It was a perfectly ordinary morning at the Rosaire Clan Compound — the kind of morning that feels small and precise, like the turning of a page. Sunbeams lanced through the high eaves and fell in neat, warming strips across the courtyard, catching on polished metal, braided ropes, and the pale dust that rose with every footfall. Somewhere among the tile roofs and bamboo fences a rooster crowed once and then was still. For a moment the compound breathed with the lazy rhythm of routine. Then a disturbance cut through it — not loud, but the kind that hangs in the air and makes people listen: the sudden, unmistakable absence of a person where they ought to be.
A stern voice split the quiet. "Ezekiel, have you seen where your youngest brother is?"
Ezekiel halted mid-practice, the world narrowing to his father's face. He was a tall young man, muscle coiled and ready, hand still wrapped around the hilt of his sword as if the weapon were an extension of his arm. He shook his head, quick and sharp. "I don't know, father." The word left him steady, but the way his jaw tightened gave away the strain.
Kairos' expression folded into a worried crease that the early light could not soften. "I see…" Ezekiel trailed off, the sentence dissolving when he noticed his father's brow. He tried to soothe the tension with the sort of calm only practiced words can produce. "What's wrong, father? I'm sure Etheria is only feeding the strays again. You know how much of a softie he is."
For a moment Kairos said nothing but exhaled. The sigh was small — the kind that carries the weight of many unsaid things. "That boy…" he muttered under his breath, then turned and walked away, shoulders slightly slumped as if the weight of his worry sat physically upon them. The movement, small and human, made Ezekiel pause entirely; it snapped him out of his training cadence.
Ezekiel exchanged a quick, worried look with his younger brother who stood nearby, only to find that the younger had already thrown himself back into practice. The dummy at his feet lay in ruin: limbs splintered, stuffing yanked out in ragged strips. His fists were raw and nicked by broken wooden splinters, yet he continued pounding, a grin stretched across his face that didn't reach his eyes. The sight tugged something like guilt and amusement across Ezekiel's features.
He turned to find Ashenor — older, gruffer, the sort of man whose disinterest was a cultivated weapon. "Ashenor, have you seen Etheria?" Ezekiel asked, trying to keep the question casual but failing; the edge in his voice betrayed him.
"What do you want, Zeke? How would I know where that brat went?" Ashenor snapped in his typical gruff voice, though a quick glance at the ruined dummy earned him a reproving side-eye from Ezekiel.
A light, teasing voice cut through then, clean and bored. "It's only seven in the morning, why do you already sound so angry…?" Rune's answer slipped out before he even looked up from whatever small task he was pretending to do. Ashenor snorted. "Good morning to you too, Rune," was all he offered.
Rune didn't even bother to acknowledge the destroyed practice dummy; his attention settled on the question. "What's with all the ruckus?" he asked dryly, eyebrows arched.
Ezekiel replied simply and directly. "Father was asking about Etheria's whereabouts."
Ashenor, still picking tiny slivers of wood from his fists, shrugged. "How long has he been missing anyway?" His tone was absentminded, almost casual — the kind of answer that tries to keep trouble at arm's length. "Since this morning, but I'm sure he's fine."
Rune's eyes pinched at that. Something in the way the older brother said "I'm sure" didn't convince him. He pushed away from the wall and moved toward the back gates of the compound as if the thought had a physical pull. "Where do you think you're going?" Ezekiel called after him, narrowing his eyes in concern.
"To find Etheria," Rune said simply, and there was no argument in it. He could have said anything else — wait, call, search later — but his feet were already moving.
Outside, the sun felt obstinate, hanging high and bright without concession. It poured light across the gentle forests that ringed the compound, catching on leaves and spiderweb and the dew that still clung to the underbrush. The forest itself seemed alive with small motion: birds flitting through branches, the quick rustle of a squirrel, insects humming like the soft static of summer. Those living things kept the forest breathing; their noises stitched the quiet into something that felt less empty.
Rune muttered a silent curse at the heat; the sun's intensity was sharper than he liked. He ignored it, folding it away with the same methodical precision he used to block out anything that might slow him down. The matter at hand was smaller than the forest and larger than his own impatience: Etheria had gone somewhere, and Rune's mind narrowed into a single purpose until the rest of the world blurred at the edges.
Thirteen years old. Rune reminded himself of the fact as if repetition might summon reason. That little thirteen-year-old could not have wandered too far from the compound. He would have stayed near the familiar paths — the ones where one could trace the scent of home like a map.
He stepped onto the soft dirt path at the edge of the compound and, like someone reading a book from the middle, quickly found the small, telltale prints. The footprints were no larger than a child's and scattered with the liveliness of hesitation and sudden bursts of speed. Rune didn't pause to theorize. He followed them.
The faster he found him, the faster he could escape the relentless sun and the anxious hum building in his chest. He gathered the static of his lightning ability — a cold, concentrated energy that crawled along his skin and made the hairs on his arms prickle — and then, with a movement both practiced and sudden, he vanished. A flash ripped the air and a scatter of purple sparks fell where his boots had been, the only sign he had been there at all.
Seconds later — barely more than a breath — Rune came to a halt as a thin, familiar whistle threaded the forest sounds. It was a small, childish tune with a slightly off-key lilt that only one boy in the world could whistle that way. Rune didn't hesitate. Without wasting another second he launched himself toward the sound, every muscle and thought aligned to the single point of finding the source.
"HYAAH!" The shout tore through Rune's quiet afternoon like a flare. It was the high, ragged shriek he knew too well — that wild, triumphant sound that belonged to his youngest brother. When Rune turned, he found Etheria barreling toward him in pajamas that had seen better days: the sleeves were tugged up unevenly, the hems frayed, and a smattering of brown smudges traced across the knees where the fabric had met earth. Tiny leaves and thin twigs hung from the mop of hair that always refused to stay tame. Etheria's palms were blackened with soil and flecked with silver-gray fur; a small, scrappy Persian cat was clutched to his chest, its long coat rumpled but somehow still regal.
