Vol 1.1: The Forgotten Heir
The sea did not give him life—it returned him to a world that had forgotten him.
The tide rolled over his body in slow, sorrowful waves. The boy lay there—barefoot, half-buried in the wet sand—his hair tangled with seaweed and salt. The air was thick with fog, soft and heavy like a shroud. He opened his eyes to a sky the color of pewter, and for a moment, he could not remember what sky was.
His chest ached with each breath. His fingers trembled as they dug into the cold sand. The world felt strange—too loud, too alive. The cry of gulls pierced the silence above him, but his mind clung only to one sound: a woman's voice, distant and broken, echoing through the fog.
"Lian… run… before the crimson moon falls…"
The memory cut through his skull like lightning, and he sat up, gasping. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Crimson moon. The words twisted in his mind, glowing faintly behind his eyes. But when he looked up, there was no moon at all—only a vast, empty sky.
His gaze fell to the faint shimmer beneath his skin. Threads of gold pulsed in his veins, glowing softly like liquid light before fading into nothingness. He blinked. His hands trembled. He touched his wrist, searching for the glow again, but it was gone—swallowed by the pale morning.
Footsteps crunched on the pebbled shore. A gruff voice called out through the mist.
"Oi! There's someone down there! Looks half-dead!"
Two fishermen emerged, faces shadowed by the fog and their wide-brimmed hats. One carried a lantern, its orange glow slicing through the gray air.
"Poor lad," muttered the older one, kneeling beside him. "Looks like the sea spat him out."
The younger fisherman frowned. "You think he's from one of those wrecks? Tide's been cruel this season."
Lian tried to speak, but his voice came out hoarse, broken. "I… don't… know…"
The older man's brows furrowed. "Name?"
Lian hesitated, tasting the name as if it belonged to someone else. "…Lian. Lian Ardent."
The men exchanged a look.
"Well, Lian Ardent, you're lucky the sea didn't keep you," the younger said with a crooked smile. "Come on. Let's get you warm."
They helped him to his feet. His legs buckled, muscles weak as though he'd been sleeping for years. As they led him up the rocky path toward the village, the fog thinned to reveal rows of weathered cottages hugging the cliffside. The scent of fish and salt filled the air.
Lunehaven — that was the name painted on the sign at the edge of the pier. A quiet coastal town that seemed to stand at the edge of the world.
They took him to a small tavern called The Silver Gull, run by a stout woman with sharp eyes and a heart twice her size. Her name was Mara. She wrapped him in a blanket, sat him by the fire, and shoved a bowl of hot stew into his trembling hands.
"Eat," she ordered. "You've got the look of a ghost, boy."
He obeyed. The warmth burned his throat but thawed the cold buried deep inside him. She watched him between cleaning mugs, her curiosity plain.
"So where'd you drift in from?"
"I don't know," he said softly.
Her expression softened. "Don't remember, eh?"
He shook his head. "Only my name."
Mara sighed. "Well, Lunehaven's not much, but it's kind to strays. You can stay in the loft for now. Work a few shifts, and you'll pay your keep."
He nodded in gratitude.
That night, Lian lay awake in the small attic room above the tavern. Rain tapped softly against the window. His mind wandered through the emptiness where his memories should have been. He could not recall a home, a family, or how he'd come to the sea. Only flashes of impossible images lingered: a woman's silver hair, a blade of light, and a city burning beneath a sky full of stars.
He turned his hand in the moonlight. For a brief moment, his veins glowed again—thin lines of gold pulsing beneath his skin. Then they vanished.
He whispered into the dark, "Who am I?"
The sea answered with silence.
Days passed. Lian took up odd jobs around the town—delivering crates at the docks, fixing nets, washing dishes in the tavern. The townsfolk liked him well enough; he was quiet, polite, and never complained. Yet there was something about him that unsettled them too—a flicker in his eyes, a quiet sadness that didn't belong to someone so young.
He worked from dawn to dusk, then sat by the harbor watching the tide pull the world away. Sometimes he caught his reflection in the water—gold glinting faintly in his pupils before fading again. He began sketching what he remembered: a woman crying under a crimson moon, a forest of silver leaves, and a temple standing in ruins.
Mara often caught him staring out the window instead of eating. "Dreaming won't feed you, boy," she said.
He smiled faintly. "Maybe not. But dreams are all I have."
On the seventh night after his arrival, a storm rolled in from the sea. Thunder growled beyond the cliffs. The wind howled like a living thing, rattling the shutters. The power flickered, plunging the tavern into half-darkness.
Mara was busy securing the barrels when a child's scream cut through the storm.
Lian didn't think—he ran.
Down the narrow street, the waves were crashing high against the pier. A little girl stood frozen near the edge, clutching a lantern that flickered wildly in the wind. Behind her, a plank had given way, the sea roaring hungrily below.
"Don't move!" Lian shouted.
She turned—just as the board beneath her foot snapped.
He leapt.
For a heartbeat, the world went silent. His body moved faster than it should have—like the air itself bent to carry him. He caught the girl mid-fall, his hand glowing faintly gold where it touched her. The air rippled around them, waves freezing for a split second before crashing harmlessly aside.
He landed hard, the child clutched against his chest. The glow vanished.
People rushed out with lanterns, staring in disbelief.
"Did you see that?" someone gasped. "His hands—they were glowing!"
Mara's eyes widened. "Lian… what did you just do?"
He looked down at his hands—still trembling, but the light was gone. "I… I don't know."
The townsfolk whispered. Some made signs of warding. The storm's rage echoed the rising fear in their eyes.
Later that night, when the town slept uneasily, Lian stood alone at the edge of the forest beyond the cliffs. The wind carried whispers through the trees—soft, haunting, almost familiar.
A pale light shimmered between the trunks, beckoning him deeper. His heart pounded, but something inside him—something ancient and buried—pulled him forward.
He followed the glow through tangled roots and mist until he reached a clearing.
There, in the center, stood a great tree with silver bark and leaves that shimmered like moonlight. Beneath it, the ground was marked with strange sigils glowing faintly blue.
And from the shadows, three figures stumbled into view—girls, no older than him, their clothes torn, eyes wide with terror.
Behind them, the forest roared as shapes moved in the dark—creatures of smoke and shadow, their forms rippling like nightmares given flesh.
The tallest girl shouted, "Run!"
But Lian didn't move. His hand began to glow again—brighter this time, fierce and golden.
The shadows lunged.
And the forgotten heir took his first step toward remembering who he truly was.