The rain had stopped hours ago, leaving the forest soaked in its wake. Mist hung low, weaving between the broken trees and burned earth — remnants of the battle that had split the world with lightning and shadow.
The smell of char lingered like a memory that refused to fade.
Lucien stood quietly at the edge of the ruined road, his cloak torn, his breath steady. His violet eyes glowed faintly in the half-light as he watched the small figure trembling before him — the midwife, her hands still shaking, her eyes red from tears and exhaustion.
She had run until her legs could no longer carry her. Now, at last, she faced the man who had saved her from Rauth's wrath.
Lucien's voice broke the silence, calm and low.
"Where is the child?"
The question carried no threat, no cruelty — only inevitability.
The woman hesitated, clutching at her torn shawl. "I… I left him," she whispered. "At an orphanage, in the outskirts beyond the hills. No one knows who he is… or where he came from. I made sure of it."
Lucien closed his eyes for a brief moment — perhaps in relief, perhaps in sorrow. The wind stirred the ashes at his feet.
"Good," he said finally. "You did well."
The midwife's lip trembled. "Will he be safe there?"
Lucien looked toward the horizon, where faint light broke through the clouds — the first dawn in days. His expression softened, though his eyes remained distant.
"For a time," he murmured. "But the world does not forget its debts. And gods… do not forgive their thieves."
He reached into his cloak, pulling out a small pouch heavy with silver and coins. He pressed it into her hands.
"Take this," he said. "Leave the kingdom. Go as far as you can — past the mountains, past the rivers. Change your name. The queen's reach grows longer each day."
The woman hesitated. "And what about you?"
Lucien smiled faintly, though the expression did not reach his eyes. "I live in shadows. And shadows are not easily caught."
He turned to leave, his form already dissolving into darkness. But before he vanished completely, his voice echoed softly through the mist:
"When the child awakens… when his eyes open to what he is — the world will tremble again. Pray you are far away when that day comes."
Then he was gone.
The forest swallowed the sound of his departure, leaving only the whisper of wind and the trembling heartbeat of the woman who now stood alone.
She looked down at the pouch in her hands. For a moment, she considered throwing it away — as if by doing so she could reject the fate now tied to her. But hunger and survival were cruel masters.
So she turned, walking toward the rising sun, her figure small against the vast horizon.
And thus, one more witness disappeared into the folds of history.
Days Later — The Palace of Mistfill
The throne room was a place of grandeur and quiet cruelty. The banners of House Valcrest hung proudly from the walls — gold and crimson silk woven with lightning patterns that shimmered faintly in the torchlight.
At the center of the hall, beneath the carved sigil of the conquering serpent, stood Queen Elira Valcrest, her beauty untouched by time, her gaze sharp as polished steel.
The air trembled faintly — not from wind, but from the hum of restrained power.
Before her kneeled Rauth, his armor scorched, his left hand still wrapped in linen from his last battle. The faint scent of ozone followed him wherever he went.
"You failed me," the queen said softly. Her voice carried no emotion, but the silence that followed was unbearable.
Rauth lowered his head. "We tracked the midwife across three provinces, Your Majesty. We cornered her — but Lucien intervened."
The queen's fingers tightened against the armrest of her throne. "Lucien," she repeated, the name dripping with venom. "The king's loyal hound."
"He was protecting the woman," Rauth continued. "I believe the child was already hidden by then. We searched every orphanage, every temple, every farmhouse. The trail went cold."
The queen stood slowly. Her movements were graceful — too graceful, almost unnatural. Her long gown shimmered faintly as if woven with lightning threads.
Her eyes, a cold azure hue, burned with restrained fury. "A child. A single wailing infant, and you let him vanish beneath my very nose."
Rauth bowed lower. "The pulse of power disappeared completely after that day. It's as if the gods themselves erased his existence."
For a moment, the queen said nothing. Then, in a voice so quiet it felt like a whisper to the soul, she spoke:
"Then we will find him again. Even if we must search every corner of this cursed world."
She raised her hand. Lightning flickered at her fingertips, crawling like living veins of light.
"Summon the Conjurers of the Court — every one from the Awakened to the Conjuring Stage. Tell them their queen commands a hunt. The thief's blood will not taint this world again."
The Great Search
And so, the search began.
For months, the kingdom became a living storm.
Bands of conjurers scoured every town and border, their elements reshaping the land itself. Lakes froze overnight, forests burned from stray lightning, and mountains shook from reckless power unleashed in the name of obedience.
The Queen's Vanguard — five of the most skilled Stage Two Conjurers — led the hunts, each representing a different element: lightning, frost, flame, shadow, and bone.
Rumors spread like wildfire.
Villages whispered of children born with strange auras being taken away. Of mothers who swore their infants cried lightning. Of priests claiming to see omens in the sky — storms forming the shape of an infant's face before vanishing into silence.
Each rumor fanned the queen's paranoia, her sleepless nights filled with visions of fire and betrayal.
She saw her throne cracking. She saw the heavens split by gold light.
And always — always — she saw the child's face.
The one who should never have been born.
But even storms must fade.
Months bled into years, and the world moved on. The conjurers returned to their citadels. The queen's fury turned to silence, her orders lost in the weariness of obsession.
The High Lord Valcrest, her father, urged patience.
"My daughter," he said one night, his voice cold and deliberate, "even the gods cannot hunt what the world has chosen to forget. Let the years bury him. When he awakens, he will come to us — as they always do."
The queen said nothing, but the tremor in her hands betrayed her rage.
Still, she obeyed.
The order to hunt was rescinded. The realm exhaled.
And quietly, the world began to forget.
Ten Years Later
Mistfill had changed.
The towers still gleamed under the moonlight, but time had worn the edges of its splendor. Markets bustled with trade again, laughter returned to the streets, and children played near fountains that glowed with faint magic.
But beneath that surface peace, the air was still heavy — as though the land itself remembered something it could not name.
The orphanage at the edge of the northern frontier had grown too. Its once-crumbling walls had been mended, its garden now filled with the sound of life.
And among the orphans, there was one boy — quiet, observant, with hair as dark as ink and eyes that never seemed to decide what color they were.
He was small for his age, but there was something about him — a stillness, a depth — that made even the caretakers uneasy.
They called him Aren.
He had been left at their doorstep ten years ago, wrapped in a blanket and bearing a silver necklace.
No one knew who had brought him. No one asked.
But sometimes, when the storms rolled across the sky, the other children swore they saw something strange in his gaze — a faint flicker of light, like the echo of lightning caught behind his pupils.
And when the thunder roared, he would look toward the heavens — not in fear, but as if listening to something calling from far away.
Something that had not yet forgotten him.
Time had done what it always did — it dulled pain, buried truths, and turned memories into myths.
But some destinies cannot be erased.
In the depths of creation, where laws older than gods themselves sleep, the faint pulse of a long-lost soul stirred again.
The world did not yet know it, but the age of peace was ending.
And when the boy called Aren would one day open his eyes to what he truly was —
The gods would tremble once more.