In the endless and swirling flow of the universe, souls often drift unconsciously like leaves. Their ability to survive against the cosmic winds depends on how much they can withstand both the orderly and chaotic laws of the universe and the depth of the marks they carry from their past lives. These two factors determined a soul's weight in the universe, its resistance to existence, and its power. Souls unable to withstand the relentless grinding of laws would melt and weaken like delicate snowflakes, or even vanish completely in the bottomless darkness of nothingness. But those who could withstand these pressures would emerge stronger from each test. They become greater, and when the time came, they are reborn in a suitable body presented to them in the cycle of the universe. This was the fundamental mechanism of existence; the inevitable order within chaos, the rebirth from the womb of destruction: reincarnation.
In the midst of this mind blowing chaos, there was a soul, different from others, aware of his own consciousness. He had neither a body yet, nor a direction to cling to in the void. The perception of time and space had lost its meaning in this eons long drift. He merely flickered like an unnamed spark in the cold, indifferent emptiness of existence. What surrounded him, what he felt with every fiber of his being, was the icy breath of nothingness. Infinity stretched in every direction like a bottomless, dark well, and the soul was alone in this vast cosmic tomb.
However, he was different from the other drifting souls. He remembered his past. His previous life, who he had been, the betrayals, the pain, his death, and why he was drifting in this endless void. His memory stubbornly resisted the corrosive, oblivion inducing power of the cosmic flow. Yet, time. Though perhaps a meaningless concept in this corner of the universe, it seemed to advance, and his memories were slowly blurring, being pried away from his being. The soul resisted this inevitable corrosion helplessly. He struggled not to lose himself, clinging with all his might to prevent his memories from fading.
Because he had made a promise to himself. Because if he forgot, everything could happen again. Because if he forgot, the burning, unyielding rage that permeated his soul to the core would have no meaning. His wrath was like a fire, gnawing within, never extinguished. It whispered to his soul, sometimes gently, sometimes screaming with a deafening cry: "Do not forget! Never forget your past! Or that weakness, that helplessness will return!" The soul had etched this command, this inner plea, into the foundation of his being. He would not forget. Never. This wrath and this vow were the only anchor keeping him afloat in this bottomless void.
Then, something else appeared in his perception. He had no eyes to see, but he could feel. In a desolate, unknown corner of the universe, a different vibration... A warm, inviting sensation, like the pull of a long lost place where he belonged. This feeling was a faint but steady candle flame flickering in the absolute coldness of the cosmic void. The soul instinctively began to drift towards this warmth.
Suddenly, everything around him changed. A powerful, irresistible force of attraction seized him, transforming him from a consciousness drifting aimlessly in the void. He was as if caught in a bottomless whirlpool. He spun. First slowly, then in an accelerating spiral, he was pulled into an unknown flow of energy.
This flow carried the soul towards a completely different reality, a different plane of existence. Streaks of light and shadow flowed past him like a cosmic spectacle. The soul felt as if he were witnessing the birth and death of the universe; the first cries of stars at their birth, their explosions echoing in the infinite void, the agonizing formations of planets born from chaos. Was this a dream, or a reflection of the soul's own disintegrating consciousness? He couldn't tell. Perhaps dream and reality had become indistinguishable in this moment of transition.
After what felt like an eternity, the soul finally approached the source of the warmth he had sensed. A planet, teeming with life, with azure oceans and verdant lands, orbiting a colossal, warming sun. But this appearance was deceptive. The planet echoed with silent screams, with pain. As the soul got closer, he began to feel in his own being the pure agony, fear, hatred, and desperate resistance emanating from the surface. This was the stage for a great war, an insatiable invasion, a scene of brutality and a tragic struggle against annihilation.
The view sharpened. Colossal ships, black as obsidian and just as sharp, stained the atmosphere like poisonous ink. Around these dark vessels, terrifying, shapeless creatures soared like ferocious birds, diving into the chaos on the ground. A tangible threat emanated from the ships. A wave of corrupting energy contaminated the ground and air beneath them, eating away at the morale and strength of the defenders.
At ground level, a horrific war raged amidst majestic towers and elegant bridges, which the soul could now discern more clearly. Against the Elves fighting in shining armors, resisting with light and magic, stood figures clad in dark cloaks and matte, coal black armor. Their faces mostly covered in shadow. It wasn't just Elves resisting; the soul could sense massive, scaled beasts and fur covered, muscular giants fighting shoulder to shoulder with the Elves against the common enemy. This world was a reflection of hell; a tableau of desperate resistance and a horrific end where blood and magic intermingled.
