Eight months ago:
The forest was quiet, the jasmine-grass lamps glowing faintly along the walls of his home. Eloren had just laid down when a warmth like sunlight filled the room, brighter than any flame. Startled, he looked toward the great tree beyond his window and there, standing in its glow, was a figure of light.
An angel descended, wings like woven glass, each feather shimmering with silver fire. His breath caught when he recognized her face.
"Mother…" he whispered, his voice breaking. The boy who had tried to bury his grief returned in a rush, and Eloren fell to his knees, tears running freely.
The angel's smile was soft, and her voice was like a song carried by the leaves.
"You've grown, little vine. I am proud of you… proud of you, Abella and Marka. You walk in paths that honor me and I could have never asked for better kids."
She stepped closer, her radiance washing the room in peace. But her eyes carried the weight of higher will.
"I bring you a message. From those above. A young god is coming to Erathos. He has been sent to aid with the great affairs soon to unfold. You are to be his hand, his right hand."
In her hand appeared a scroll, the parchment etched with living light. She pressed it into his palms, and he felt its weight like destiny itself.
"This scroll carries what little we know of him. His name. The abilities revealed so far. His history. He is the one who broadcast his voice across the stars four centuries ago, the one whose words reached even you."
Eloren's chest tightened. He remembered it, that day when Yohan's live stream, his voice had spoken to countless worlds. That was the moment Eloren had chosen his path, chasing knowledge, inspiring him to awaken his powers as a vineblood and upon realizing what he could do, spent his days practicing and researching, honing his craft till he was the best botanist on the planet.
His mother's smile widened, tender and bittersweet.
"I know you admired him. Even your hair…" She reached out, brushing her hand near his dreadlocks, "you wear it as he once did."
Eloren laughed shakily, the tears not stopping, his admiration and grief tangled together.
But her tone shifted, solemn once more.
"Know this: he may prove unstable. The burden of divinity weighs heavily on youth. Yet we believe he will endure, for he carries a fire that inspires even gods."
She lifted a hand, and more words etched themselves across the bottom of the scroll, faint, almost like a secret.
"A small message only for you, my son: He will not descend as gods usually do. He will be born here, on Erathos, in the coming years. But where, or to what family… even the higher planes cannot say. You will know him when you see him."
The angel leaned down, her forehead against his, her radiance dimming as her form began to fade.
"Be ready, Eloren. The Lord of Ash is coming. And when he arrives… the world will change."
The light flickered out. Eloren clutched the scroll to his chest, trembling. He had longed for greatness, for discovery, but this, this was destiny itself calling, a chance to work with his hero.
Lith darted through the trees, his black panther form weaving between the thick trunks in a blur of speed. Gold streaks shimmered faintly along his fur as his aura burned like a low flame. His paws making no sound even as they struck the earth. The forest parted before him, and soon the great walls of House Veythros rose into view, pale marble kissed by moonlight.
He did not slow. With a powerful leap, he soared over the battlements, landing in the courtyard with the soft grace of a shadow. Servants startled at the sight of the beast streaking through the grounds, but none dared bar his path, they all knew their young master's form by now.
The fire in his aura dimmed as he padded to the heart of the estate, climbing the stone steps to the balcony where warm light spilled from tall windows. His father's study.
Lith shifted back into human form, the night breeze brushing against his dark hair. His chest rose and fell, more from the weight of what he carried than the sprint home. The letter Eloren had entrusted him with felt heavier than steel in his pocket, as though it carried not just a cure, but a future.
He stood before the great oaken door, its polished surface carved with the crest of Veythros. For a moment, he hesitated. He had always faced his father with strength, but this this was different. If the cure failed, if hope was just another cruel illusion…
His hand hovered, trembling. He closed his eyes, steadying his breath, golden irises glowing faintly as though the fire within him urged him forward.
Finally, he raised his fist
and knocked.
The sound echoed through the corridor like the toll of a bell.
Inside the study, the air was thick with ink, candle smoke, and the faint shimmer of mana. Scrolls and shattered glass vials lay scattered across a desk that had not known order in months. Rokash Veythros stirred, his massive frame slumped forward in a chair too small for him, cheek pressed to parchment stained with his own restless scribbles.
The knock pulled him from uneasy dreams. He blinked, golden eyes dimmed, their once-fiery brilliance dulled to a weary glow. His black hair, once kept neat as his station demanded, now hung long and tangled, streaked with gray from endless sleepless nights.
For a moment, he thought it was another servant bringing food he would refuse. But then.
"Father?"
The voice outside the door froze him. His son's voice. Lith.
He had not heard it in weeks. How many? He had lost count, barricaded in this room chasing after hopeless experiments.
His wife's labored breaths haunted him more than the silence of the halls. In his grief, he had abandoned everything, his duties as Grand Duke, his people, even his son.
