The next day dawned cold but mercifully clear. No storms split the sky. No Ridgeclaws
prowled the ridges. No mysterious cloaked figures walked the horizon—at least none visible.
But peace was only a thin crust stretched over roiling fear.
The caravan moved in grim determination, pushing down from the canyon into increasingly gentler terrain. The land opened to broad hills and winding streams, their surfaces glittering in the morning sun. Green shoots dotted the mud where the storm had ripped open the soil.
John walked beside Doris's wagon again, one hand resting on its wood, the other near his sword. Brian slept inside its sheltered interior, wrapped warmly. The rhythmic creak of wheels and clop of hooves filled the silence.
Doris had said she would tell him everything today.
But she hadn't spoken a word since breakfast.
The caravan master, Gerran, led at the front, eyes scanning the horizon with the grim vigilance of a man who expected the world itself to betray him. Dorothy walked ahead as well, one hand brushing the air occasionally, sensing the unseen.
John slowed his steps and climbed into the wagon, closing the flap behind him. The interior was dim and quiet, smelling faintly of wool, herbs, and the lingering scent of last night's small fire.
Doris sat at the far end, leaning back on folded blankets, her cloak wrapped around her shoulders. Brian rested in her arms, a small bundle of warmth and fragile breathing.
She looked up when John entered, and for the first time since dawn, she didn't avert her
gaze.
"It's time," she said softly.
John nodded and sat across from her. "I'm ready."
Doris took a long breath and exhaled shakily. "I should have told you long ago," she murmured. "Before Brian. Before… everything. But I feared that if I said the words aloud, they would drag the past back into the
world."
John crossed the small space and took her free hand. "Whatever it is, we face it together."
Her fingers tightened around his. "I know."
Brian stirred, eyes fluttering. Doris cradled him closer, as if shielding him from the words she was about to speak.
"John," she whispered, "my name… isn't Doris."
John blinked. A harmless start, but somehow chilling.
"It was given to me," she said. "A name for running. A name for hiding."
"What was your real one?" John asked.
She hesitated. "Doriane Aetheris. Heir to the Voidborn Line."
John went still.
The air in the wagon felt suddenly thin. Brian let out a soft, questioning sound—too faint to break the tension.
Doris watched John carefully, fear—real fear—shadowing her features. "Please say something."
John swallowed. His voice emerged hoarse. "I… knew there was something," he said. "But I didn't know it was this."
Her eyes glistened. "I never wanted this life to touch you. Or him."
John shook his head slowly. "Doris—or Doriane—help me understand. Who exactly are the Voidborn?"
Doris shifted, adjusting Brian so she could free one arm. She drew a symbol in the air—a looping, spiralling pattern. The lines shimmered faintly, bending light before fading.
A Voidborn seal.
"We were… are… an ancient lineage," she said. "Our ancestors discovered truths about Space—how it bends, how it tears, how it can be moulded. Their mastery rivalled gods in the oldest stories."
She glanced down.
"And their arrogance rivalled monsters."
John leaned forward, listening intently.
"They shaped the world," Doris continued softly. "Built the first sky-archipelagos, carved pathways through dimensions, created artifacts that could change entire ecosystems. Some of them believed they were doing good. Others believed balance needed to be enforced. Rigidly. Perfectly."
Her voice tinged with sorrow.
"And their greatest attempt to 'fix' the world… broke it instead."
John frowned. "Dorothy mentioned something about a destabilization."
Doris nodded. "The Aether Core—the heart of magic that lies deep beneath the world. A source of equilibrium. My ancestors tried to infuse it with a new pattern—a perfect elemental harmony. But the Core resisted. Splintered." She closed her eyes. "And from the fracture… the First Flame was born."
John felt a chill crawl up his spine.
Doris continued, voice barely above a whisper. "It wasn't fire as we know it. It was… purity. Pain. Will. Consuming and creating. A primal force between existence and nonexistence. It nearly tore the world apart."
John's fingers curled. "So, your ancestors sealed it."
"They had no choice," Doris said. "They created dimensional barriers, using their own life force and Aether to cage it between realms. Most of them died. The survivors were hated. Feared. Hunted. Our bloodline fractured and faded."
Her voice trembled.
"I am—was—one of the last. Hidden. Trained to never use our heritage, never draw attention."
She met John's eyes.
"And then I chose a life they never envisioned. I fled. I found you. I thought maybe, just maybe, I could live as a simple merchant's wife." Her lips shook. "I thought the world had forgotten us."
John's breath was steady, but inside, storm winds rose.
"You hid all that… to keep him safe," he realized.
"And you," she whispered.
He reached out, gently brushing her cheek. "I don't blame you. Not for any of it."
Her eyes shimmered. "I was afraid you would."
He shook his head. "I'm afraid of what comes next. But not of you."
Doris leaned into him, forehead against his shoulder. For a few quiet heartbeats, the wagon swayed, wheels creaking beneath them as open plains rolled by outside.
Then Brian woke with a tiny cry.
