Silas stood his ground before the immense dragon, his chin raised in defiance. "You talk of saviors and promises. I bow to no one. I am subservient to nothing but my own will."
The dragon's low chuckle vibrated through the very rock. "Do you? You led a rebellion because your heart was broken. That is not a master of his own will; that is a slave to his emotions. And your power... you think it was a gift of chance? You sought it. You made a deal in the dark for a fraction of strength, not to claim your birthright, but to run from the terrifying whole of it."
The words struck a nerve so deep and hidden that Silas physically recoiled. A flash of memory—a desperate, secret pact in the dead of night—threatened to surface. He shoved it down, grasping for a defense.
"That's not true! I had friends. A cause. People who believed in me!"
"They believed in the weapon you presented, not the boy hiding behind it," the dragon countered, her molten eyes narrowing. "Shall we see what your 'friends' believe now, while you are away?"
She exhaled a shimmering mist that coalesced into a vision in the air between them. It showed Macy, Dove, and Keith sitting with the grandfather ancestor. They weren't arguing. They were listening intently, their faces etched with worry and doubt as the ancestor spoke,of the prophecies of destruction and lies about the "King of Endings." As they discuss amongst themselves if it really was Silas.
Silas's breath caught in his throat. The fear of the dragon being able to prove her point with devastating clarity.
Silas watched, frozen, as the spectral vision unfolded before him. He saw the three of them—Macy, Dove, Keith—his chosen family, listening to the ancestors' lies.
"During the Great Severance of 1752," the grandmother ancestor explained, her voice trembling, "a cataclysmic surge of energy erupted from Earth itself. It severed the ley lines, drained the world dry. Any supernatural being trapped there was doomed. Earth became... a graveyard. A silent, mundane shell."
The horror on his friends' faces was a physical blow to Silas. But before they could process it, another grandmother spirit rushed in, her form flickering with panic. "The wards! Someone has breached the forbidden cavern! The dragon's prison!"
A fearful silence fell. The grandfather ancestor looked around the circle, his eyes wide. "Silas," he whispered, the name an accusation.
"He's not doing anything wrong!" Keith roared, jumping to his feet in defense of his friend.
"Isn't he?" the grandfather snarled, his patience snapping. He turned his fury on Keith. "That ritual he called you for? The one that trapped you here? He told you it was to 'block ancestral magic for a while,' a simple sabotage. He didn't tell you it was a one-way conduit of immense power, did he? That it had a more than equal chance of incinerating the casters? He promised you glory, but he never guaranteed you'd be alive to see it! He used your loyalty as a shield for his own ambition!"
In the cavern, Silas couldn't bear it anymore. "Don't believe him!" he shouted at the vision, his voice cracking. "I would never have let anything happen to you! I had a plan! I—"
But in the vision, a distraught Dove stood up, his voice small and broken. "But the 'King of Endings'... he murdered his father. Didn't he? That's what the prophecy means, right? That Silas... kills us all?"
The question hung in the air, a truth and a lie twisted together. It was the final straw. The fight went out of Silas. The anger was replaced by a profound, weary sorrow.
"Turn it off," he whispered to the dragon, his voice hollow.
As the vision faded, he saw Macy, her face a mask of determination, grab both Keith and Dove's arms. "Enough. We find Silas. Now. We get the truth from him ourselves."
The dragon obliged, and the image vanished, leaving Silas alone in the dark with the echo of his friend's heartbreak and the chilling knowledge that they were now coming for him, not as rescuers, but as interrogators.
---
Consciousness returned to Corbin not with the gentle warmth of sunrise through his silk curtains, but with the sharp, honest scent of pine wood and baking bread. He was lying in a narrow bed, a rough-spun wool blanket pulled up to his chin. For a single, blissful moment, the crushing titles of "General" and "Livian Heir" meant nothing. The only sound was the clucking of chickens outside and the distant laughter of a child.
