Solias III Year 891
In the quiet borderlands of Artia, where the kingdom's grand politics frayed into forgotten fringes, Veloria bloomed like a secret garden amid the wilds.
Once a sleepy farming town, its cobblestone streets now pulsed with an unexpected vitality, whispers of change carried on the wind like seeds from a distant storm. The air hummed with laughter and the clatter of dice, though a crispness hinted at winter still two months away, carrying the promise of shorter days and early frost. Children huddled in circles under the soft morning light, their small hands clutching parchments marked with Aeon's infinity logo—a pair of interlocking circles symbolizing endless possibility, etched alongside the bold name Microrune.
Travelers spoke in hushed tones of a guardian magician lurking in the shadows, a force that had purged the thugs and criminals who once preyed on the vulnerable, leaving the town a haven of unlikely peace.
Yet beneath the bustling square, deeper currents stirred: guilds plotting in distant capitals, nobles sniffing after rare beasts and stranger magics, and a mother's unyielding vigilance—her fairy-like charm hiding a ferocity that could scorch even the boldest intruder. Occasionally, a shadow flickered at an alley's edge, eyes glinting before vanishing. Destiny wove its threads tighter here, binding a boy's mischief to the looming shadows of legacy, where one careless spark could ignite empires.
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Aisa POV
Aisa navigated the lively streets of Veloria with a grace that blended seamlessly into the crowd. Her orange hair caught the afternoon sun like fairy fire, drawing subtle glances from passersby who sensed something ethereal about her without quite knowing why.
The town had transformed so much since she'd first arrived with Marcus, cradling a newborn Essa in her arms, seeking refuge in this quiet corner far from Artia's noble intrigues. Back then, Veloria was little more than a border outpost, too insignificant for any noble house to claim. Managed by a distant governor from Renhark county, it rarely saw a lord's boot grace its soil.
It had been the perfect hideaway—a place to raise her children free from oppression, away from the gilded cages of her past.
But now, at four years old, Aeon's mischief had already left its mark on the market square, and Aisa couldn't help but smile faintly at the changes it brought.
Each familiar sight seemed to draw another memory to the surface: laughter echoing through their home, Essa's fiery temper flaring during lessons, Aeon's endless questions, and the quiet ache of nights spent watching the stars where Marcus once stood beside her.
Children scampered past, their laughter light and infectious, clutching handmade Ludo boards or decks of colorful cards, each emblazoned with that peculiar "infinity sign" Aeon had dreamed up: two circles connected on one side, a logo he'd insisted upon with his mischievous flair, proudly stamped with Microrune beneath it.
"Mommy, it's like magic that never ends," he'd boasted once, his blue eyes sparkling as he laughed that evil little cackle of his—the one that always heralded trouble. Just like the time he'd hidden her quill in Micro's fluffy fur, snickering while the little Mikka squeaked innocently.
Nearby, aspiring magicians hunched over chessboards etched into tavern tables, the faint aroma of fresh bread and morning firewood curling around them, brows furrowed in concentration, the Microrune name winking from the wood. Farmers rolled dice over steaming mugs of tea and porridge, their clatter echoing through the square, turning the quiet morning into lively debates. Even the air seemed fresher, infused with the joy of these simple inventions, chasing away the memory of thugs and criminals that had once prowled the streets.
Aisa sighed softly, her brown eyes warming with a mix of pride and quiet concern. Her heart swelled with that tender, dramatic ache of a mother guarding her sparks.
She'd played her part in Veloria's safety, of course—stalking from the shadows over the past years, her hidden ferocity dispatching any threats to her family with a precision that made even demon lords seem tame. Whispers drifted among townsfolk of a powerful magician protecting them, criminals vanishing or fleeing in the night.
They're not wrong, she thought wryly, lips curving in amusement.
But it was Aeon—now four years old, with his genius mind—who had truly ignited this spark. His mischief had made the town unsafe at first, drawing him into scrapes that forced her to intervene.
Like that fateful day two years ago when he'd tumbled into the hidden magical garden, emerging battered but triumphant with Micro in tow and a sack of glowing fruits. Now they thrived in their secret home grove under the little Mikka's devoted care.
