The throne split down the middle.
Blood ran down the obsidian steps, warm, thick, and slow like the passage of time itself. Smoke curled from the broken pillars of the once-imperial hall, the air choked with ash, death, and finality. Where there had once been silence demanded by awe, there was now only crumbling stone and the echo of loss.
Aevion stood alone in the center of the devastation, his hand clutching the wound in his chest. The sword that had pierced him lay discarded at his feet, humming faintly with the residue of the power it had stolen.
He didn't scream. He didn't fall.
He simply… closed his eyes.
A single breath escaped his lips. Not defiant. Not pleading. Just tired.
The world around him turned to fragments, and all light bled into shadow.
And then—
Silence.
His eyes opened again to light.
It wasn't divine. It wasn't blinding. It was soft, natural, filtered through tall branches that swayed above him like sleepy guardians. The ground beneath him was cold and wet with dew. Birds chirped nearby, unaware of what had just slipped into their world.
Aevion didn't move at first. He just lay there, staring through the trees, listening to the ordinary sounds of life.
Then he sat up slowly, the world around him unfamiliar in every possible way. No throne. No castle. No army. No fire.
He looked at his hands. They were smaller. Softer. Too small for the weight they once carried.
His breath came slow and even.
He rose to his feet.
His tunic was plain linen. His feet were bare. His body looked no older than ten years—a child. His silver hair fell gently into his eyes as he took a single step forward, then another. The soil squelched faintly beneath his steps.
There was no trace of where he had come from. No circle carved in the earth, no heavenly descent. Just an open forest and the sound of wind.
He started walking.
Time passed without measure. The sun had risen higher, then dipped slightly, hidden behind thick clouds. Aevion's small frame weaved through underbrush and moss, his feet cut on sharp roots and thorns, but he made no complaint.
There was no path. Just endless green. Endless silence.
He wondered what world this was. Not the one he remembered. Or perhaps it was, changed by time.
As he walked, his eyes scanned the horizon for signs of smoke or structure. But there was nothing. Just tree after tree, rock after rock. The birds had stopped singing now. It was quieter than he liked.
With every step, he became more aware of the cold.
His body was still adjusting. Weak. Limited. He wasn't used to it. But he didn't despise it either.
Still, there was a lingering pressure in his chest. Not fear. Not sorrow.
Emptiness.
He didn't know what name to give it. He didn't cry. He didn't shout.
But the silence pressed in harder the longer he went without seeing another soul.
Hours passed.
Eventually, he spotted something between the trees—smoke. Thin and grey, rising gently into the air like a signal not meant to be seen.
He didn't run. He simply kept walking.
Closer now, the scent of bread and burning wood wafted toward him, strange and comforting. He came to the edge of the forest and saw it: a village. Not large, not loud. Just a gathering of lives, simple and breathing.
Wooden houses lined a dirt path. Faded paint. Cracked fences. Nothing extraordinary.
To them, he was a child. Alone. Quiet. Out of place.
He stepped onto the path and kept walking, his presence barely noticed by the adults tending to carts or calling children in for supper.
Then a voice called out to him.
"Hey," a girl said, stepping into his path. She had soft chestnut hair tied up with a blue ribbon, and eyes the color of warm honey.
She looked him over, amused. "Are you lost or just weird?"
Aevion blinked. "I don't know."
She squinted at him. "You talk weird too. What's your name?"
"Aevion," he answered, voice flat but not cold.
"I'm April," she said, crossing her arms. "You look like a ghost."
He looked down at his pale arms and bare feet. "I feel like one."
April snorted. "Well, don't be. Come on."
She didn't ask permission before grabbing his hand and tugging him along the road.
Aevion followed.
He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was her tone. Maybe it was the warmth of her grip.
Or maybe he just didn't want to be alone anymore.
They walked through the village together. April pointed out where the baker lived, and which house had the loud dog that bit people. She showed him where the kids played and where they hid when it rained.
People glanced at him but didn't stop her. Aevion remained quiet, observing.
Eventually, they sat beneath a weathered tree in the center of the village, near a dried-up fountain filled with dust and leaves.
"You don't talk much," April said, looking sideways at him.
"I don't have much to say," he replied.
She leaned her head back against the tree. "That's boring."
Aevion didn't respond. His gaze drifted toward the clouds.
"Are you staying here?" she asked suddenly.
"I haven't decided."
"Well, you should. We've got bread and stupid chickens. And no one yells too much."
He turned to her. "Why are you being nice to me?"
April blinked. "You looked sad."
Aevion's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his chest.
"I'm not sad," he said.
She smiled knowingly. "Okay."
They sat in silence, the village settling into its evening rhythm.
Aevion didn't speak again. He didn't need to.
But something had changed.
Not in the world.
In him.
Aevion had remained in the village for three days now.
Each morning, he awoke beneath the patched wooden beams of the orphanage ceiling, with April sleeping two beds over, arms curled around a worn cloth rabbit that no longer had ears. Sunlight spilled through cracks in the wood, warming his cheeks, and the scent of porridge filled the air. It was always slightly burnt—Sera, the caretaker, could never quite time the fire—but the taste had grown familiar.
