Leaving the crude grave behind him, Cael kept walking, his steps small and heavy.
Unsure if his slowness was the result of the mud or his psyche, he trudged forward beneath a grey sky, rain nourishing the cracked ashen lands.
The Sun does not care for rain, and so the Hero does not.
When Arlen walked in rain, the heat radiating from his armor evaporated the drops before they dared graze his perfectly crafted shell.
Arlen did not worry about rusting. No blood or foul liquid could cling to his radiance. His sword sharpened itself under the heat and hardness of the Ashborn.
Oh, how much did Cael envy that.
When Cael spent half the night cleaning his equipment and sharpening his blades, Arlen conserved his energy.
The Hero was strong, fearless, untouchable.
You could not catch a single glimpse of him in a weak state.
Even when he died, he did it standing, with his head raised to the Sun.
"This armor is very heavy…"
Drenched by the water pelting his face through the visor of Arlen's helmet, Cael was a pathetic sight.
His movements were awkward, not yet accustomed to his new attire; it did not fit him.
He always thought he and Arlen had similar builds, but the differences were numerous.
His head was smaller, his forearms longer, his lower body slimmer, and he was slightly taller.
He could live with those subtle inconveniences.
Yet his chest throbbed with terrible pain, as if the chestplate had caved in.
He could not tell if it was the ill-fitting armor or his guilt.
***
Magic, in its myriad forms, is not an otherworldly force.
It is the product of the push and pull of Light and Darkness.
Their constant struggle gives birth to balance—a fragile stillness that lasts only as long as the Worldwound and the Hero endure.
But those are modern labels.
In the First Age, there existed two dragons weighing the scales: Solanthar and Lunareth.
The Dragons of Sun and Moon clashed above the newborn world.
And the first humans followed—split between the two, they fought.
With every strike between the goliaths, magic seeped into the soil, the trees, the rivers.
Humans and animals were all blessed with their power.
When Solanthar pierced Lunareth's heart, the Moon Dragon's blood spilled over his followers—
Cursing them to a fate worse than death.
They became grotesque monsters.
As a final kindness to the humans he loved, Solanthar cast his bright flames over them—turning them to ash.
But as long as the moon rose again, Lunareth and those who shared his blood would return.
That is how the Ashborn came to be.
And so the Cycle of the Ages began.
The Sun Dragon would bestow his light on a worthy human, and the Moon Dragon would try to form himself anew.
Solanthar and Lunareth would clash again—this time as the Lightbearer, the Hero of Humanity… and the Worldwound, a formless shadow.
If the Hero triumphed, the world would welcome The Age of Dawn—a golden era for humanity.
Their magic would be strengthened, the Ashborn would flee to the shadows, and mankind would advance in science and spirit.
Children wouldn't grow up in fear.
They would not know hunger.
They would lead lives free of suffering.
But if a Hero was born with a silver spoon, if he didn't know how to fight—he would fall.
And the Worldwound would rise.
His shadow would spread.
Human magic would dim.
The Ashborn would grow rampant.
Their numbers would skyrocket.
Their power would bring down kingdoms, bury knowledge, and plunge the world into The Age of Eclipse.
The cycle repeats.
The Hero triumphs. The Worldwound falls. The world is saved.
The Hero falls. The Worldwound triumphs. The world burns.
Every Cycle ends with either Hero or Worldwound alive—anchoring magic.
Yet this Cycle…
The Hero is dead.
And the Worldwound is gone.
With neither Solanthar's flame nor Lunareth's ash to hold sway, magic itself unravels.
***
Noticing a small cave in the distance, Cael hurried his sluggish steps to hide from the unrelenting rain.
The sky did not cease its onslaught, as if grieving the Hero's death in Cael's stead.
Shivering from the cold, he entered the cave and tore off the hefty armor, as well as the wet clothes beneath it.
As heavy as the armor was, it didn't fully cover him.
As envious as he was of the human fire-stone that was his companion, Arlen was always handy in moments like this—he would extend his heat to Cael whenever he noticed him shivering.
'Kind bastard…'
As if remembering something unpleasant, he cursed under his breath and scoured his bag for an actual flame-stone to light a campfire and dry his clothes.
He found one, held it in his hand, and chanted the useless words:
"Oh Sun, let the flames burn in your brilliance…"
A small fire sprang up from the tip of the stone, and as he guided it to the logs he'd set up, he finished the chant—
"…Come fort—"
Instead of fire flowing gently toward the wood, it exploded violently in front of Cael, catching his already-burnt hand.
"What the hell!"
He threw the stone away, and as soon as it hit the ground, the entire thing burst into massive flames.
Utterly bewildered, Cael stood there, assessing the situation.
In all his years of living, this was the first time he'd seen a flame-stone act like an explosion-stone.
It might have even been more powerful than most explosion-stones.
Flame-stones were used by common folk—those who, like Cael, couldn't fully master fire magic through their bodies.
They used magic stones or sigils to harness the mana in the environment.
"Odd… But I'm not wet anymore, so that's good."
Cael sat close to the raging fire and took out a piece of dried meat from his bag, holding it up to warm it.
"How would he act if he was here…"