Just then, as the soul approached the planet, he encountered something unexpected, terrifying. An immense, ancient wave of energy, clearly emanating from an unseen source but completely filling that area, closed in on him. It was a will; cold, possessive, and crushing. "You... are Mine," it said. A hungry power trying to grasp the soul's essence, to bind it, perhaps to transform it for its own purposes. Though the soul couldn't fully comprehend what this pull meant, he sensed the danger with every fiber of his being and instinctively began to resist.
This resistance caused an agony that shook his very existence, but this pain fueled the smoldering core of his rage into an explosion. As if shattering chains, he screamed from within with all his being: "I... belong to no one!"
With the pure force of his outburst, he managed to slip from that grasp at the last moment. But this struggle had exhausted him. Now, he was falling uncontrollably, rapidly towards the planet's atmosphere. Below, the massive Elven capital engulfed in flames, its towers on the brink of collapse, its last magical shields shining desperately.
With a final shred of will, the soul directed his consciousness towards the body of a specific newborn baby in the middle of chaos. This was his choice; not a fate imposed upon him, but a conscious decision shaped by his wrath and the past that he remembered. He flowed into that small, vulnerable high elf body. A new life was beginning, with an old wrath.
When his consciousness returned, the first thing he felt was absolute weakness. After the boundlessness of his previous cosmic existence, he was now trapped within a narrow, uncontrollable physical form. Sounds were muffled and distant; when he tried to move, his limbs felt as if they didn't belong to him. His eyelids were heavy as lead.
When he managed to pry them open, he was met with a blurry image. Soft, dim light and a face leaning over him with concern. The image slowly sharpened. Pale, almost porcelain white skin, pitch black locks of hair framing her face, and most importantly, the eyes looking at him. A striking, deep golden color. Even in the shadow of exhaustion, these golden eyes held deep love and traces of weariness. This woman... was his mother.
His mother smiled weakly, her lips barely moving. She whispered something, but he couldn't quite make out the sounds. He only saw the tenderness and exhaustion in those golden eyes. Her fingers gently touched his cheek. Even this simple touch evoked a strange, unfamiliar sensation in his new body.
Just then the door of the room opened, and several servants rushed in frantically. Their clothes were disheveled, their faces ashen. They spoke breathlessly:
"My Lady!"
"The outer walls... The enemy has breached them!"
"It's no longer safe here! You must leave immediately!"
The momentary expression of tenderness and fatigue on his mother's face vanished instantly. The gold in her eyes seemed to sharpen. She slowly sat up in bed, each movement appearing painful, but her posture was resolute. She turned to the servants, her voice was weak but commanding:
"Calm yourselves. Listen to me." She began to give quick, clear orders. She listed trusted names, designated a route, and demanded her most loyal and skilled warriors be prepared at once. She pointed to the baby. "The South is not safe! You will take him... take him North. With those I trust. Immediately!"
As the servants obeyed and quickly left the room, his mother rose from the bed with incredible willpower. Her body trembled, but she was on her feet. She quickly moved to a nearby chest, began to don shiny, ornate pieces of armor. With each piece she donned, her expression hardened, leaving no trace of the weary mother from moments before.
After donning her armor, she came to her child's side one last time. She leaned down, her golden eyes locking with her child's. This time, there was a farewell in her gaze; pain, determination, and an unspoken word. She placed a light kiss on his forehead. "Aurelion. Be strong," she whispered.
Then she pulled back and gestured to the group of prepared, tense faced warriors waiting outside. "To the North! Now!"
One of the servants, who had wrapped Aurelion in warm swaddling clothes, carefully took him, and the group quickly exited the room. As Aurelion looked back one last time, he saw his mother standing in the doorway, her back to them, heading down the corridor. Just then, a deafening explosion sounded nearby. He felt the building shake. His mother, without a moment's hesitation, began to run towards the direction of the explosion. The war was calling her.
The group, as ordered, quickly navigated through the ruins of the capital and headed north. The journey was brutal. A week, two weeks, a month passed. The concept of time blurred in the constant struggle for survival. The group's numbers dwindled. Sometimes in desperate clashes with pursuers, sometimes ambushed, sometimes succumbing to the hardships of the road and hunger, the loyal warriors protecting Aurelion fell one by one. Throughout the journey, the ominous shadows of those dark ships still loomed in the skies, and the echoes of distant battle accompanied them.
