Dawn crept gently over the plains of Phantasia.Mist rolled low between the whispering grasses, and the first light of morning caught on the river's skin like liquid glass. The world, for a moment, seemed to hold its breath.
In that hush, a boy crouched by the water's edge. His name was Leandros—a commoner, the miller's son, no older than fifteen. His dark hair was uncombed, tangled by dreams and dawn. Dew clung to his tunic, and the cool air left his fingers trembling, yet his gaze never wavered from the river before him.
The world was quiet—except for the soft hum of Aether.It rose faintly, like the sound of breath in the lungs of the world.
Leandros inhaled, eyes narrowing."Stay together this time…" he whispered.
A pulse of pale light rippled across the surface of the water.Then—pop!—a small, shimmering bubble lifted from his hands, spinning lazily in the air. It caught the dawn, refracting it into shifting rainbows.
[Close-up: The reflection of the bubble gleaming within his eyes, as if two worlds watched one another.]
Leandros smiled. "Finally…"
But the instant he exhaled, the bubble wobbled—then burst.A faint breeze brushed his cheek.The river rippled once, indifferent.
Behind him came laughter.
"Still playing with bubbles, Leandros?" a voice jeered.
He turned his head slightly. Three boys stood at the crest of the river path, their figures framed against the morning sun. At the front was Toren, the blacksmith's son, broad-shouldered and proud even at sixteen. His grin was as sharp as the blades his father forged.
"You'll never make a living with that kind of magic," Toren called, arms crossed. "Even the farmers can summon wind now."
The others snickered, echoing their leader.
Leandros didn't answer. He stared at the river, watching the sunlight fragment in its currents. The laughter faded behind him, swallowed by the murmur of water.
He wasn't angry. Not really.Just… curious.
They all see weakness, he thought.But what if I'm just looking in a different direction?
The river reflected his face—a boy with quiet eyes and hands that trembled not from fear, but from thought. He dipped his fingers into the water again. The ripples shimmered faintly, as though responding.
Days turned into weeks.
In the shadow of his small wooden shed, Leandros worked by candlelight. His table was cluttered with clay jars, old scrolls, and half-filled notes scrawled in charcoal. Every evening after chores, he returned here—his secret place—to test the limits of his Arcana.
His magic, they said, was trivial: "Conjuration of ephemeral orbs." Useless, they called it. Pretty, but powerless.
But Leandros saw more.
He found that when he willed the bubble to hold water, it did.When he wished it to hold smoke, it obeyed.When he imagined flame—flickering, breathing—it shimmered red, and warmth kissed his fingertips.
Each success came with exhaustion, but also revelation.The bubbles didn't respond to material, or gesture, or spell.They responded to intention.
He realized that when he felt peace, the bubbles drifted gently, whole and stable.When he felt fear, they quivered, scattering into fragments of light.And when he focused his heart on creation, the air itself seemed to listen.
One night, the moonlight poured through the gaps in the roof, silvering the floorboards. Leandros sat cross-legged in that pale glow, a single orb floating before him.
He whispered, "Maybe this isn't just a toy…"
The bubble pulsed faintly, as if it had heard him.
[Visual overlay: glowing diagrams and swirling runes projected across the page like a blueprint.]
Bubble + Emotion + Imagination = Arcana Manifestation
His charcoal scribbled across parchment, his mind racing faster than his quill.His Arcana wasn't weak—it was undefined.It could hold anything.Air. Light. Thought. Memory.
Limitless.
By dawn, the shed was filled with floating spheres. Some glowed faintly like lanterns. Others rippled with the shimmer of captured mist. A few even echoed with soft music—the hum of the world, trapped in glass.
When the villagers passed by and saw them drifting out through the open window, they chuckled.
"Leandros and his bubbles again," one said."Such a waste of potential," muttered another.
But Leandros only smiled, standing barefoot in the grass, his gaze following the spheres as they drifted upward.
They rose into the pale blue sky like fragments of a dream—each carrying a sliver of warmth, or silence, or light.
Tomorrow, he thought, watching the sunrise bloom over Phantasia,I'll create something new.