The mountains of Oniara burned gold in the evening light, their jagged peaks wrapped in a hush that only the ancients remembered. Here, far from the chaos of council halls and celestial courts, time slowed. And at the heart of this forgotten world—tucked within a valley carved by war and reborn through silence—a boy trained.
Draven Sitquill Sullivan stood barefoot atop wind-battered stone. His eyes, too calm for someone so young, focused on the horizon. Beside him stood his father.
Zevarin Sullivan said nothing.
He never did.
His blade flashed once—clean, precise—cutting through the air with such force that it sent a gust rolling across the plateau. Then he handed it to the boy.
Draven took it without hesitation.
One movement. Then another. No correction. No praise. Only the weight of being watched by a man whose silence said more than most voices ever could.
At the base of the cliffs, laughter echoed.
Vaelora Sitquill sat beneath a willow tree, arms outstretched.
"Again, slower!" she called, smiling warmly. "You're not trying to punch through the planet, Draven!"
Her tone was light, but her eyes—sharp, knowing—missed nothing. She watched as her son released a small burst of aura from his palm. The pulse was faint but steady, like a heartbeat.
She clapped once.
"Perfect. That's the beginning of control. Now tell me—what happens if aura surges without a vessel to channel it?"
"It breaks the vessel," Draven answered, breathless. "Like lightning through a dry branch."
She grinned.
"Exactly. And what's the first rule of cultivation?"
"Anchor the mind, then stir the soul."
"Good." She rose to her feet, brushing grass from her robes. "You're learning fast. Not many could awaken aura at your age. Then again…" She tousled his hair. "You're not just anyone."
He looked up.
"Because I'm half Oni?"
Vaelora's smile softened.
"Because you're you."
They spent weeks like this—Draven learning to temper his strength, shape his aura, and recognize the rhythm of his own soul. Vaelora made sure every lesson ended with laughter, food, and questions. She never treated the power like a burden. Only a beginning.
And then, when his aura finally obeyed his will instead of defying it, she led him to the edge of a cliff where the stars stretched endlessly above.
"Now," she said, her voice quiet but clear, "it's time you learned what came before you."
She began with the thirteen gods who shaped the galaxy.
She told him of the planets, the divine council, the ancient wars that split the heavens, and the mortal rebellions that nearly ended it all.
She spoke of balance. Of betrayal. Of the burden of bloodlines and the breaking of thrones.
But she never mentioned her own father—the Oni head whose death dissolved a kingdom.
And she never told him of the vote that nearly denied his father's final wish.
Not yet.
At night, when the stars scattered across Oniara's sky like spilled gemstones, Draven often lay awake listening to the wind. Sometimes, he heard the murmur of his father's blade slicing through the dark. Other times, his mother's voice—singing old Oni lullabies, half in jest, half in reverence.
He didn't know the world was watching.
He didn't know that on thirteen planets, gods had marked his name in silence.
He didn't know that a wish hung like a sword over the galaxy—waiting.
All he knew… was that he wanted to grow strong enough to protect them both.