Solias III Year 891
Veloria slumbered under twin moons, their silver and sapphire light weaving shadows across cobblestone streets, whispering secrets older than Artia's crown.
In this quiet border town, Hera's shop stood like a relic from a darker tale, its warped timbers and glowing vials humming with unspoken power.
The air within thrummed with the scent of scorched herbs and molten elixirs, a veil of mystery cloaking a truth few could grasp: a demon alchemist, once a legend in a war-torn empire, now tethered to a child whose mischief could spark destinies or burn them to cinders.
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Hera POV
Hera leaned against her counter, ember eyes glinting as she watched Aeon stir a bubbling vial, its contents swirling like a storm trapped in glass.
At four years old, his small hands moved with a precision that mocked her centuries of mastery, crafting a potion that promised chaos. She sighed—a theatrical gust that stirred the air, laced with a warmth she rarely admitted. Destiny, you sly trickster, she thought, to bind me to this boy in a nowhere town.
In Darkia, a realm vast enough to swallow Artia ten times over, Hera had been a legend. Her potions danced like firelight across battlefields, illuminating the dark corners of demon fortresses. Demon lords, volatile as the storms they conjured, had bowed to her craft, their wars and schemes fueled by her elixirs of flame, shadow, and blood.
Humans there were mere shadows, pawns swept aside in the ceaseless tides of clashing demonkind, yet Hera's skill had carved her a throne above the chaos—a fragile crown balanced on brilliance and terror.
The scent of brimstone and scorched herbs had become as familiar as the pulse of her own heart, each concoction a symphony of danger and power. But the endless intrigue—the scheming alliances, the betrayals painted in crimson and ash—had dimmed her spark, leaving her brilliance both feared and isolated.
For years, Hera had wandered, drifting from kingdom to kingdom, town to town, her path marked by fleeting stops and endless motion. Markets, borderlands, and shadowed hamlets had blurred together, each offering a fragment of knowledge, a rare herb, or a chance to test her craft—but none had held her for long.
Then, two years ago, she arrived in Veloria. Unlike the chaos and bustle she had known elsewhere, this quiet border town offered a rare stillness, a gentle rhythm that soothed her restless spirit. Here, she paused her wandering, drawn by the town's serene streets, the soft hum of life, and the subtle pulse of nature weaving through its cobblestone lanes. The modest shop she rented, intended as a temporary refuge, soon became her stage.
Here, the townsfolk—ignorant of the centuries she carried—dubbed her "Grandma Hera," their awe mingling with playful fear at her dramatic flourishes, unaware that beneath her whimsical gestures lay a power once capable of reshaping empires.
Then came Aeon, two years ago, bounding into her shop with fearless energy that set him apart from the usual parade of children she scolded and tried to scare away.
Hera, horns gleaming and ember eyes alight, unleashed her usual theatrics—threats of boiling them alive, grinding them into powders, pickling them in jars—but Aeon only laughed, loud and unrestrained, toppling into a pile of jars.
Scrambling to his feet, his blue eyes caught the crooked shelves, glowing vials, and powders that sparked faintly inside tins.
"Grandma, if you really boiled me, I'd only come out stronger! And what sort of 'greatest magician' would I be if I didn't master even the smallest of arts?" His theatrical pride and mischievous grin made Hera's lips twitch with the faintest smirk.
Then, undeterred by her scowls, he leaned forward earnestly and asked, "Please, teach me alchemy! I want to learn from you."
Hera nearly scoffed. Teach an unknown child? My craft, honed over centuries, entrusted to someone so small? She waved him off, certain he would flee like all the others. Yet Aeon returned day after day, coaxing her in different ways: questions, earnest gestures, even small trinkets he claimed were rare ingredients from his tiny adventures around Veloria.
Each visit carried stories of harmless feats and clever tricks, designed to impress, and slowly Hera's irritation softened into intrigue. Unlike the other children who trembled or ran at her theatrics, Aeon stayed, unflinching, daring her to challenge him. In his persistence and curiosity, she glimpsed a spark—a raw, untamed potential that could ignite a new chapter in her alchemy, and perhaps in her life as well.
One day, he'd presented glowing Renga fruits, his chubby cheeks flushed with hope. "Just let me watch you brew, Grandma Hera!" he'd pleaded, blue eyes wide with a mischief that tugged at her heart. She'd set a steep price—five fruits, one hour, no questions—expecting him to balk. His grin had lit the shop. "You're the best! Let's start!"
She'd brewed a tier-0 health potion, Aeon's gaze burning into every stir, his serious little face framed by pinchable cheeks that almost broke Hera's stern facade. A week of silence had followed, and she'd found herself missing his chatter—a pang she refused to name.
Then Aeon stormed back, charcoal-smudged and grinning, clutching a bottle he refused to show her properly. Before she could ask, he hurled it into the center of the shop. The vial shattered with a hiss, and grey smoke billowed upward in thick clouds, curling around shelves and vials. The acrid stench made her eyes water, and her hands flared with a quick clearing spell, dispersing the smoke in a gust of shimmering wind that rattled jars and tins.
