Two thousand years ago, the world bled.
The skies cracked with fire and lightning, and the earth groaned beneath the weight of warring gods. Four races Human, Elf, Dwarf bound by terror more than trust, marched against a single enemy: the Aethers.
The Aethers were few barely ten thousand but each was a force of nature incarnate. Masters of creation, their blood hummed with elemental power, their souls entwined with the primal forces of the world. To the other races, they were not mortals, but monsters.
To the Aethers, they were simply free.
But fear is the sharpest blade.
The alliance of the four races forged a covenant of blood, raising an army of nine hundred million to annihilate ten thousand. And so began a war that shattered continents. Mountains crumbled. Oceans boiled. Forests turned to ash. And still, the Aethers stood defiant, radiant, their brilliance flaring like stars refusing to die.
In the end, the alliance prevailed.
Every Aether man, woman, and child was hunted down and slain. Or so history claims.
Their legacy was buried beneath ash and silence. Their names cursed. Their magic forbidden. Their very existence erased from memory. The victors divided the world, carving kingdoms into the bones of the fallen, crowning themselves atop the ruins.
But the world has a way of remembering what mortals strive to forget.
Sixteen centuries passed.
In a quiet village, tucked against the outer reaches of the human capital, a knock echoed through the midnight hush. It came at the door of a humble bakery, startling Elara Vale from her dreams.
She was a gentle woman, her hair the pale pink of spring cherry blossoms, her spirit warm despite the sorrow of an empty cradle. Though she bore no child of her own, her heart held a mother's love in abundance.
When she opened the door, the night was still. No visitor stood at her threshold, only a wicker basket wrapped in wool and silence.
Inside, a child.
A baby boy, no more than days old, blue ocean-eyes and impossibly warm, as if the chill of night could not touch him. Pale strands of white hair crowned his head. He stirred softly, curling his tiny fingers.
"Elara?" came a voice behind her. Darius Vale who was once a Holy Knight of the realm, now a quiet man of flour and fire stepped into the light. Time had worn the edge from his blade, but not from his gaze.
She turned to him, voice trembling. "It's a baby."
Darius frowned, scanning the shadows, the basket, the boy. No note. No sigil. No name. Nothing but a strange radiance in the child's skin, a hum in the air that tugged at something long-buried in the old knight's soul.
The child blinked. His ocean blue eyes met Elara's. And in that instant, her heart decided what logic could not.
"We'll keep him," she whispered. "The gods have given us a son."
Darius hesitated for a moment then placed his hand gently over hers, over the child. "So be it."
That night, the boy became Lucien Vale.
To the village, he was a foundling. A baker's son. Ordinary in every way.