The kingdom of Soreth Dominion shimmered under the rising sun, its capital city, Vaelgard, waking to the buzz of market stalls and the hum of sky-kites above the marble towers. Merchants shouted prices of elven spices and dragonbone trinkets, and the aroma of baked faeleaf bread drifted through the winding stone alleys. Magic was not merely a force in this world—it was breath, blood, and currency.

  And somewhere, in the quiet hills just outside the city, a five-year-old boy stood in a sunlit meadow, his arms raised to the sky, trying to catch stardust.

  “Auren, sweetling, careful now!” his mother called, her voice floating from the cottage.

  “I saw it, Mama!” Auren shouted back, face glowing with excitement. “The sparkles! They’re dancing!”

  He had raven-bck hair, messy and windblown, and eyes far too wise for a child. His irises shimmered faintly with threads of violet—a rare glow that no child should possess.

  Aridel Vael, his mother, watched with a mixture of pride and concern. Her hands, once worn by magic, now shaped loaves and gardened herbs. But seeing the tiny runes flutter at her son’s fingertips sent chills through her.

  Most children didn’t manifest magical energy until ten. Auren had bent the air around him before he could read.

  That night, she tucked him into bed beneath the rune-carved beams of their cottage. He looked up at her with soft, sleepy eyes.

  “Mama, why do the sparkles like me?”

  She brushed back his hair and kissed his brow. “Because you’re special. The Aether listens to you.”

  “Will I be a wizard?”

  “You’ll be something greater.”

  ---

  Three Years Later

  By the time Auren turned eight, the Aether didn’t just listen—it responded.

  He could call wind to lift leaves and shape fire to form glowing birds. Other vilge children grew wary of him, whispering stories of the boy who pyed with lightning.

  Kaen Draventhorn was the only one who wasn’t afraid.

  “You're like a storm in human form,” Kaen said once, watching Auren levitate pebbles in his palm.

  “You think that's cool?”

  “Are you kidding? You're my best friend, and a walking magic scroll.”

  Together, they explored nearby forests, pretending to be spell knights and skybound heroes. One evening, they stumbled upon a colpsed stone altar, its runes long forgotten.

  When Auren touched it, a shock of energy pulsed through his body. A mark appeared faintly on his chest.

  That night, Aridel turned pale when she saw it.

  “The Sigil,” she whispered.

  “What’s that?” Auren asked.

  “A forgotten truth. And a dangerous one.”

  ---

  Age 10

  The bond between Auren and the Aether had grown. But so had the whispers.

  At first, they came in dreams. Then, in the wind. Faint words. Promises. Questions.

  “Why do you hide?”

  “Free me…”

  Aridel, now visibly aged by worry, reached out to an old friend: Corvell Duskthane, a reclusive mage once exiled from the Arcanum Lyceum.

  He arrived one evening, cloaked in grey, his presence unsettling even the ground beneath him.

  “He bears the Eleventh Sigil,” Corvell said after inspecting Auren.

  “It’s not possible,” Aridel replied. “That form was destroyed.”

  “It was buried. But not destroyed. And now, it awakens again.”

  From that day forward, Auren trained under Corvell in secret. While other boys practiced swordpy or memorized spell chants, Auren meditated with stones, listened to leaves, and drew sigils with starlight.

  Corvell taught him not spells, but understanding. “Magic is not about control. It’s about communion. The Ten Forms are steps. But there is an Eleventh—reserved only for those who become magic itself.”

  Auren listened. Learned. Endured.

  By twelve, he could shape light. By thirteen, he could unravel illusions with a blink.

  But the whispers never stopped.

  And far across the kingdom, in shadows no torch could pierce, something ancient began to stir.

  “Prepare the

  eyes,” a veiled priestess murmured. “The Eclipsed One returns.”

  ---

  End of Chapter 1