time, the house was silent and empty.
And Aelion was alone.
At first, everything seemed normal. Gentle light filled the room as Aelion gazed at the ceiling, listening to the flow of mana. But as the minutes slipped by, something began to change.
His mother's scent was gone. Elara's laughter was missing.
Aelion's platinum eyes narrowed. Tiny hands gripped the blanket. Suddenly, from deep within, an ancient emptiness surfaced. Though only a short while had passed, the loneliness echoed in his soul—a faint memory of witnessing the annihilation of his kind, thousands of years ago. Though his mind remembered nothing, his soul trembled with that primal terror.
And for the first time… Aelion cried.
It started as a faint whimper—rough, hoarse, and forced. Then it rose into a sharp wail. The cry that burst from his chest was not just sound; it was the voice of ancient loneliness, echoing through the ages.
Tears streamed down his face—tears laced with mana. The walls echoed with his cries. Birds startled in the forest, leaves quivered. Aelion wept, fell silent, then cried again, each time louder, more desperate.
He curled up in the blanket, but each tremor brought another cry. The emptiness in his heart poured out in waves, never quite filling. Mana pulled back into the corners of the room, as if the house itself was listening to his pain.
And then… the door creaked open.
Lyra rushed in, panic in her eyes. The basket slipped from her hands, herbs scattering across the floor. She ran to Aelion. The baby's cry cut like a dagger.
"Aelion!" Lyra cried, scooping him into her arms. "I'm here… shhh… Mommy's here. Mommy's home…"
But Aelion wouldn't stop.
He had cried so long his voice cracked. His eyes turned red. Tiny fingers clung to his mother's clothes, as if he'd never let go.
Finally, Aelion pressed his half-lidded eyes against Lyra's chest, breath ragged, body trembling… and fell silent—not from peace, but exhaustion. He drifted into sleep.
Lyra held him tight, eyes brimming with tears.
"I never thought this would happen if you were left alone…" she whispered. "Forgive me. I'll never leave you alone again. I promise."
The Shadow of Loneliness
Aelion's desperate cries filled Lyra with fear.
Once he calmed, Lyra's next thought was, at least he can cry. From that day, Orin and Lyra's lives began to revolve around Aelion.
Lyra refused to leave him alone, even for chores—Aelion was always strapped to her back or entrusted to Orin. Orin shortened his hunting trips, always staying close to keep Aelion safe.
Aelion's first cries shattered the house's silence. He could cry now, but this was not yet the joyful laughter Lyra longed for. At night, from his crib beside Lyra's bed, Aelion sometimes broke into sobs for no reason. Even in his mother's arms, he struggled to find comfort, and Lyra saw a sorrow in those platinum eyes that words could not reach.
Elara, too, sensed the change. Aelion's cries hurt her deeply. Whenever her brother wept at night, Elara would wake and run to her mother, asking, "Is my brother alright?" Oddly, when Elara stroked Aelion with her little fingers, he calmed—soothed by her sister's innocence. For Lyra and Orin, it was a small miracle—the first sign of a bond between the siblings.
The constant whispers of mana left Aelion with an inexplicable emptiness. Sometimes, he watched the flow of mana around the room, his eyes following its invisible colors.
Lyra noticed this and began to bring him mana-infused toys. Watching Aelion touch these toys was magical—his fingers seemed to sense mana itself, sometimes sparking tiny lights or gentle whispers of energy, proof of his deep, innate bond with mana.
Yet Aelion's loneliness was not limited to that first day.
"I guess we just need to give him time," Orin said one evening, resting a hand on Lyra's shoulder. Her eyes were still red.