And yet Lith… Lith had borne the burden of it all. Eighteen years old, and already carrying more than he ever should.
A bitter laugh slipped out, low and harsh. "Pathetic," he muttered to himself. He had become a shadow of the man he once was. If his wife were still strong enough, she would have hated him for what he had become.
Pushing himself to his feet, he felt the weight of chains that were not there. When he pulled open the great oak door, the sight before him struck him like a blade. His son, taller now, more composed, yet still the boy he had raised, stood with a sealed letter in hand. Eloren's seal, unmistakable, gleamed in the candlelight.
Rokash loomed over him, nearly seven feet tall, his presence filling the corridor like a stormcloud. His voice came out low and raspy, like thunder rolling across mountains.
For a moment, silence hung between them. Then Lith looked up at his father, and the mask of stoicism he always wore cracked. A smile small but sure broke through.
"This should work, Eloren doesn't have the blight but noticed that even his own breathing was better after smoking it ."
Rokash's chest tightened. He reached forward, not as Grand Duke, not as scholar or warrior, but as a father.
Lith stepped into his embrace, and in an instant the dam broke. They held each other tightly, tears spilling freely, their grief and hope bleeding together in the quiet hallway.
From the corners of the estate, servants gathered, drawn by the sound of voices and the sight of reunion. Loyal hearts who had watched the family's silent suffering, who had prayed in secret for this moment. They smiled now, some even wiping tears of their own, as father and son clung to one another like they were the only thing holding the other in place.
For the first time in a long time, the halls of House Veythros felt alive again.
Rokash pulled away only slightly, just enough to take the sealed scroll from Lith's hand. Walking into his study he broke Eloren's mark with a flick of his thumb, and his eyes darted across the parchment with inhuman speed.
Decades of training and his sharp mana-forged mind allowed him to consume entire volumes in moments. Line after line burned into his thoughts Eloren's research, his warnings, his promise. A cure.
Hope.
His dimmed golden eyes brightened, just slightly. He turned back to Lith, and for the first time in months his voice carried strength.
"Show me."
Lith produced a small pouch, the buds wrapped carefully, the parchment for rolling folded neatly. Rokash's massive hands, though calloused and built for war, handled the materials with surprising delicacy. He rolled quickly, efficiently, as though his hands remembered an old art from younger, freer days. Twelve blunts in total, each one sealed tight and perfect.
He set them in two piles: ten wrapped in a cloth for continued treatment, two placed in Lith's hand. His son would carry them first to her. Rokash's fingers lingered over them, trembling.
"These… these will be her testing. As Eloren said, for the next two days. Stay with her. Record every detail of her breathing, her strength, her sleep. Then return to Eloren with the results. The rest," his hand pressed over the cloth-wrapped pile, "are for after. But only once he confirms."
His voice faltered, just for a heartbeat. He forced it steady again, thunder low and sure.
"I'll remain here. I have calls to make old contacts, healers, scribes. The world will hear nothing of this until we know it works. But, Lith."
Rokash's massive hand rested on his son's shoulder, the weight firm, almost desperate. "Please. Anything that happens, you tell me immediately. Every cough, every sigh. I…I can't lose her."
The words came raw, almost a plea. For a man who ruled vast lands and held power enough to bend knights and nobles alike, it was the simplest and most fragile truth he had ever spoken.
Lith nodded, clutching the two blunts as though they were sacred relics. For the first time in weeks, both father and son carried the same spark in their eyes.
Hope.
Kaelith padded softly through the marble halls of the Veythros estate, his tall, lean frame approaching the wing where his mother now stayed. The corridor was quiet, the air heavy with the faint scent of herbs and faint traces of mana wards etched into the stone to protect her room.
Ahead of him loomed the great double doors, their carved reliefs catching the torchlight. On the left panel, the sleek, prowling form of the black panther, symbol of House Veythros. On the right, the rearing golden bear, the proud sigil of House Longclaw, his mother's bloodline. Once a symbol of unity and strength, now they guarded a chamber that had become something else entirely: a nursery of suffering and care.
This was the same room where his mother and father had once shared laughter, arguments, and whispered plans for the future. Now, his father had abandoned the chamber, exiling himself to his lab, half by duty and half by shame, leaving her here to be tended to by his most trusted handmaidens and healers.
Kaelith paused before the doors, his hand hovering over the dark brass handle. For a moment, he simply stood there, listening. He could hear the faint, shallow wheeze of his mother's breath within, a sound that haunted him in the stillness of night. The house was silent otherwise, the servants watching from afar but giving him space.
Taking in a deep breath, he pressed both hands against the carved panther and bear, pushing the doors open with deliberate care.
Inside, the room was dim but warm, the air tinged with the glow of enchanted lanterns that gave off a soft golden hue. The rich tapestries and velvet curtains that once adorned it had been stripped away to keep the air clear. At the center of it all, upon a vast canopied bed, lay Arria Veythros.