Prologue: The Last Harvest of the Sky Emperor
The sky burned red with betrayal.
Atop the floating throne of Aetherion, the last true Sky Emperor knelt amid shattered marble and scorched banners. Blood dripped from the corner of his lips, staining the gold-trimmed collar of his war robe. His silver crown, forged from stardust and bound oaths, lay split in two at the foot of the judgment platform.
Above him, the traitors stood in silent formation—his generals, his council, his so-called brothers-in-arms.
And behind them, the Divine Sickle hung in the air, a weapon not meant for mortals, its curved blade pulsing with radiant judgment. The gods had come to finish what envy had begun.
The Emperor raised his head. Though beaten and chained, his violet eyes still gleamed with defiance.
"You break what you do not understand," he said, voice soft but echoing across the fractured hall.
"And you will reap rot from the sky you've stolen."
"Silence!" spat High General Veylor, once his closest ally. "Your empire is dead. Your harvest of war ends here."
The Emperor only smiled.
"Harvest…" he whispered. "Perhaps I sowed the wrong seeds. I tried to grow order in the clouds. Maybe… it's time to start again. In soil. With roots."
Veylor's expression twisted in confusion, but the gods had heard.
The Divine Sickle descended.
A flash of white light split the sky.
🌾 Somewhere Else...
A soft cry pierced the dusk. Not one of pain—but life.
In a quiet farmhouse tucked between rolling hills of wheat and windflowers, a baby was born. The midwife gasped. The family gathered.
The ninth child of House Varenthor, born under the fading sun, with a head of soft silver-white hair and eyes like deep violets—eyes that did not blink like a newborn, but watched… and remembered.
Baron Aldric held the child with reverent hands.
Baroness Lira wept with joy.
The older siblings leaned in, whispering names and futures and laughter.
But only the baby knew the truth.
"They think I am weak. A miracle child, perhaps. But I was a Sky Emperor. Now I am something else entirely."
The wind blew gently through the open window. The soil outside pulsed softly beneath the farmhouse. Something ancient stirred.
The Emperor had fallen.
But Sylas had been born.
And this time, he would grow his empire—not from thrones and swords… but from fields.