They had begun giving him small chores. Fetching water. Chopping wood, though the axe was taller than him. Drawing little chalk circles for the younger children to play in. The children adored him. Even when he didn't say much, his presence was strangely comforting.
Sometimes, he felt something stir in his chest when they laughed.
He didn't understand it.
He never had, not in his old life.
But he didn't think he disliked it.
April had insisted on braiding his hair that morning. He didn't resist—her expression was far too focused, and she had tied flowers into it with precise determination.
"It suits you," she said after, holding up a cracked mirror.
He studied himself silently. The boy in the glass didn't look like anything special. Pale skin, long silver-white hair, dull blue eyes that reflected little emotion. His frame was small—fragile, even—and he had a tendency to sit cross-legged without realizing. He looked nothing like what he had once been. And that… that was fine.
He hadn't trembled since that day in the forest.
Even now, his expression was placid. The days were quiet. Peaceful. Nothing threatened him. He didn't mind being powerless here. He didn't even try to access Nexis. He knew it slept within him—but it slumbered for a reason.
And for now, that was enough.
Until the bells rang.
It was just after midday. Aevion had been skipping stones with the children by the riverbank. April had finally beaten him—her stone bounced four times, his only twice—and she had been mid-cheer when the distant sound of metal struck the wind.
Not just any sound.
The tower bell. The emergency bell.
No one had heard it ring in years.
April froze. The children stopped laughing. One of the older boys, Marek, grabbed a stick and motioned for the younger ones to huddle close.
Aevion stood slowly, eyes narrowing.
He could feel it. Not in the air. Not through Nexis. But in the stillness that followed. Something primal had shifted. The birds no longer sang. Even the river had gone quiet.
Then came the smoke.
Black, curling smoke on the horizon, far too much to be a cooking fire.
Then came the screams.
They didn't sound close. Not yet.
But they would be.
April took his hand. She was trembling. Not with terror—but urgency.
"We need to run," she whispered. "Now."
"Where?"
"To the church. Sister Ilya will be there. The elders will know what to do."
Aevion nodded. "Go. I'll gather the others."
"You're coming too—"
He gently pushed her. "Run, April."
He didn't wait to see if she obeyed.
He turned and sprinted back toward the central square.
The village was chaos.
People running. Livestock loose. Flames starting to curl over rooftops like hungry tongues. Sera was already shouting orders to get the children to safety. Aevion moved with eerie calm—guiding one, lifting another. He didn't think. He just moved.
He was powerless.
He couldn't change what was coming.
But he wouldn't stand still.
He carried a toddler through the smoke. She couldn't stop coughing. He wrapped her in his cloak and passed her to an older girl who was limping toward the stone chapel.
Then the first scream pierced the square.
Not fear.
Agony.
Aevion turned.
And he saw them.
Figures—not bandits. Not soldiers. Not even human.
Twisted things with pale bone masks and fingers like sickles. They moved like shadows, silent, but their claws sliced air like paper. Their presence bent the light. The grass withered beneath their feet.
They were not from this world.
Aevion didn't know what they were.
He had never seen such creatures.
Even in his old life—those weren't demons. They were something else. Something wrong.
One of them turned toward the chapel.
And began walking.
Aevion ran.
He didn't hesitate.
He ran straight for it, picking up a splintered wooden spear one of the guards had dropped. It was too big for him, but he raised it anyway.
The thing didn't slow.
He charged.
His arms trembled—not in fear, but effort.
He screamed—not in desperation, but resolve.
The spear broke against its mask.
The thing didn't react.
Its claw came down—
—and Aevion flew.
His body crashed through a cart. He tumbled, wheezing. Something cracked. He couldn't move his left arm.
But he didn't stop.
He dragged himself upright.
His knees buckled. He rose again.
Behind him, the creature had paused.
Staring at him.
Then, as if deeming him unworthy, it turned.
And walked toward the chapel.
"No—" Aevion staggered forward.
A small voice behind him called out.
April.
She was screaming.
He turned, vision blurring—
—and saw her.
She was running toward him.
No.
Not him.
The toddler he'd dropped. She was stuck in the mud.
April was trying to reach her.
The creature turned again.
Moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
Aevion screamed her name.
He ran.
Every step burned.
He couldn't feel his legs anymore.
He didn't reach her in time.
The creature's claw moved like lightning.
April's body dropped like a broken doll.
Still.
No breath.
No sound.
Just silence.
Aevion stopped.
The toddler screamed.
But he… didn't.
He walked forward.
His steps were silent now.
The creature looked at him.
Aevion met its gaze.
And smiled.
Just a small one.
A flicker.
Nothing joyful.
Just… calm.
His hand reached up.
For a moment, the air shimmered.
Just for a breath.
The creature twitched.
It hesitated.
Then vanished.
Gone. Like mist.
He hadn't done anything.
He hadn't used Nexis.
He had no power.
But something had moved.
Something in the world.
And the creature… had vanished.
Aevion walked to April's body.
He knelt beside her.
Touched her hand.
Still warm.
Her eyes were open, staring at the sky.
She had a single flower left in her hair.
He closed her eyes gently.
Then sat there, unmoving, as the fire spread around him.
As the chapel fell.
As the village burned.
And still, he didn't cry.