Doris held him close, rocking gently.
"Is he…" John hesitated. "Voidborn?"
Doris sighed. "Yes. And no."
John blinked. "Meaning?"
"Meaning his signature isn't like mine," she said. "Or any Voidborn ancestors. Last night, during the storm, when he used fire and wind together—no Voidborn infant has ever done that. Even adults rarely wield multiple elements naturally."
John felt his heartbeat quicken. "So, he's beyond that lineage."
"He is a child of fate," Doris said softly. "Both ours—and something greater. There's something inside him that resonates with the world. Something that echoes. Something that the Paragons have been seeking for
generations."
John's body went rigid.
"The Echo," he murmured.
Doris nodded.
"John… the Paragons believe a child born with such resonance will be able to unseal the First Flame."
The wagon jolted slightly, wheels striking a rock. But John barely felt it.
"They think he's a key," Doris said. "Or a weapon. Or a sacrifice."
Now the cold inside John became sharp, unyielding steel.
"They will not have him," John said. "Not while I breathe."
Doris's eyes softened. "I knew you'd say that."
He took her hand. "We get him to the Academy. We force them to protect him. And if they try to use him—"
"They won't," Doris interrupted. "Not immediately. The Academy has laws. They keep records. They observe."
"But the Empire…" John muttered.
"Yes," Doris said. "The emperor will want to see him. They'll want to test him."
John's jaw clenched. "Let them try."
The wagon bumped over a patch of uneven ground. Brian fussed, little hands batting at the air.
John reached over and let a small spark blossom above his palm—soft, warm, harmless. Brian quieted, drawn to the light.
But this time, something else happened.
The flame… stretched.
Just slightly. Just enough that both adults noticed.
John gasped. His flame—his magic—responded to Brian.
Doris covered her mouth. "John… he's resonating. With you."
"That's not normal," John said.
"No."
Brian reached out, tiny fingers brushing at the flickering glow—and the flame bent toward him, like a flower seeking sunlight.
Doris whispered, "He's drawing from you. Not your magic. Your… presence."
John extinguished the spark, abruptly worried. Brian whimpered softly but quickly quieted.
"Is he in danger from me?" John asked.
Doris shook her head. "No. He trusts you. That's why your magic responds. But it also means he's sensitive. Too sensitive. If a Paragon tried to manipulate that…"
Her voice broke.
John placed a firm hand on her knee. "They won't touch him. Not while we live."
Doris's lip trembled. "Then we go to the Academy," she said. "We go tonight. We don't stop."
"We don't stop," John echoed.
That evening, as the caravan made camp near a small river bend, Dorothy approached their wagon.
Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes sharpened as she saw Doris and John's faces.
"You told him," Dorothy said.
Doris nodded.
Dorothy sighed. "Good. Secrets weigh heavier when they're needed most."
John crossed his arms. "How much of this did you know?"
Dorothy met his gaze evenly. "Enough. But not everything. Doris made her choices, and I honoured them."
"And the Paragons?" John asked.
Dorothy's mouth tightened. "They're moving. Faster than expected. The Echo from Brian's birth… it rippled far. Too far."
John's pulse hammered.
Dorothy continued, "We need to reach the capital in five days."
"That's impossible," Gerran said, approaching with a lantern.
"It's necessary," Dorothy replied. "Or the Paragons will intercept us at the Crosswind Vale."
John stepped forward. "Then we leave at dawn."
Dorothy shook her head. "No. We leave now."
"Now?" Doris said, startled. "In the dark?"
Dorothy's eyes glinted. "Dark is safer than lingering. The Paragons hunt during transitions—dawn, dusk, storms. Night is the only time they struggle to track resonance."
John frowned. "Why?"
Dorothy tapped her staff on the earth. "Because the stars confuse their readings. Too many points of magic overhead. Too many reflections."
Doris stared. "The sky protects us."
"For a few nights," Dorothy said. "Then their rituals will adapt."
Gerran cursed under his breath. "Damn it. We're overextended. Horses are exhausted. Wagons damaged—"
"I know," Dorothy said. "But we have no choice. If we don't reach the Academy soon, the Paragons will force our hand."
John looked at Doris, then at Brian.
There was no hesitation in him now.
"I'll walk through the night," John said. "Carry Doris if needed. Carry Brian if needed."
Doris touched his cheek gently. "We do this together."
Dorothy nodded grimly. "Then gather your things."
As the caravan packed hurriedly, darkness swelling across the plains, John lifted Brian gently and held him close.
"You hear that?" he murmured. "We're running again. But this time, we're running toward something, not away."
The baby blinked up at him—calm, curious.
The wind stirred softly, warm around them for just a moment.
Doris watched with sad, fierce pride.
Dorothy tightened her cloak. "We travel fast. We travel quiet. Keep the child close."
John nodded.
"Good," Dorothy said. "Because the night will be our only ally."
And with that, the caravan began its moonless march toward the capital.
Toward safety.
Toward danger.
Toward destiny.