Solias III Year 891, Rainy End , Day 3
Aeon POV
Aeon burst out of Grandma Hera's alchemy shop, the door creaking shut behind him with a final puff of herbal smoke. "Goodbye, Grandma!" he shouted over his shoulder, his voice echoing down the cobblestone street like a playful challenge.
The sun dipped low, painting Veloria in warm amber hues, and Aeon's heart raced with excitement. Mother would be back from the Merchant Guild soon, the deal finalized at last. She'd promised magic stones from the first down payment—precious crystals humming with raw energy, perfect for the experiments itching in his mind.
He could already picture them: vials fizzing wildly, runes sparking in secret patterns. No more waiting; tonight, his mischief would ignite.
He dashed through the streets, his small legs pumping with boundless energy, dodging carts and laughing vendors. Veloria's folk greeted him like an old friend, their voices a chorus of warmth that made him feel like the town's secret king.
"Evening, little Aeon!" called old Mr. Thorne from his bakery, waving a flour-dusted hand. Aeon grinned, snatching a loose apple from a nearby stall with a wink at the owner, who shook her head fondly.
"You rascal, Aeon! That's the third this week!" But her laughter followed him as he tossed it back, only to "accidentally" knock over a bucket of water, splashing a group of gossiping merchants.
They yelped in mock outrage, chasing him half-heartedly while he cackled, his blue eyes twinkling with harmless glee. "Sorry! Blame the wind—it's got a grudge!" he called, weaving through the crowd like a shadow, leaving smiles in his wake.
Aeon slowed as he passed a rune-lit lamp flickering in the twilight, its glow reminding him of something—streetlights from a world that no one here would believe existed. He grinned faintly.
As he ran again, Aeon's thoughts drifted to the last two years, a whirlwind of secrets and growth that had reshaped his world.
What he'd once thought was a normal mother—like Pent's or Mike's, fussing over chores and meals—turned out to be a magician, her fairy-like grace hiding depths of power.
She'd started teaching him Arcana and runes, her gentle hands guiding his over parchment as symbols glowed to life. He learned to write and read Latis, the ancient script that danced like living flames, along with snippets of history that stretched back eons.
But the decorum lessons—etiquette for magic and noble society—were his least favorite, all stiff bows and polite phrases that cramped his mischievous spirit. "Aeon, darling," she'd say with that soft, dramatic sigh, her brown eyes warm yet firm, "even the wildest spark must learn to dance without burning the hall." He adored her patience, the way her love wrapped around him like a protective spell, but those rules felt like chains on his endless curiosity.
Then there was Big Sis Essa, always dragging him to the yard for sword lessons. She'd make him swing a wooden blade until his arms ached, or run those weird exercises—push-ups, sprints, balances on one foot—that left him groaning.
"Aeon, a strong magician needs a strong body," she'd insist, her voice fierce but laced with that clingy affection, her eyes softening as she ruffled his hair. He didn't like the sweat or the bruises much, but her pride when he landed a good strike? That made his chest swell with a warm, brotherly glow, even if he'd rather be brewing chaos in Hera's shop.
All that training had changed him, too. At four, he felt stronger than any kid his age—like Mike, who was a year older but now looked smaller, frailer. In their weekly spars, Aeon could pin him easily, dodging with a grin while Mike huffed in frustration.
It wasn't just physical; his past-life memories, once fuzzy dreams like broken scenes from a forgotten play, grew sharper. Earth—its towering cities, humming machines, the branding concept he'd shared with Mother—felt vivid now.
He recalled novels of heroes and worlds, books on science that made Engora's low tech seem baffling. Who he was back then? Still hidden, like a locked chest, but emotions and experiences teased at the edges, promising to flood back soon. The thought sent a thrill through him, dramatic and light all at once—like uncovering a hidden spell that could rewrite everything.
Engora itself puzzled him. Earth's history barely reached fifteen centuries, yet it had birthed flying machines and glowing screens.
Here, books in Mother's collection spoke of ten-thousand-year dynasties, pages still crisp as if time itself respected magic. But despite all that history, people still relied on firewood and manual craft.
He paused mid-run, the contradiction tickling him—how could a world of miracles be so slow to change?
