The night Eryndor burned, the stars hid their faces.
Above the spires of Valcrest, once the jewel of the Seven Kingdoms, a sky of fire and storm stretched endlessly. Armies clashed in the valley below, soldiers of shadow wielding blackened steel against the royal guard's last desperate stand. Thunder roared, not from nature, but from colliding spells — flame against frost, lightning against stone.
Within the highest tower of the citadel, a boy wept.
He was four years old, dressed in silken robes embroidered with silver thread. His golden hair was damp with tears, his violet eyes wide with fear as the walls shook around him.
"Mother, Father… where are you?" His tiny voice trembled.
The chamber doors burst open. Queen Elyndra swept in, her gown torn and splattered with ash. Behind her came King Darius, his armor cracked, his blade slick with blood. They looked not like rulers, but hunted animals.
"Elyndra," Darius rasped, "they've breached the western gates. The Wraith King's army will be here within the hour."
The Queen gathered the boy into her arms, pressing his head to her chest. "Arion must live. The prophecy cannot end here."
The King's jaw tightened. He glanced at the child — their son, their heir, their last hope — and for a moment the unbreakable warrior looked as if his heart would shatter.
From the shadows, a cloaked figure emerged: the High Seer of Valcrest, eyes glowing with threads of silver light. "There is no victory tonight. But the Soulborn must endure. If he is found, all is lost. He must be hidden, forgotten, until the time is right."
The Queen's grip tightened. "You would have me abandon my child?"
The Seer's voice was heavy with sorrow. "Not abandon. Preserve. His destiny is greater than your throne, greater than this war. The power within him… it is not yet stable. If the enemy claims him now, the world itself will break."
Arion whimpered, sensing their fear though he could not understand their words. The Queen kissed his brow, tears streaking her cheeks. "My son, forgive me."
The King knelt before him, rough hands trembling as he cupped the boy's face. "One day, you will hate us. You will believe we cast you aside. But remember this, even if you forget everything else: you are not weak. You are not nothing. You are our star… and stars cannot be extinguished."
Before Arion could answer, light enveloped him.
The Seer's spell wove around the boy, threads of silver binding his tiny frame, carrying him away like a whisper in the wind. His last sight was his parents' faces — proud, broken, and fading into darkness.
Then, silence.
---
When Arion awoke, he was alone in a forest of ancient trees. The citadel was gone. The warmth of his mother's arms was gone. Only the cold earth and the sound of owls greeted him.
He cried until his throat was raw. He called for them until the stars sank beneath the horizon. But no one came.
Days turned to weeks. Hunger gnawed at his belly. Rain drenched his small body. Yet he did not die. The forest itself seemed to bend around him — fruit ripened where he reached, water shimmered clear in hollows when he thirsted. Flames leapt to life when he shivered, and winds carried away beasts that prowled too close.
The boy did not understand. He thought it was luck, or perhaps the mercy of unseen gods. He did not know that the elements themselves bowed before him.
One night, as he huddled beneath the roots of a great oak, he dreamed.
A vast expanse unfolded before him — a sky filled not with stars, but with countless glowing souls, each burning with its own light. A voice echoed, neither male nor female, vast as eternity:
"Soulborn."
Arion reached out. The nearest star trembled, then reshaped into fire, into water, into stone, into lightning. The dream-world bent to his touch.
"You are the forger of what is. You are the hand that creates. But creation without soul is hollow."
He watched as he formed a man from flame. The figure stood, glowing, but its eyes were empty. It moved, but did not live. He gave it shape, but not meaning.
Arion's small heart ached. "It's… lonely."
The voice whispered, sorrowful and infinite:
"So are you."
The dream shattered.
He awoke with tears on his cheeks. He did not know why, but deep within, he felt a wound greater than hunger, sharper than cold: the wound of abandonment.
---
Years would pass. The boy would survive. He would wander from village to village, hiding his strange powers, never finding a place to belong. People feared him, envied him, cast him out.
But the world would not let him remain hidden forever.
For in time, whispers of a child who bent fire and storm with his hands would reach the ears of kingdoms. Scholars would call him anomaly. Cults would call him weapon. And the shadows that once burned Valcrest would rise again, hungering for the Soulborn child.
And so, destiny would carry him to the gates of Starlight Academy — the cradle of heroes, the forge of legends. There, he would find friends, rivals, and enemies. There, he would laugh for the first time since his parents' arms. There, he would fight battles that shook nations.
And one day… the world would tremble, for the abandoned prince would rise as something greater.
Not a king.
Not a god.
But a creator.