"Etheria—" Rune began, the single word more an attempt to steady the chaos than a reprimand. Before he could finish, the little boy's face shifted into one of those exaggerated, incredulous expressions he loved to wear when he wanted the world to notice him.
"RUNE WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?!" Etheria demanded, voice ricocheting off stone and ivy. He planted his feet, eyes wide, the cat bracing against his forearm as if it were the center of a sudden, private storm.
Rune narrowed his eyes at the question, at the volume, at the wildness. "Watch yourself," he said dryly, though the warning was half-lost under the clamor. Etheria spurned it, apparently uninterested in caution. He set the cat down as if releasing treasure; instead of bolting, the animal sat and fixed him with bright blue, unblinking eyes — a stare so calm it made the leaves overhead seem restless.
For a moment Etheria was all motion: he brushed at his pajamas with quick, impatient movements, flinging off clumps of dirt and detritus. He inspected his sleeves, rubbed the back of his hands, and tried to dislodge a stubborn leaf from behind one ear. He was absorbed in the task of appearing neat, as if tidiness could validate whatever misadventure had left him in this state.
Rune watched him do all of this with the steady, slightly exasperated patience of someone who had seen the same routine play out a thousand times. It wasn't until Rune reached forward and grabbed a handful of the hood on Etheria's pajama top that the boy registered him anew. Rune's fingers tightened and his grip was firm but not cruel — a tether to bring the smaller body back toward the compound.
Etheria wriggled, protesting in that theatrical tenor he favored. "B-but Rune!" He whined, making his voice wobble on the edge between complaint and performance. "No buts," Rune cut in, clipped and immovable. Etheria threw himself into the argument anyway. "But big brother! I just found a random gate, in the middle of nowhere!"
Rune didn't even blink. "That's just your imagination," he said, voice flat with the authority of someone who had mapped every inch of those woods and then some. "I've travelled through these woods more than you and I've never seen any kind of gates other than the compound's."
Etheria's excitement didn't dim immediately. He searched Rune's face for the kind of disbelief that might turn into curiosity, for any crack in the armor that might let him stay and explain. But the persian cat — the reason for half his scramble, the proof in paw and fur — had slipped away in the small commotion, gone before Etheria could point to it and declare, "See?" Only the faintest rustle and a blink of sapphire eyes remained, vanishing between roots and grass.
The dismissal landed heavy. Etheria's shoulders drooped in a small, theatrical slump; the pout that followed was almost comically effective. Rune, unphased, hauled him along. They moved through the familiar path back to the compound in a procession that was mostly Rune's trudging and Etheria's tiny, occasionally kicking steps. The woods around them were quite safe for birds and the distant hum of the compound's life — the steady noise of a place that didn't bother with secrets.
They reached the compound gate and were met almost immediately by Ashenor, who had been on the couch, watching TV, having a relaxing break from training. He caught sight of them from a peripheral. "Did you find hi— what happened to you?" His sentence stumbled as his eyes fully took in the view, Etheria is a mess, dirtied by in the earth, the leaves, the case of someone who had obviously been somewhere they shouldn't.
Etheria was still pouting. "He was trying to catch a furball," Rune deadpanned, landing the explanation like a coin on a table. The words were flat and efficient; there was no room for the wild elaborate tale Etheria wanted to spin.
"Go wash up," Rune added, giving the boy a light, not unkind push toward the compound's bathroom. The push sent Etheria stumbling a step or two — enough to make the rescue of dignity a small, immediate project.
Grumbling and muttering under his breath, Etheria obeyed. He stomped into the bathroom and slid the door shut behind him, the glass whispering closed.
Ashenor raised a brow, fingers absently drumming against the armrest. "What got him so pissy this time?"
Rune let out a low, tired grumble, shoulders slumping as he leaned back. "Etheria. And his stupidly wild imagination." There was a pause, then a sharper edge to his tone. "He wouldn't stop rambling, wouldn't listen to reason, just kept insisting he saw something."
Ashenor snorted, the sound half-amused, half-dismissive, and turned his attention back to the flickering screen in front of him. "That kid lives in his own head." He shifted, lazily crossing one leg over the other. "So what was it this time?" he asked, a crooked smirk tugging at his lips. "Another demonic beast? Something with too many eyes and teeth?"
He was already picturing it—one of those grotesque creatures straight out of the horror comics Etheria adored, all jagged silhouettes and dripping shadows. The kind of thing a bored, overpowered brat would conjure just to get a rise out of everyone else.
Rune didn't answer right away. His fingers curled slightly, nails tapping against his sleeve as if he were choosing his words carefully. "He kept talking about… a gate."
That made Ashenor pause. The smirk faded, just a fraction, though his posture stayed relaxed. Rune noticed the shift immediately and frowned. "A gate?" he repeated, turning his head. "What?"
Ashenor didn't respond at once. His gaze drifted away from the screen, unfocused now, and he exhaled slowly through his nose. The room felt quieter, heavier, as if something unspoken had settled between them.
"Do you remember what father told us once? about a gate," Ashenor finally said. His voice was lower, stripped of its usual mockery. He didn't look at Rune as he spoke. "A strange one. Not meant to be used. Not meant to be found."
Rune straightened slightly.
"A gate leading to nowhere," Ashenor continued, jaw tightening. "Or so it was described. The final piece of protection. A separator—between this place and whatever lies beyond it." He scoffed softly, but there was no humor in it.
Silence stretched. Then Ashenor added, almost begrudgingly, "So… maybe the brat wasn't lying after all".