10 YEARS LATER
In the quiet fishing village of Varnmoor, hidden in the cold northern corner of the kingdom, a boy named Aeron lived a life that felt simple, peaceful, and like a lie.
To the people in Varnmoor, Elarya was a widowed woman with calm eyes and kind hands. She sold powders, oils, and colors for the skin, things women loved, but men never paid much attention to. Her little makeup shop near the harbor always smelled of lavender and rose balm. The nobles may have laughed at such a trade, but Elarya's hands were skilled, and the women trusted her more than they trusted priests.
Her gold lasted longer than anyone thought it would. And as her business grew, her name became known, not for power or beauty, but for integrity.
That was how she survived. And that was how Daelya Velzorah remained dead.
Aeron, her son, grew fast. Not just in height, but in thought and awareness. He knew his mother loved him. Fiercely. Completely. But there were things she never told him.
Like who his father was. Or why she sometimes stared into the fire with fear in her eyes. Or why, whenever soldiers passed through the village, she would hold his hand a little too tightly, until her knuckles turned white.
She never spoke of kings, or lords, or realms. No talk of thrones or banners. Only stories of fishermen, of farmers' wives, and traders who crossed the sea.
At night, she told him stories of the stars, how each one held a wish. How the sea sang to those who listened. How names held power, and why they should be kept safe.
He listened.
But his dreams told him different things. It started when he turned seven. At first, they were just flashes. Flashes of fire, screams, and blood.
He'd wake up sweating, his heart racing.
Then came the deep and ancient voice that echoed.
"Aeron..."
That was all. Just his name. But it wasn't whispered. It was called, like a horn was sounding from the mountains.
Another time, he woke up with bruises on his back. No one could explain it. His mother cried silently that night.
He didn't understand what was happening. He didn't know who he was supposed to be.
But he had friends. And that made it easier.
"..."
Ronan and Yvarra Drenn, the twin children of Varek and Elisa, lived three doors down. Varek was a blacksmith who sold weapons to soldiers. He was as broad as a bear and always smiling. Elisa, his wife, was a healer and the only person Elarya trusted with Aeron when she needed to travel to nearby towns for trade.
The twins were loud, fearless, and wildly different.
Ronan was quick to laugh, always climbing trees and throwing stones at fish.
Yvarra, a very pretty and calm girl, preferred watching birds or sketching the sky with charcoal.
But Aeron was the anchor between them, thoughtful, steady, and curious.
The three were inseparable, but there was something deeper between Aeron and Ronan, a bond that felt older than childhood. Like two blades forged from the same fire.
They called it a Brotherhood, sealed with a cut across their palms and a secret oath under the village's oldest tree.
"Always together. In life, in war, in death."
They didn't know yet what that oath would cost.
But Daelya did.
She watched her son from the shadows, each year growing more like his father. His cheekbones. His fire. His silence. She knew the blood that ran through him. She knew it couldn't be hidden forever.
The red comet may have passed from the sky, but its shadow still hung over them like a curse waiting to wake.
And every night, she prayed the dreams would stop.
"..."
"..."
Not everyone in Varnmoor was as they seemed. One of those people was Varek Drenn.
To most, Varek was a simple blacksmith who was strong-armed and always laughing, but that was only half the truth.
Once, long ago, Varek had worn the golden sunburst of the Phoenix Guard, the king's personal elite. The best of the best. Chosen not just for their strength, but for loyalty, honor, and silence.
He'd fought in battles the kingdom never even spoke of. He had stood beside kings, sworn oaths that few remembered. But then… the rot came.
Corruption, lies, whispers in the throne room.
When House Vanýr began to wrap its claws around the crown, something in the palace changed. Truth had no place. Good men vanished. Varek was one of them.
He disappeared quietly before they could silence him, slipped into the north like a ghost, hid where no lords would look, among the commoners.
And there, in Varnmoor, he built a new life. But old warriors don't forget who they are.
Varek never stopped watching. And from the moment Elarya arrived with her son, he knew something was off.
She was careful, always polite, always reserved. Her smile never reached her eyes. Her hands were soft, too soft for a trader. Her speech was refined, her posture perfect. She had the look of someone raised in silks but forced into rags.
And the boy?
Aeron moved like someone born for something greater.
He listened more than he spoke. He asked strange questions. And sometimes, when he thought no one was looking, he would stare into the distance like he was trying to remember a dream he'd never had.
Varek never asked questions out loud. But in his heart, he knew, this boy wasn't just another village child. There was weight in his steps.
So he did what any good man would do: he trained him.
***
Varnmoor didn't allow sword training. No village in the kingdom did, not for commoners. The law was clear: only noble-born boys could carry blades, only the rich could learn the art of war.
But the bow?
That was another matter.
So, under the trees and behind the hills, Varek began teaching Ronan and Aeron the ways of archery, hunting, and survival. How to track a deer through the woods. How to silence your breath before you shoot. How to listen to the wind, the rustle of the leaves, the beat of your own heart.
Ronan, being Varek's son, took to it like a wolf pup to the hunt. He was fast, bold, and always eager to shoot. But he had no love for books or quiet thoughts. He loved wildlife more than anything.
Aeron, though... was different.
He wasn't the fastest. He didn't brag like Ronan. But when he picked up a bow, his hands knew what to do. His eyes saw before others looked. He listened, to every word, every lesson, and when he finally let an arrow fly, it rarely missed.
And there was something else.
When Aeron shot, sometimes the wind shifted. Sometimes the birds went quiet. Even Varek felt the strange silence that wrapped around the boy.
He never said a word. But deep down, he wondered what kind of fire this boy was carrying inside him.
Then there was Yvarra. Varek's daughter, Ronan's twin. She was as sharp and quiet.
She wasn't allowed to train like the boys, not by tradition, not by rules. But that never stopped her.
At night, when the moon was high and the forest was still, she practiced in secret. Her fingers knew the bowstring. Her feet moved like whispers.
And while the boys trained with weapons, Yvarra was trained in mind.
Elisa, her mother, gave her books, riddles, and strange puzzles with no answers. She was taught to think like the enemy never would, to see between the lines, to understand what others missed.
And often, Aeron would join her.
The two of them spent hours bent over scrolls and slates, challenging each other, solving things that most adults in Varnmoor couldn't begin to understand. While Ronan was chasing deer in the woods, Aeron and Yvarra were chasing ideas, and sometimes, the truth.
Those days were golden.
The village saw three children growing up like any others.
But in the forests of Varnmoor, something was waking up.
Something the kingdom wasn't ready for.