The door creaked open, and a small boy with wide, reverent eyes peered in. "You're awake! Mama said you fell from the sky last night! Well, not fell, but... poofed! Right into our carrot patch!"
Corbin sat up, his head throbbing dully. The memories of the previous night—the altar, Circe's fiery decree, the shattering bottle—crashed back into him. He had teleported. Not to his chambers, but in a raw, uncontrolled burst of magic, he had fled across the realm. He must have instinctively sought a place that felt safe, landing him here, in this humble village house.
He managed a weak smile for the boy. "Even heroes need a day off, don't they? Seems my magic decided I needed a proper vacation."
Downstairs, the family treated him like a miraculous guest, piling his plate with eggs and fresh bread. But as he moved through the small, cozy home, a disquieting sense of familiarity settled over him. The way the morning light hit the worn floorboards in the hallway, the specific sound of the third step from the top groaning underfoot—it was all tinged with a haunting déjà vu. It felt like trying to remember a dream upon waking; the essence was there, but the details melted away when he grasped for them.
As he descended the stairs to the main room, the warm atmosphere vanished, replaced by a wave of palpable fear. The family was huddled in the corner, the mother clutching her son, all of them staring in terror at the man who filled the doorway.
He was a statue of disciplined power—tall, muscular, with skin the color of rich mahogany and shoulder-length dark curls that framed a stern, strikingly handsome face. He was dressed in practical travel leathers, and everything about him screamed "soldier."
His serious eyes immediately found Corbin. "Lord Corbin," he said, his voice a low, calm baritone that nonetheless carried authority. "I am Sub-General Ciro. You disappeared from your estate. I came to find you."
Corbin felt a flash of irritation, quickly smothered by a deeper weariness. "You're scaring my hosts, Sub-General," he said, his tone light but firm. He made a subtle, graceful gesture with his hand. A shimmer of energy, like a heat haze, passed over both of them. "There. A little 'no-tracker' spell. Just for today. Consider yourself officially off the clock." A genuine, wry smile touched his lips. "Looks like you're stuck on an impromptu vacation with your future commanding officer. In the tiniest, most far-flung village you've ever seen."
Ciro's stern expression didn't change, but a single, dark eyebrow arched a fraction of an inch. He gave a slow, deliberate nod. "As you wish, my lord."
Later, dressed in borrowed commoner clothes—rough trousers and a simple tunic that felt strangely liberating—they walked through the village. Corbin, playing the part of a carefree tourist, insisted on immersing them in the local culture.
"Come on, Ciro, live a little!" he said, handing the Sub-General a ripe, red apple from a market stall. Their fingers brushed during the exchange, a fleeting touch that sent a small, unexpected spark through Corbin's hand. He chuckled, covering his surprise. "See? Not poisoned. Just delicious."
Ciro took a dutiful bite, his eyes never leaving Corbin, watching him with an intensity that was more curious than disciplinary.
They helped an elderly woman mend a fence. As Corbin hammered a nail, a memory flickered—a smaller hand holding a toy hammer, another boy laughing beside him. He faltered for a second, the hammer slipping. Ciro's hand was there in an instant, steadying his, their shoulders brushing. "Careful, my lord," Ciro murmured, his voice closer than expected.
"Distracted by the scenery," Corbin quipped, his heart beating a little faster.
At the village well, as Corbin hauled up a heavy bucket, the strain in his muscles felt eerily familiar. He looked over at Ciro, who was rolling up his sleeves, revealing powerful forearms. The sight caused a peculiar flip in Corbin's stomach. "Bet you never thought your duties would include manual labor," Corbin teased.
"Unexpected," Ciro replied, a ghost of a smile finally touching his lips. "But not unpleasant."
Throughout the day, the déjà vu was a constant, silent companion. A specific gnarled tree on a hilltop made his breath catch. The way the wind chimes sounded in the square echoed in a forgotten chamber of his mind. He kept up a stream of light, playful banter, but it was a shield. Beneath the surface, the man who had erased his own past was slowly, surely, beginning to remember. And the presence of the quiet, watchful Sub-General beside him was becoming the only anchor in the unsettling, yet strangely comforting, storm.
