HE IS BORN
Before the dawn had a name, before gods learned to speak, the Aethelians sang the first fire into existence. They were the architects of stars, beings whose souls were woven from light, flame, and sorrow. But even the eternal burn out.
When the War of Crowns devoured the heavens, the Aethelians fell—slaughtered by their own kin, consumed by the very divinity they once mastered. Worlds turned to ash. Thrones became graves. And from that silence, in the cradle of dying constellations, one heartbeat refused to fade.
A wolf-shaped flame broke through the void. Its cry tore through creation, shaking the bones of gods.
That flame became flesh. That flesh became a boy.
Aethon was born beneath a sky that no longer remembered his race—eyes burning red-gold like a dying sun, veins pulsing with the power of a kingdom erased from all records. The last Aethelian. The echo of a forgotten god.
And as he took his first breath, the world shuddered—because somewhere deep within its buried memory, it recognized its king.