The world was called Elyndor, though no single tongue agreed on its pronunciation, nor did any one people claim ownership of its name. To some, it was the Living Plane. To others, the Divided Cradle. And among scholars who had devoted their lives to studying the long cycles of history, it was known more grimly as the World of Unfinished Thrones.
Elyndor was vast—far vaster than any single empire could ever hope to govern in truth. Its skies arched endlessly above three great continents, each separated by storm-churned seas and ancient ley currents that twisted navigation and devoured the unprepared. These continents, though shaped by different climates and cultures, shared one undeniable truth: power ruled all, and power was born from mana, aether, and the fragile flesh that sought to wield them.
Upon each continent stood an empire.
The Aurelian Empire dominated the western continent, its lands defined by fertile plains, ancient knightly orders, and sprawling cities where magic and science coexisted in uneasy harmony. Clockwork constructs patrolled its borders alongside battlemages, and airships—rare and costly—hovered like symbols of progress above stone spires built centuries before their time.
To the south lay the Viremont Imperium, a realm of scholars, artificers, and ruthless pragmatists. Their cities gleamed with crystalline towers and mana-forged alloys, their armies favouring precision over brute force. It was said that Viremont did not conquer lands—they absorbed them, dissecting their weaknesses until resistance became futile.
In the frozen north rose the Thalrien Dominion, an empire forged through survival rather than ambition. Its people endured endless winters, mana-saturated storms, and beasts twisted by aetherial exposure. Strength there was not a luxury but a necessity, and weakness was a death sentence delivered without malice.
Each empire governed three kingdoms, semi-autonomous territories bound by ancient accords and enforced by military might. Beneath them all existed a labyrinth of lesser lords, free cities, frontier towns, and forgotten settlements that history barely acknowledged—places where survival mattered more than banners or bloodlines.
Yet even empires bowed, in subtle ways, to powers older than crowns.
Across Elyndor, five territories stood apart from imperial borders. Lands governed not by emperors, but by the Five Great Families—ancient bloodlines whose influence rivalled nations and whose origins were entangled with mysteries deliberately erased from recorded history. Each family controlled lands of unique mana density and elemental alignment, regions where reality bent subtly out of shape and opportunity walked hand in hand with death.
Three such territories were so lethal that even the Great Families avoided them. These were known collectively as the Forbidden Lands—places where mana storms howled without warning, where beasts evolved beyond classification, and where explorers vanished without trace. Maps marked them in black ink or not at all.
It was within this immense, perilous world—balanced between wonder and annihilation—that a child was born who would not cry out in defiance of fate.
Instead, he would endure it.
The village of Harrowfen lay far from imperial capitals and noble estates. Nestled between rolling woodland and a slow, meandering river, it existed in the margins of maps and politics alike. It was a place of farmers, hunters, and craftsmen—people who measured life in seasons rather than centuries, and whose greatest ambitions were peace and survival.
On the night of the child's birth, a storm crept low across the sky.
Rain fell steadily, not violently, as if the heavens themselves were holding their breath. Lanterns flickered along the village paths, casting warm halos against the dark as villagers retreated indoors. The river swelled but did not overflow. The forest rustled with unseen movement, animals seeking shelter.
Nothing about the night appeared extraordinary.
And yet.
Within a modest stone-and-wood house near the village's edge, Elira Vane laboured in silence broken only by strained breaths and whispered prayers. Sweat clung to her brow, dark hair plastered to her temples, her hands gripping the linen sheets as though they were anchors keeping her tethered to the world.
Her husband, Caelan Vane, stood at her side, helpless in the way all men were when faced with the act of creation. A former knight who had long since set aside his armour for a quieter life, Caelan was no stranger to blood or pain. He had faced beasts that could shatter bone with a swipe and men who wielded magic like executioners.
Yet none of that prepared him for this.
The midwife moved with practised calm, murmuring instructions, her hands steady despite the flickering light. Outside, thunder rolled faintly—not overhead, but distant, as though echoing from some far-off place.
When the child finally emerged into the world, the first thing the midwife noticed was the silence.
There was no cry.
The baby lay still in her hands, eyes closed, chest barely rising. His skin was pale—too pale—and faintly cool to the touch. For one terrifying heartbeat, Elira's breath caught in her throat.
Then the child inhaled.
It was shallow, uneven, but unmistakably alive.
Relief crashed through the room like a wave, followed swiftly by confusion.
