The night Aerion was born, the sky did not sleep.
Clouds gathered like armies above the village, swallowing the moon. Thunder rolled without rain, and the wind howled through broken roofs and narrow streets as if warning the world that something had changed.
Aerion was born into poverty—into a family that owned little more than hope and tired hands. His father worked until his bones ached, his mother until her breath trembled, yet hunger was a familiar guest in their home. Still, they loved the child fiercely. In his first cry, there was strength. In his eyes, a quiet depth that made people look twice.
From the beginning, Aerion was different.
He did not cry often. He watched. He listened. When other children chased noise and chaos, Aerion sat beneath the open sky, staring upward as if the stars were whispering secrets meant only for him.
And every night… he dreamed.
Not of toys or games, but of endless darkness scattered with burning lights. Of galaxies spinning like wheels of fate. Of a throne—ancient and vast—floating in silence at the center of everything.
Sometimes there was a voice.
Low. Calm. Eternal.
It never spoke many words, but when it did, it spoke his name.
Aerion.
He never told anyone about the dreams. Some truths felt too heavy for a child's tongue.
The day everything changed began like any other.
The sun stood high, warming the cracked earth beyond the village. Aerion ran with his friends toward the mountain slopes, laughter echoing as they raced across stone and dust. The elders had warned them never to play near the cliffs, but warnings are fragile things when curiosity burns bright.
They climbed higher, daring each other, pushing limits they did not yet understand.
Aerion stepped forward—and the ground betrayed him.
Stone shattered beneath his feet. For a single heartbeat, the world froze.
Then he fell.
His scream vanished into the mountain as darkness swallowed him whole.
The children panicked. Their laughter turned to terror as they shouted for help, their voices shaking the air. Villagers came running with ropes and torches, fear written across every face.
The hole was deep. Too deep.
Minutes felt like hours as they lowered ropes into the darkness below. When they finally pulled something back up, silence crashed over them like a blade.
Aerion's body was covered in blood.
His clothes were torn, his skin broken, wounds too many to count. By all reason, by all logic, he should have been dead.
But his chest rose.
Once.
Then again.
A gasp rippled through the crowd.
As they carried him away, some noticed something impossible—his face was calm. There was no fear in his expression. No pain.
Only peace.
That night, as Aerion lay unconscious between life and death, the dreams returned.
But this time, they were no longer dreams.
He stood before the throne.
It towered above him, carved from starlight and shadow, older than time itself. The universe stretched endlessly behind it, waiting.
The voice spoke once more—clearer than ever before.
You have fallen, it said.
But you did not break.
Light surged through the darkness, and the throne began to glow.
Far above, beyond stars and worlds, something ancient stirred.
The universe had noticed the boy named Aerion.
And it would never forget him again.
Next chapter will be uploading soon...