---
The dragon's words hung in the air, a verdict on his friends' betrayal. Silas felt the walls of his anger closing in, the only defense he had left.
"Emotions are a paradox, child," the dragon, El, rumbled, her voice echoing with a ancient sadness. "They can be your greatest weakness or the source of your ultimate strength. You feel their doubt as a personal failure. That is the weakness. The strength would be to understand it."
"I don't need them," Silas interrupted, his voice brittle. "I don't need any of them. I have others. An entire rebellion—"
El sighed, a sound like a mountain crumbling. "You place your faith in factions. Look at them."
A vision shimmered in the air. Not of his friends, but of the rebellion itself. In a dusty camp, a werewolf and a vampire were locked in a snarling brawl while others looked on, choosing sides. In another corner, a group of witches huddled apart, casting suspicious glances at the non-magical rebels. It was not an army united by a cause, but a powder keg of old hatreds and new fears, held together only by the ghost of his leadership.
"Stop it," Silas commanded, his fists clenching. The vision vanished. "So they're not perfect? What does that prove? That I should trust you? You, who's chained up in a cave? If people are flawed for being weak, what does that make you?"
A sudden, rich laughter echoed through the cavern. It wasn't El's. It was familiar, snarky, and deeply amused. The Shadow's voice materialized from the darkness. A moment later, El joined in, her deep, rumbling chuckle harmonizing with the Shadow's.
Silas spun around, confusion overriding his anger. "Why are you laughing? And since when are you both here?"
The Shadow's form coalesced into a vague, smoky shape near the dragon's head. "Oh, little storm. You are so determined to see the cracks in everything else, you refuse to see the whole picture. We laugh because your logic is beautifully, tragically circular."
The Shadow gestured with a wisp of darkness toward the dragon. "You ask what her flaw is? Her 'crime' was extending her hand to help a people she thought were lost. She trusted. That is not a weakness born of malice, but of compassion. A concept you're currently rejecting."
Silas stared, the connection dawning on him. "You know each other."
"El and I go back," the Shadow said, its tone implying epochs. El nodded her great head, her molten eyes fixed on Silas.
"Tell me, Son of Darkness ," El said, her voice losing its laughter and becoming grave. "What is the story of this realm? How did Aetheria come to be?"
Silas stood straighter, reciting the lesson every witch child learned. "It was created by our ancestors. A safe haven, a paradise for witchkind, built with great magic. It was accidentally severed from Earth and lost for thousands of years until we rediscovered it."
El's laughter returned, but it was harsh and bitter now. "A safe haven! You tell a colonizer's tale and call it history. This was not created. It was conquered. This was sacred dragon land. The witches attacked us to take it, driven by fear of a prophecy about a mass extinction of magic."
She snorted, a puff of smoke rising from her nostrils. "A fear that was justified, it seems, given what you just learned happened on Earth in 1752. But it was also pride! Other great races—the fae, the sirens—had their own realms. The witches wanted one too, forgetting their original purpose."
"Original purpose?" Silas asked, the foundation of his identity beginning to tremble.
"You were created," El stated, her voice ringing with finality. "Forged by older powers to be guardians, to protect the mortal world from demons. You forgot your mission. The ancestors boast they won the war against the demons? It was by a sliver's chance, a stalemate that your people spun into a victory song."
She leaned forward, the chains groaning. "And for their treachery, for breaking their covenant with the land and its true guardians, the last of my people laid a curse as they fell. They severed this realm from Earth, ensuring the witches would be trapped in the paradise they stole. And when your kind eventually broke that curse, you found you could not return to Earth, because of the severed ley lines. You were trapped in your own trophy."
Her gaze was full of a grief that spanned millennia. "I was the goddess of dragons. I failed my people because I showed mercy. I let the desperate witches in, and they repaid me with chains and oblivion, locked away by the very ancestors whose lies you defend."