The midwife frowned, her brow furrowing as she examined the infant more closely. She pressed fingers gently to his chest, to his wrists, to his neck. His pulse was there—but weak. Fragile. As though it might slip away at any moment.
"This one…" she began, then hesitated.
Caelan's jaw tightened. "What is it?"
The midwife did not answer immediately. Instead, she wrapped the child carefully and placed him in Elira's arms.
"He lives," she said finally. "But his body is… delicate. I have never felt a child like this before."
Elira cradled her son, eyes wide as she searched his tiny face. He was beautiful in the quiet way newborns often were, his features soft, his lashes dark against pale skin. But even as she held him, she felt it—an instinctive, mother's knowing.
Something was wrong.
The child's name was Aurelian Vane.
He was born first, the eldest of what would become a small family. And though no one in that room could have known it, his birth marked the beginning of a divergence so subtle that history would not recognise it until long after the consequences had already taken root.
From the moment he opened his eyes, the world imprinted itself upon him with unnatural clarity.
Light, shadow, sound—each sensation settled into his awareness with perfect precision. The creak of timber as the house shifted in the storm. The rhythm of his mother's breathing. The faint hum that lingered in the air, unseen and unheard by others—a whisper of mana drifting like invisible mist.
Yet his body did not welcome this awareness.
His breaths remained shallow. His limbs trembled when he moved. When he tried to cry, the sound came out thin and reedy, as though his lungs themselves resisted the effort.
Over the following days, Harrowfen's healers came and went.
They examined him with spells and instruments both mundane and magical. They muttered amongst themselves, brows creased, voices low. Some shook their heads. Others avoided meeting Elira's eyes.
Their conclusions, when they came, were hesitant and incomplete.
Aurelian's body was failing to retain mana properly. Not in the dramatic, violent way seen in mana rejection or core collapse—but in a slow, persistent leakage that left his flesh weakened and his growth stunted.
Yet at the same time, something else lingered within him.
A presence.
Subtle, dense, and strangely resilient.
One elderly healer, long retired from imperial service, lingered longer than the rest. He said little, but his gaze remained fixed on the infant's chest, as though he could see beyond flesh and bone.
"This child's core…" he murmured once, more to himself than anyone else. "It is not empty. Nor is it whole."
No one understood what he meant, and when pressed, he merely shook his head.
"Be careful," was all he said before leaving. "Some vessels are not meant for the power they carry."
As weeks turned into months, Aurelian survived.
That alone was considered a small miracle.
He did not grow like other children. His limbs remained thin, his strength limited. Illness came easily to him, and recovery was slow. There were nights when his breathing grew so faint that Elira stayed awake until dawn, afraid to close her eyes.
And yet, his mind—though no one could have articulated it then—was already awake.
He watched.
He listened.
He remembered.
Every sound, every face, every moment etched itself into him with perfect clarity. There was no blur, no haze of infancy. The world assembled itself piece by piece, and Aurelian absorbed it all, silently.
His fear came early.
Not the instinctive fear of loud noises or unfamiliar faces, but something deeper. A quiet, ever-present awareness that his hold on life was fragile. That the thread binding him to the world was thinner than it should be.
Death, to him, was not an abstract concept.
It was a shadow that loomed close enough to feel.
And so, even as a newborn, his existence became an act of endurance.
Months later, when Lyra Vane was placed into his arms for the first time, something shifted.
She was smaller than he had been at birth, her cries loud and indignant, her grip surprisingly strong as her fingers curled around his. She radiated life in a way he did not.
As she slept beside him, warmth pressed against his fragile frame, a new sensation settled within Aurelian's awareness.
Attachment.
Not yet love in the way adults understood it—but the seed of something fierce and enduring. A reason.
If he was to live, truly live, it would not be for himself alone.
Beyond Harrowfen, the world continued its endless turning.
Empires plotted. Noble houses schemed. Scholars delved into forbidden research. Beasts prowled the edges of civilisation, and ancient lands waited patiently for the foolish or the desperate.
None of them knew of the fragile child born on a rain-soaked night.
None of them sensed the abnormal core forming silently within his chest—a hybrid existence that leaked mana yet clutched aether with stubborn resolve.
None of them heard the quiet promise taking shape within a newborn's mind.
A promise not of power.
But of survival.
And so, beneath the threefold skies of Elyndor, Aurelian Vane drew breath once more—unaware of thrones, oblivious to destiny, but already fighting, in his own silent way, to live longer than fate intended.