Homes relied on fireplaces and manual labor, except theirs—where runes powered lights and heated water, all crafted by Mother's skilled hands. "Why aren't these common, Mommy?" he'd asked once, wide-eyed. Her reply lingered: "Runes are costly, spark. Materials fade, and recharging them takes rare essence.
Only the rich or nobles can afford it—and even then, they wear out unless you use treasures that could buy kingdoms." It made him ache with curiosity, a dramatic pull toward unlocking those secrets himself.
Money here was another oddity, nothing like Earth's simple bills. Copper, silver, gold coins ruled, with exchanges shifting monthly by the Merchant Guild—like a central bank crossed with a commerce empire. A hundred coppers might equal one silver, but it varied: sometimes 110, sometimes 90, announced in grand decrees that merchants grumbled over every month on town square.
The Guild mediated disputes, crushed copycats, and ensured fair trade. Then there were magic stones, shimmering crystals used for big deals, cultivation, alchemy, or runes. Rare as they were precious, they hummed with power Aeon craved—tonight's promise making his pulse quicken.
A cold wind swept through as he neared home, tugging at his tunic and carrying the faint scent of damp earth and distant rain. Aeon shuddered and hugged his arms close. "Winter's close," he muttered, breath misting in the air.
The seasons in Engora never eased into one another—they collided. Summer blazed with cruel heat, Rainy drowned the land in endless storms, and Winter bit with a merciless chill. There were no neat months like Earth's January to December. Instead, people divided time by moods of the world itself: Early Winter, Mid Winter, Peak Winter, and End Winter—each lasting thirty-five long days.
A full Engoran year stretched sixty days longer than Earth's, and even a single day felt drawn out, twenty-eight hours of sun and moonlight that often left him yawning by what locals called "nightfall." But stranger still was the sky itself. The sun and the twin moons were no celestial orbs at all—they were divine graces, eternal gifts of the gods said to pour light across all Engora at once. When one region basked in daylight, the rest of the world did too.
Aeon often tried to make sense of that, to map the logic behind divine light and planetary motion, but the thought only left his head spinning. "How does that even work…" he whispered, grinning faintly at his own confusion. Gods were real here—temples swore to their whispers, miracles walked the streets—and yet, to Aeon, it was just another grand mystery waiting to be unraveled.
Finally, the house came into view, its rune-carved door glowing faintly in welcome. Aeon pushed it open, a grin splitting his face—only for a fluffy blur to launch at him. "Micee!" Micro squeaked, scampering up his leg and onto his shoulder, nuzzling his cheek with whiskery affection.
Aeon's heart melted, laughing as he scratched the Mikka's emerald-furred head. "Missed you too, buddy! Guard the garden well?" Micro nodded vigorously, his tiny paws gesturing proudly, filling Aeon with a warm, familial glow.
Before he could say more, strong arms scooped him up. "Aeon! You're back!" Essa cried, crushing him in one of her fierce hugs, her voice bubbling with emotional warmth.
She pinched his cheeks lightly, her eyes sparkling with that clingy adoration, like he was her greatest treasure. "Missed you, little bro. No new scrapes today?" Aeon wriggled, giggling despite the dramatic ache in his ribs from her squeeze. "Sis, can't breathe! And no—well, maybe one tiny prank..."
He glanced around the cozy room, runes flickering softly on the walls, the scent of herbs lingering. But Mother wasn't there. No orange hair glowing like fairy fire, no soft smile waiting. Worry twisted in his gut, light mischief giving way to a deeper shadow.
"Where's Mommy? She should be back by now…" he asked, voice small. Essa's smile faltered.
Outside, the wind picked up, carrying the scent of rain and distant thunder. Aeon's heart hammered—what if something had gone wrong? What if the merchants—
A figure appeared down the path, haloed in sunset glow. His breath caught—Mother. Relief flooded through him as she waved, her smile tired but knowing.
____________
As the sun bled into the horizon and Engora twin moons climbed to claim the sky, the lands beyond the quiet town began to stir.
Far along the rain-slick road, three carriages cut through the mist, wheels whispering over stone. No banners marked their allegiance, no lanterns lit their path. Only faint glimmers of enchanted steel flashed beneath the veils that hid them.
They moved with the silence of purpose — swift, deliberate, unseen — heading toward Veloria, where destiny's next spark awaited.