Chapter 7 – Training Under Starlight
The nights in Breya grew longer, filled with whispers of wolves and strange shadows at the edge of the forest. But while the villagers tried to forget, Eryndor walked deeper into the woods each evening, guided by Aethros.
There, beneath the canopy of silver-lit trees, his training began.
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"Mana flows like a river," Aethros explained, tracing glowing lines into the soil with the tip of his staff. "Mortals learn to drink from it slowly, shaping drops into spells. But you… you are no river-born child."
He tapped Eryndor's chest.
"You carry the cosmic essence—raw, unshaped, eternal. It is why the crystal shattered. Why beasts bow before you. But uncontrolled, it will tear you apart."
Eryndor swallowed hard. "Then teach me control."
Aethros smiled faintly. "Good. Begin."
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The first lessons were brutal.
When Eryndor tried to summon flame, it roared into wildfire, searing trees before collapsing into ash. When he tried to shape light, it blinded him until tears streamed down his cheeks. And when he reached for shadow, the forest itself recoiled, animals scattering as though sensing something ancient and terrible.
Each time, Aethros struck the ground with his staff, dispersing the energy before it consumed them both.
"You rush," Aethros scolded. "Do not command Balance. Listen to it."
Exhausted, Eryndor collapsed onto the grass. His chest ached, his hands burned. For the first time, doubt crept in. Perhaps the gods had been right—perhaps Balance was too dangerous to exist.
But as he lay beneath the stars, his gaze caught the constellation above—the one mortals called the Twin Scales. Once, it had been his symbol, glowing brightest during his reign as the God of Balance. And though faint, it still shone.
They tried to erase me. Yet here I am.
He stood, pain sharpening into resolve. "Again."
Aethros' eyes gleamed with pride. "That is the spirit of a god reborn."
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By the third night, something shifted.
Instead of forcing flame, Eryndor breathed with it—letting warmth pool in his chest before guiding it outward. A spark danced across his palm, steady and controlled.
Instead of grasping light, he welcomed it—feeling it trickle into him like morning dew. A sphere of soft radiance hovered above his fingertips.
Even shadow bent, not in fear, but in quiet obedience, curling at his feet like loyal hounds.
For the first time, Eryndor did not feel torn between forces. He felt… whole.
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But far beyond the forest, in the halls of the Pantheon, another figure had already set foot upon the mortal realm. Cloaked in white and gold, carrying the crest of the Dawn, she descended toward Breya with a singular mission.
To find the child of Balance.
And judge whether he would live… or die.