Such a troublemaker, she mused fondly, recalling how he'd enchanted the broom to "clean by itself," only for it to chase Essa through the hallway like a soldier on duty. He had hidden behind the door, giggling uncontrollably, and when Aisa found him, he'd insisted it was "training for autonomous cleaning magic." Her stern look had lasted all of three seconds before soft laughter escaped her lips.
Yet, behind that laughter, her thoughts often drifted to Marcus—their anchor, their fire. It had been five years since he'd vanished on that ill-fated expedition, his promise of return still echoing in her heart. Some nights, when the house fell quiet, she'd catch Aeon tilting his head toward the window, asking, "Mommy, what kind of man was Daddy?"
She would smile, forcing warmth into her voice, even as her chest tightened.
"He was brave," she'd say, "and terribly bad at maps. Once he got lost in our own garden for an hour because a butterfly distracted him." Aeon would laugh at that, blue eyes sparkling, utterly unaware of the ache beneath her words.
She told him stories—how Marcus once tamed a storm with a song, how he claimed the stars followed him just to hear Aisa's laughter. They weren't all true, but they were the right kind of truth—woven with love, adventure, and a glimmer of the man Aeon somehow resembled more each day.
Sometimes, when Aeon laughed that mischievous, wicked little laugh, it wasn't just her son she heard—it was Marcus's echo, playful and alive, whispering through him like a spark reborn.
Essa, now nine and newly awakened to her fire affinity—with that astonishing eighty percent purity—had filled their home with laughter and light. The moment her core ignited, a tiny flicker danced at her fingertips, blooming into a warm crimson flame that shimmered like a phoenix's breath.
Aisa had clasped her hands to her mouth, eyes glistening with pride, while Aeon jumped up and down, shouting that "the house is on fire—but in a cool way!" Even Micro squeaked and darted around her in excited little circles.
That evening, they celebrated beneath the soft glow of the twin moons. Hera brewed her sweet spiced tea that crackled faintly with embers, while Aeon set off miniature rune sparks that glittered like fireflies above the table. Essa sat between them, her cheeks flushed with happiness, clutching her mother's hand as Aisa whispered, "You've truly awakened, my little flame." It was a night of warmth and laughter—simple, fleeting, but unforgettable.
Her giggle masked her clingy adoration, her overprotectiveness flaring like a storm whenever anyone dared tease him. Yet she yielded instantly to Aisa's gentle command, her fear of her mother's hidden steel always a quiet undercurrent in their bond.
Aeon, ever the mischievous one with his fascination for magic, had shrugged off the company idea at first, too busy plotting his next experiment with Grandma Hera. Together, vials fizzed and foamed in chaotic delight.
But when Aisa discussed turning his games into a business with the money Marcus left behind, his eyes had lit up with that wicked little laugh. "Mommy, let's call it Microrune—with my infinity sign as the logo!" he had declared proudly, puffing out his chest like a tiny king.
His love for his family shone through, even as he schemed for more trouble.
A few weeks later came his turn to steal the spotlight. The first batch of his handmade Microrune games had spread through the town, and laughter echoed from every corner of Veloria. Children huddled in the square, rolling dice under lantern-light, shouting rules that changed every other minute while merchants leaned out of their stalls to watch.
At home, Aeon stood on a stool, chest puffed like royalty, declaring the day the "Official Microrune Festival." Aisa couldn't stop smiling as Essa clapped loud enough to wake the neighbors, her fiery hair bouncing with every cheer. Even Grandma Hera joined in, pretending to be a stern merchant demanding a discount—sending Aeon into one of his wicked little cackles.
They celebrated late into the night—drinking fruit elixirs, doodling new game ideas on parchment, Micro wearing a crown of paper rings as "chief mascot." When Aeon finally fell asleep at the table, ink smudged on his fingers and a grin still tugging at his lips, Aisa brushed his hair back gently.
In that quiet glow, she felt it again—the mix of pride and foreboding that always followed her son's brilliance, a spark too bright to stay hidden forever.