Silas stood in silence, the story of heroes and haven he had always believed in crumbling to dust, replaced by a far darker, more real history of theft, fear, and a fallen goddess's tragic
---
The village sunset painted the sky in hues of orange and purple. Corbin stood silently, watching it, with Ciro a solid, quiet presence beside him.
"I'll get water," Ciro said, his voice a gentle rumble before he turned and left.
As Corbin watched the light fade, a flicker of movement caught his eye. A small child in a dark, hooded cloak stood at the edge of the square, face obscured. A strange pull, an instinct, made Corbin follow. The child led him past the last house, toward the wilder brush at the village's edge.
There, a venomous ridge-back snake was coiled, poised to strike the child. Without a second thought, Corbin flicked his wrist. A pinpoint of cosmic energy stunned the creature, sending it slithering away.
"Are you alright?" Corbin asked, approaching the child.
The child didn't speak, only turned and walked back toward the backyard of the house where Corbin was staying. Puzzled, Corbin followed. The yard, with its ancient, gnarled apple tree, struck him with another wave of intense déjà vu.
The child finally sat on a large root beneath the tree and spoke, its voice oddly clear and mature. "You lived here once. Before you were ten. What do you remember?"
Corbin chuckled softly, humoring the strange kid. "Bits and pieces. It's all a bit fuzzy, like a dream. I remember this tree. My mother… she was happier here. Less strict."
"Who did you play with?" the child pressed.
"Oh, by myself mostly. Imaginary friends." The words felt hollow as he said them.
"No one else? No brother?"
Corbin's smile tightened. "No. No brother. Not then."
"Are you sure?" the child's voice was insistent. "What about the forts? Who helped you build the fort by the creek?"
A flash of memory, vivid and warm: two boys, laughing, dragging branches. "Silas and I—" Corbin began, then stopped dead. His blood ran cold. He forced a laugh, shaky and nervous. "A funny mistake. A trick of the light. I never had a brother named Silas back then."
The child shot to its feet, small fists clenched. The air grew cold. "Liar!" the voice was no longer that of a child, but sharp and ancient. "You lie to the world, but worst of all, you lie to yourself! You would rather live a broken half-life than face the truth!"
Enraged and terrified, Corbin lunged forward and yanked back the hood.
Staring back at him was his own face. The face of a ten-year-old boy, his eyes full of a painful honesty. The boy then turned and ran toward the back door of the house. And there, waiting for him, was another boy with long blonde hair and a mischievous grin—a young Silas. A man and a woman, their faces blurry at first but snapping into sharp, loving focus—their parents—stepped out and wrapped both boys in a hug.
The world shattered.
"NO!" Corbin screamed, a raw, guttural sound of absolute denial.
The scream brought Ciro running, but he was too late. An invisible wave of force—the repressed memories violently breaking free—exploded from Corbin. He crumpled to the ground as a decade of stolen life flooded his mind: breakfasts, lessons, scraped knees, secrets whispered in the dark, a father's laughter, a mother's lullaby, a brother's hand in his.
And with the memories, every cryptic thing Silas had ever said finally made sense. "It's good you don't remember him. You wouldn't love the monster he became." It wasn't a taunt. It was a shield. A warning from a brother trying to protect him from the pain of what he had been forced to forget.
The psychic backlash of the memory restoration shot across the realm.
Miles away, in the Livian manor library, Celeste Livian cried out, clutching her head as a searing pain erupted behind her eyes. The elegant world of her present dissolved into the simple, painful love of a past she had forgotten. She collapsed, sobbing, as staff rushed to her side.
Back in the village, Corbin lay on the ground, weeping uncontrollably, utterly broken. Ciro reached him, his own stern face etched with concern. Without a word, the large man knelt and gathered his broken general into his arms, lifting him with a strength that was more than just physical, holding him together as the pieces of his soul finally, agonizingly, reassembled.