The Garden Of ?
Chapter two:
Knowledge:
In this world, there are three great paths of battle. Each one is different, yet equally powerful, and those who walk them shape the fate of nations.
The first path is that of the Mage. Mages draw upon the energy known as mana, the invisible current that flows through the air, the earth, and even living beings. With training and focus, they bend this energy into spells of fire, ice, lightning, or illusions. Yet, magic is not without cost—too much strain on the mind or body can break even the strongest sorcerer. A mage's strength comes from knowledge, patience, and control.
The second path belongs to the Aetherblades. These warriors wield weapons infused with aether, the radiant essence said to descend from the stars themselves. Through the Aethersteel Arts, they strike with blades that shine with energy, each movement a mixture of discipline and deadly precision. Their bond with the sword is unshakable, but if their will falters, the same power that elevates them can shatter their body and spirit. For an Aetherblade, strength lies in unyielding discipline and resolve.
The third and most mysterious path is the Spiritflow. Warriors who follow this way form bonds with spirits—ancient beings of fire, wind, shadow, and light. At first, the spirit grants small blessings, lending speed, endurance, or heightened senses. But as the bond deepens, human and spirit move as one, unlocking powers beyond mortal limits. Yet this bond is dangerous, for if the spirit overpowers the host, the warrior risks losing themselves entirely, consumed by the very being they trusted. Spiritflow demands balance, trust, and harmony.
Thus, the world's warriors walk three roads—the knowledge of the Mage, the discipline of the Aetherblade, and the bond of the Spiritflow. Each path is a promise of greatness, but also a gamble with fate. For young dreamers like Leif, learning of these ways is not just study—it is the first step toward destiny itself.
The kingdom of Eirenora,
The village of Tern
The village of Tern rests quietly within the borders of the kingdom of Eirenora, neither remarkable nor forgotten. It is a small settlement, the kind one could pass through in a single day, with little more than a few dozen houses, a central well, and fields stretching out in every direction. Its roads are simple dirt paths, often muddy after rain, and its fences are built not for decoration but to keep animals from straying. Life here is slow, but steady — the kind of place where nothing extraordinary seems to happen, yet everyone knows one another by name.
Most homes in Tern are built from the same wood taken from nearby forests, their roofs thatched with straw or covered in rough tiles. They lean slightly with age but stand firm, repaired and patched whenever needed. Smoke often curls out of chimneys in the early hours of morning as families prepare bread, porridge, or stew. At night, lanterns light up the windows one by one until the village glows faintly against the dark countryside.
The people are hardworking rather than grand. Farmers spend long hours in the fields, sowing and harvesting grain, beans, or vegetables, depending on the season. Shepherds and cattle keepers drive their animals to pasture, while a few craftsmen — the blacksmith, the carpenter, the potter — provide what the village cannot grow. The marketplace is little more than a row of wooden stalls that open twice a week, selling farm goods, tools, or cloth. On those days, Tern feels lively, with children running between stalls and elders gathering to chat while trade is carried out in good spirits.
Tern has no walls or soldiers of its own, only a small watchtower at its edge where a handful of men take turns keeping an eye on the surrounding land. Bandits rarely trouble such a humble place, and the village depends on the broader kingdom's patrols for real protection. Still, every family knows how to wield a simple tool or weapon if the need arises.
Though not wealthy, the people of Tern live without constant hunger. They work for what they need, share when necessary, and endure hardships together. Festivals are plain but joyful — a shared meal after harvest, music played with simple instruments, dancing around fires when the weather allows. It is a rhythm of life shaped more by necessity than grandeur, the sort of routine that makes time feel predictable, even safe.
Children here grow up surrounded by chores and small freedoms. They learn to carry water, gather firewood, or tend to animals at a young age, yet still find time to play by the river or chase one another along the paths. Education is basic, taught by whichever villager has enough learning to pass on reading and numbers. Still, stories from travelers sometimes reach Tern — tales of wars, heroes, and distant lands that spark curiosity in the younger ones who dream of more than village life.
Leif stood by the small wooden window of their home, his white hair catching the faint light as the rain tapped softly against the glass. His blue eyes followed the droplets racing each other down, and for a while, he was lost in the simple sound of the storm outside. The world felt quiet, the kind of quiet that makes you want to stay inside forever.
Behind him, the room was warm. A small fire burned in the hearth, filling the air with the faint smell of woodsmoke. His mother, Ferexia, sat on a chair near the fire, mending a piece of cloth while humming a soft tune. Her voice wasn't loud, but it made the room feel safer somehow, like the rain could never touch them here.
Airen, his father, was seated on the floor with a practice sword across his knees. He was checking the blade, running his thumb over the wooden edge to make sure it hadn't chipped. His hands were rough and strong, but the way he looked at Leif wasn't. There was pride in his eyes, the quiet kind of pride that didn't need words.
Leif turned his head back toward them, smiling faintly. He didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. Ferexia noticed his gaze and smiled back, her eyes soft. Airen chuckled and patted the spot next to him, as if telling Leif to come sit closer.
The boy left the window and walked toward his parents. The storm still raged outside, but here in their small home, it didn't matter. The fire, the voices, and the simple closeness of family made it feel as though nothing in the world could break this moment.
Leif yawned softly, his little head resting against his father's chest. The sound of rain was softer now, only a gentle tapping on the roof. Ferexia tucked a blanket around him, her hand brushing his white hair with care. Airen held him close, strong arms steady but gentle, as if protecting the whole world for his son. Leif's blue eyes slowly closed, a tiny smile on his lips as he drifted into sleep. Outside, the storm faded, leaving the village quiet. Inside their home, there was only love, peace, and the quiet dream of a child safe in his family's warmth.
Next chapter 3: