Rain whispered over the plains of Phantasia, soft and silver. Each droplet shimmered faintly with Aether, turning puddles into mirrors that reflected a thousand stars.
At the edge of the village, the Glassfield glowed faintly under the storm—a meadow of crystalline fragments left from Leandros's experiments. The grass there no longer swayed with the wind. It sang. Each blade resonated gently, producing a sound too pure to belong to the mortal world.
Leandros stood among them, cloak drawn tight, his breath fogging in the cool dawn air. Around him, hundreds of bubbles drifted lazily—small, glimmering orbs pulsing like heartbeat lights. They didn't burst in the rain; instead, they absorbed it, growing brighter with every drop.
He extended a hand, watching as one of the orbs hovered just above his palm. Within it, the reflection of the storm twisted like a living painting.
"You're listening, aren't you?" he murmured. "You understand more than I do…"
The bubble quivered, then pulsed softly.He smiled faintly. "That's what I thought."
From the hill overlooking the meadow, a figure approached, his cloak glinting with the sigil of the Arcane Guild—a spiral eye encircled by three stars.
[Scene transition – cinematic cut]
Inside the tavern that evening, the fire crackled, and rain pattered against the windows. The villagers gathered close, trading news and laughter. In the corner, Leandros nursed a cup of herbal tea, lost in thought.
The door creaked open. A stranger entered—tall, with silver-rimmed glasses and travel-stained robes. He carried no weapon, only a satchel heavy with scrolls. His gaze scanned the room until it settled on Leandros.
He smiled faintly. "You must be the boy of the Glassfield."
Leandros blinked. "I'm… Leandros."
The man bowed politely. "Eryndor Valen, Scholar of Glasslight, Third Circle of the Guild."He drew out a small crystalline device, its surface etched with runes. "I've come a long way to confirm a rumor."
Leandros frowned. "Rumor?"
"That you've done the impossible."Eryndor leaned closer, voice lowering to a whisper. "That you've made emotion obey form."
Leandros's heart stuttered. The scholar's words sounded absurd, yet perfectly precise.He swallowed. "I only—experiment. With bubbles."
Eryndor chuckled softly. "So did the first mages with flame."
He set the crystalline instrument on the table. Within its core shimmered a reflection—a recording, a memory of the Glassfield's song. The scholar watched it for a moment, then said quietly:"The Guild teaches that Arcana flows through patterns. Symbols. Equations. But your bubbles… they move through meaning. That's art, not structure."
He leaned forward, eyes sharp now."Tell me, Leandros. What were you thinking when the Glassfield was born?"
Leandros hesitated, looking down at his cup."I wasn't thinking," he said softly. "I was… feeling. I just wanted something that lasted. Something that wouldn't break."
Eryndor's eyes softened, as though he'd expected that answer—and feared it.
"Then the world responded," he murmured. "And that, my boy, is what terrifies the Guild most."
[Cutaway – the scholar's memory]
Outside, lightning forked across the sky, illuminating the Glassfield in a wash of silver.Eryndor stood there later, alone, rain drenching his cloak as he observed the crystalline plain.
Each step he took echoed softly—notes of light and vibration, singing back at him. The air was thick with raw Arcana. The very laws of reality bent, humming faintly as though unsure of themselves.
This shouldn't exist, he thought. Not without guidance. Not without focus.
Yet at the same time, he felt awe—an emotion so pure it silenced the storm.
The boy didn't shape this place.He dreamed it.
Back in the tavern, the candles guttered as the storm intensified. Eryndor turned to Leandros again.
"I want you to come with me," he said. "To the Guild Citadel. You'd be safe there. Trained. Honored."
Leandros looked toward the window, where faint lights of his floating bubbles glowed against the rain."Safe," he repeated quietly. "But would I still be… me?"
The scholar hesitated. "Power demands compromise."
Leandros smiled faintly. "Then maybe I'm not ready for power."
He stood, leaving his half-empty cup on the table. "But thank you for coming. Really."
Eryndor said nothing as the boy walked out into the rain, vanishing into the glow of his own creations. The scholar stared after him for a long time, then exhaled and whispered to himself, almost mournfully:
"The Guild will come, Leandros. Whether you're ready or not."
[Final cinematic scene]
Outside, the Glassfield pulsed faintly, its colors shifting in rhythm with Leandros's heartbeat.He walked through it slowly, the rain fading as he passed.
Dozens—no, hundreds—of bubbles rose into the sky, trailing faint ribbons of light. Within them, tiny reflections shimmered: villages, rivers, faces, stars.
They were fragments of memory—moments of beauty the world had forgotten.
Leandros raised his hand, letting one drift to his fingertips.He whispered, "The world listens… and I'll learn how to listen back."
The bubble pulsed once, then drifted upward, joining the others in their slow ascent.
High above Phantasia, they burst silently, scattering light across the heavens—and for one instant, it looked as though the stars themselves were smiling.