---
Kael awoke to the sound of rain.
It pattered softly against the wooden roof above, a rhythmic murmur that pulled him from the cusp of sleep. The world smelled of hearth-smoke, fresh bread, and damp soil. His fingers curled instinctively around the edge of the woolen blanket draped over him.
For a brief, fractured moment, he forgot he had once been a king.
Forgot the throne of Aether, the storms he had commanded, the battles he had won and lost.
There was only the soft warmth of the attic bed and the quiet breathing of the household below.
And then memory returned—sharp, clear, as unyielding as the blade he once wielded.
Kael sat up slowly, his body aching in strange, human ways. His muscles were sore. His joints stiff. This was no longer a vessel forged for divine war. It was the fragile shell of a child.
Yet he was alive. And that was a beginning.
He descended the narrow ladder from the attic and was greeted by the glow of the hearth. Thom sat at the table, nursing a steaming mug of something thick and brown. Elira hummed softly as she kneaded dough near the hearth. Both looked up when he entered.
"Morning, Kael," Thom said, gesturing to the table. "Hope you slept well. Elira's bread could wake the dead."
Elira smiled. "He looks like he could use three loaves and a warm coat."
Kael offered a small nod, the closest thing to a smile he could manage. "Thank you. For… everything."
Elira waved the words away. "The woods are unkind to lost souls. If the spirits returned you to us, it must be for a reason."
That line gave him pause.
"Spirits?"
Thom shrugged. "Old stories. The woods that surround Greenglade have always been strange. Some say they're older than the kingdoms themselves. Sometimes they take people. Sometimes they give them back."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "Does that happen often?"
Elira glanced at her husband before replying. "Not often. But enough that we don't ask too many questions when it does. Most folk who come back… they don't remember much."
A useful myth.
Kael filed that information away. It would serve as a convenient shield.
---
Later that morning, Thom led him around the village.
Greenglade was quaint—no more than forty families, most of them farmers, carpenters, or hunters. The buildings were built from dark pine and heavy stone, built to withstand the long winters. Children played near the well in the center of town, and the villagers nodded at Thom with familiarity and warmth.
They looked at Kael with curiosity, but no suspicion. Just another orphan spat out by the forest. Nothing more.
Exactly as he wanted.
They passed a squat, ivy-covered building near the far edge of the village.
"That's the Archive," Thom said. "Old Master Wren keeps it. He's a scholar from the southern cities. Retired here when his knees gave out, but the mind's still sharp. If you're looking to learn anything, he's your best bet."
Kael's interest stirred.
He needed knowledge—of this world, of its magic, of its history. Wren would be his first true lead.
---
That afternoon, Kael stood before the Archive, nervousness prickling beneath his calm exterior. It felt absurd—to be a Sovereign, reborn, and still hesitate before knocking on a wooden door.
But this was not the palace of Myr Valoras. He no longer commanded respect with a word. Here, he was a child.
He knocked.
After a long pause, the door creaked open.
A thin man in a long, ink-stained robe peered down at him. His eyes were milky with age, but his gaze was sharp.
"You're the forest boy," he said, voice like dry parchment.
"I am," Kael said simply. "Thom said you kept the Archive."
"I do." The old man blinked. "Do you read?"
Kael hesitated.
"Yes."
Wren snorted. "We'll see. Come in, then."
The Archive smelled of paper, dust, and time. Shelves lined every wall, sagging under the weight of leather-bound tomes and scrolls. A massive hearth crackled at the center, and piles of notes were scattered across several desks.
Kael's heart lifted.
This—this was familiar.
"I'd like to learn about magic," he said without pretense.
Wren chuckled. "Don't they all. Magic, dragons, swords that sing. They come in here starry-eyed, and leave when they realize there's no fireballs in the first few chapters."
Kael didn't flinch. "I'm not looking for fireballs."
That seemed to surprise Wren.
He studied Kael for a long moment, then nodded.
"Alright, boy. Let's start with the roots."
---
For the next week, Kael read.
He devoured texts on geography, history, natural lore, and—most importantly—mana.
This world, it seemed, had a system of magic not wholly unlike his own, but simpler. Cruder.
Mana existed in all living things. Some were born with the gift to perceive and harness it. These people were called Arcanists.
Training often began in adolescence, with children tested for affinity and then guided toward one of the Five Threads: Flame, Stone, Wind, Tides, or Light.
It was primitive, narrow.
There was no mention of Aether.
No Core cultivation, no runic layering, no resonance loops. Their spell structures were slow, deliberate, and anchored by incantation or glyph. Potent—but fragile. He doubted any Arcanist here could hold a candle to even a third-tier battlemage in his old court.
Still, the principles were there. And where principles existed, mastery could follow.
All he needed was a seed.
---
That seed came by accident.
On the eighth day, Kael was helping Elira grind herbs in the kitchen when he felt a strange pull beneath his skin. A flicker of heat danced through his fingertips, and the bowl cracked sharply down the middle.
Both he and Elira froze.
The wooden bowl continued to hum faintly, a thin wisp of steam rising from the split.
Elira blinked. "What in the gods…"
Kael swallowed. "I—I don't know."
She stared at him for a long time, then slowly smiled.
"Well," she said, "looks like the spirits left you a gift after all."
---
That night, Kael sat alone beneath the stars.
Magic.
It was there.
Faint, like a whisper in a storm—but real.
He could feel it now, coiling deep within his chest. Not Aether. Not yet. But mana. Raw, unshaped, pure.
He closed his eyes and reached inward.
The sensation was nothing like the clarity of his former Core. It was sluggish, like drawing water from a well with a frayed rope. But he was no ordinary child fumbling in the dark.
He was Eryndor Valen.
He had shaped the skies.
And he would shape this world, too.
Even if he had to start from scratch.
Even if it took years.
The stars wheeled overhead, ancient and uncaring.
But Kael smiled.
Let the world sleep.
He was awake.
---