After about two months, only an elderly, grey haired female elf remained. The woman's elegant clothes were tattered, her face and arms caked with dried blood and dirt. Her breathing was wheezing, and she visibly trembled with every step. But she never let go of Aurelion, swaddled tightly in her arms. Finally, they reached the borders where the cold breath of the north could be felt, where pine trees grew denser, and the ground was harder and rockier. The air here was different; the oppressive, desperate weight of war seemed somewhat lessened.
The old elf stumbled along a snow covered path. She was at the end of her strength. Suddenly, a few silhouettes appeared before them. Large bodied warriors, clad in furs and thick armor. Their hands rested on the hilts of crude axes and swords. Their gazes were hard and questioning. These were Northerners.
One of the warriors, likely their leader, grunted and stepped forward. "Hold it, pointy ear. What are you doing on the Northern border? And in this state..." His voice was rough and distrustful. His eyes were locked on the old elf's tattered Elven made clothes and pointed ears. It was clear that the Northerners were not very friendly to strangers, especially Elves.
The old elf stopped, trying to stand tall. Despite her wounds and exhaustion, there was a final shred of pride in her gaze. She wheezed for breath. "Help... Please..." her voice was barely audible. She held up the swaddled baby towards them.
The Northerners hesitated for a moment. The woman's wretched state, the fact that she was clearly dying, and most importantly, the defenseless baby in her arms. The initial harsh, prejudiced expression on their faces seemed to soften slightly, replaced by a kind of surprise and uncertainty. Their leader looked more closely at the woman and the baby.
The old elf spoke with a final effort, her voice trembling but clear: "His name... is Aurelion." As the words left her lips, her eyes locked onto the warriors' leader. "Please... look after him. I beg you..."
With these last words, her strength completely failed her. Her knees buckled, and she slowly collapsed onto the snow. Even in death, her arms were wrapped around the swaddled Aurelion, trying to protect him until the very end.
The Northern warriors watched silently. A heavy silence enveloped the scene. After a few seconds, their leader nodded to a younger, bearded warrior beside him. The warrior, still with a hint of surprise and reluctance on his face, stepped forward. He carefully, yet somewhat crudely, took the swaddled Aurelion from the old elf's lifeless arms. The little baby, who had left his warm swaddle and was in the cold northern air and the rough hands of a foreign warrior, was silent, only looking around with his big golden eyes.
The young warrior held the baby awkwardly, almost like a log of wood. It was clear he had never held a baby before. Aurelion's pointed ears and especially his golden eyes, staring directly at him, caught his attention. There was no fear or crying in these eyes; just a strange, calm observation. This gaze unsettled even the experienced warrior for a moment. He grumbled and looked away.
"What do we do now, Captain?" asked the young warrior holding the baby, addressing his leader. His voice sounded a little hesitant. "We can't just leave him here, can we? The wolves will get him."
The leader approached with heavy steps. His hard, weathered face was expressionless. He first looked at the old elf lying motionless in the snow, then at the baby in his companion's arms. Aurelion's golden eyes were now turned to him. Captain Roric paused for a moment, as if those eyes were trying to read something. Then he sighed, his breath forming a white cloud in the cold air.
"No," he said decisively. "We won't leave him here. The war has already taken many lives." He looked at the baby again. "Besides... who knows? Maybe he'll bring luck. Or trouble. But abandoning someone, especially a baby, to die is not our way."
He stepped back and turned to the others. "We're heading back to Ulfgard. This... elf pup is coming with us." The emphasis on 'pup' still betrayed his displeasure at the baby being an elf, but the decision was made. "You'll carry the young one, Borin. As for the woman... the snow wolves will take care of her." This was the harsh reality of the North; the dead were left behind.
The young warrior called Borin didn't look pleased but didn't object. He tried to wrap the baby tighter in his rough fur, to protect him from the cold. Roric and the other warriors turned and began to walk back the way they had come.
Rocked by Borin's shaky steps, Aurelion gazed at the old elf woman lying alone and motionless on the snow. Then, all that surrounded him was the scent of a strange warrior, the warmth of rough fur, and the seemingly endless, grey sky of the North. His golden eyes were still open, watching silently. He had survived, but a completely different world and a completely different beginning awaited him.