In the great communal hall of Yoruda, built from solid oak and smelling of aged parchment and incense, the village children sat neatly in a circle. Soft light filtered through the stained-glass windows, which were adorned with symbols of the six major elements, casting colored patches on the stone floor.
On the dais, Master Ordan, the village's respected scholar, slowly unrolled a parchment cracked with age. His long, pristine white beard seemed to hum with wisdom as he cleared his throat. His eyes, sharp and mischievous despite his age, swept over the assembly. "Listen closely, you little rascals," he began, his grave voice filling the room. "Today, I won't speak of the future, but of the past. Because a warrior who is ignorant of his world's history is already a dead warrior." The children exchanged excited glances. In the middle of them, the inseparable trio of Makoho, Akena, and Tensei listened intently.
"The world of Aetheria is a vast tapestry of stories and kingdoms," Ordan continued, holding up four gnarled fingers. "There is the Solarys Empire, an arrogant power that believes itself chosen by the gods, where hearts are as proud as the marble citadels. Then there's the Kazar Federation, a nest of cunning and greedy merchants, whose money governs more surely than any king. To the east, the Mountainous Kingdom of Deymar rises, where men are as hard as the stone that surrounds them. And finally... Umbrelith, that land of dark forests from which few return alive. They say the trees themselves have souls of shadow there."
A small hand went up, belonging to a wide-eyed boy. "Master Ordan, why are the people of Umbrelith so scary?" "Because they live in the shadows, my child. And because they have learned to turn those shadows into a formidable weapon," the scholar explained, a tone of mystery in his voice. "They are called the assassins of twilight." At these words, some children shivered. Others, with bright eyes, whispered "so cool" to their friends.
Ordan continued his tale. "In these kingdoms, powerful families pull the strings. The Valmor, strategists of Solarys, are capable of predicting battles before they even begin. The Seranel, master merchants of Kazar, can make and break economies with a single stroke of a pen. The Durnan, indestructible blacksmiths of Deymar, create weapons that never chip. And the Myrrh, spies of Umbrelith, are ghosts who walk among the living." Akena, impatient, raised her hand. "And are there heroes among them, Master?" "Of course," Ordan smiled. "They say a Valmor warrior once held a rampart alone against a thousand enemies. That a Seranel captain crossed a dark storm with a broken ship. They even say a Durnan forged a blade capable of splitting mountains. The exploits of these heroes are living legends." The children's eyes lit up, some already imagining themselves wielding a sword or braving a raging sea.
"But Aetheria is not a world of peace," the scholar continued, his expression growing more serious. "The kingdoms fight for elemental fragments, rare stones that strengthen powers. Armies clash constantly, and when they aren't enough, they call upon mercenaries." A boy asked: "What's a mercenary?" "It's a man or woman who sells their sword, their bow, or their gift to the highest bidder," Ordan replied. "So are they bad?" "Not always. Some mercenaries are heroes, others are monsters," he said with a hint of mystery. "The Steel Falcons Company, for example, is so famous they say it's worth an entire army. City kids play at imitating their exploits." Akena clenched her fists, a flame in her eyes. "I want to be a hero like them too!"
The Shadow of the Past
The scholar's tone became more solemn. "And it's not just men who threaten this world. The forests, the mountains, the seas... are home to creatures that know neither law nor mercy." The children leaned forward, fascinated. "Wyverns, minor dragons that burn caravans. Stone Colossi, giants that wake once a century to crush everything in their path. And the Wind Spectres, invisible beings said to be linked to an ancient, vanished kingdom..." At these words, Makoho felt a shiver run down his neck. As if the wind had whispered his name the very moment Ordan spoke.
The scholar put down his parchment and looked at each child with his tired eyes. "Once, there was a kingdom called Aeralith. A floating kingdom, governed by masters of the Air. Their power was such that they could change the climate, create tornadoes to crush an army, or make the clouds dance. They did not walk on the earth; they soared above the world." The children's eyes widened, stunned. "But... what happened to them?" Tensei asked, his voice serious. "No one knows," Ordan replied, a veil of sadness in his voice. "Some say they defied the gods, others that they destroyed themselves in their madness. What is certain is that they vanished. And since then, children born with the gift of Air are rare. Too rare." A heavy silence fell over the hall. Some children snickered, finding the idea of wind as a power ridiculous. Others, more superstitious, were afraid. What if the rumors about the return of those ancient tyrants were true? Makoho lowered his head, suddenly feeling very alone. He felt the gazes on him, those gazes that judged him, because he was born with this forgotten gift.