Hera's ember eyes narrowed, intrigued and slightly amused despite herself. "What in Darkia's name did you just make?" she demanded, stepping carefully through the drifting haze, the remnants of the potion sizzling faintly on the floor.
Aeon puffed out his chest, a mischievous sparkle in his blue eyes. "It's a smoke potion!" he declared, doing a little victorious jig. "Cow dung, onions, mosquito-repel herbs—why heal when you can defeat?"
Hera raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms as curiosity pricked at her centuries-honed instincts. "Defeat? Explain, little human. Or are you going to fill my shop with chaos every day?"
Aeon tilted his head, blue eyes gleaming with mischief, his grin spreading wide. "It's not for boring healing or mana potions!" he declared, hopping from side to side as smoke lingered around his tiny feet. "This one's for defeating enemies—poison smoke, blinding fire sparks, and confusion all in one! One puff, and even the greatest guild spies or thugs won't know which way is up!"
Hera's ember eyes narrowed, a mixture of amusement and curiosity flickering in their depths. "You expect me to believe a child concocted such… chaos?" she asked, stepping cautiously through the curling smoke, her fingers already humming with a clearing spell.
Aeon's chest puffed proudly. "See? Who needs healing when you can win without touching them? Just a little smoke here, a pinch of sting there, a spark to make them run—victory is so much more fun than boring potions!"
Hera shook her head, the faintest smirk tugging at her lips. "Reckless little genius… I'm intrigued. Now show me exactly how this 'victory' works."
He leapt forward eagerly, pointing at a spot on the counter, and began explaining the strange concoction, the ingredients, and his twisted logic, while Hera listened, her intrigue growing with every chaotic detail. The boy's genius, reckless yet precise, shone brighter than any elixir she'd ever brewed.
Her demon blood thrilled. Alchemy, to her, was stability—gentle elixirs for healing or mana. But Aeon saw chaos as power—smoke, poison, fire. A path she'd never walked, despite centuries of crafting for war. His genius, raw and untamed, promised to reshape her craft. She'd accepted him as her disciple then, not for any hidden past or family secrets—she knew nothing of those—but for the spark that could ignite her alchemy anew.
Now, two years later, Aeon, four years old, and the shop had become a crucible of invention. Aeon's brews fizzed like the fruit elixirs at the Microrune Festival, where he'd crowned Micro "chief mascot" with paper rings. His games, stamped with that infinity logo—two circles joined, a symbol of endless magic—spread joy through Veloria's squares, a vision Hera now saw as more than childish play. It was a flame that could ripple beyond this town, though she didn't grasp its full weight, as Aisa did, guarding its revolutionary spark.
An owl's tap pierced the quiet, its talons sharp against the window. Hera's breath caught—a Darkian messenger, its seal gleaming with a demon lord's mark. Her ember eyes hardened, her smile fading like a snuffed flame. Patting the owl gently, she took the letter, its weight a chain dragging her back to chaos. The words burned: a summons to Darkia. Wars brewed, her skills demanded.
"Time to return," she whispered, a storm stirring in her chest. Aeon's face flashed—his wicked grin, his pleas to "make potions that blast!" He was a genius, but a child, his love for her as fierce as his devotion to Micro, the fluffy Mikka tending their secret garden. These years had woven her into a family: Aisa's spiced teas crackling with embers, Essa's fiery spars in the yard, Micro's "Micee!" echoing through their home. Leaving would tear that apart, a wound deeper than any Darkian blade.
Aeon glanced up, blue eyes gleaming as he nudged the flame under his vial. "Careful, Grandma Hera!" he teased, voice bubbling with mischief, that cackle tugging at her heart. "This one's gonna blaze like my festival sparks—scare off any guild sneak!" His grin was a shield, bold and warm, unaware of the letter's shadow.
Hera's lips curved, a faint smile masking the ache. "A blaze, huh?" she replied, her tone light but trembling with dramatic resolve. "Better not burn my shop, spark. Tell me, what's this one meant to do?"
He struck a bard-like pose, chest puffed, eyes twinkling with pride. "A fire potion! One spark, and—poof!—a flame to make those market whispers run!" His laugh was wicked, but his gaze held trust, a bond that pierced her like a spell. "You'll love it, Grandma. We're gonna light up Veloria!"
Micro scampered across a shelf, nibbling a glowing fruit, squeaking "Micee!" with fluffy devotion. Hera's heart softened, aching with love and foreboding.
She wanted to ruffle Aeon's curls, to scold his recklessness, but the letter burned in her hand. Destiny, you cruel tease, she thought, her sigh heavy with unspoken fear. How could she tell him, this boy who'd reignited her craft? Aisa's knowing smile, Essa's fierce hugs, Micro's joyful squeaks—they were her home now, as much as the cauldrons and vials.
"Then let's make it a blaze worth remembering," she said, her voice tender, laced with a warmth that belied the storm within. "But no explosions in my shop—yet." Her ember eyes twinkled, hiding the weight of Darkia's call, as Veloria's moons cast whispers of a storm drawing near.