The final notes of the performance faded, leaving a hushed, reverent quiet in their wake. Myth and memory seemed to hang in the cool evening air. Slowly, the spell broke. The townspeople of Nareth'Qel began to drift away from the amphitheater, their voices a murmur of awed commentary, their hearts still racing with the epic tale of Anu's rebellion against the cosmos itself.
But for one boy, the ending felt like a curtain rising.
He lingered on the steps at the crowd's edge, a still figure amidst the dispersing audience. The platform before him, inlaid with pearl, glowed under the soft light of floating lanterns. A gentle breeze wove through the open pavilions, carrying snippets of laughter and passionate debate from the other youths. In the distance, the sun dipped behind the crystalline peaks of Mount Saelis, washing the lake-valley and the city it cradled in liquid amber.
The boy didn't move. His simple tunic, its only decoration a faint ash-gray thread along the hem, stirred in the wind. Dark hair, loosely tied, brushed his cheeks as he tilted his head back.
Above, the dusk sky was a highway for the wealthy returning home: great bronze palaces shaped like gentle whales, personal fliers trailing gossamer gold, an elegant glider marked with the Saevareth family crest heading for the eastern gardens. The boy's eyes passed over them. They looked further, beyond what anyone could see, into the deep and star-dusted nothing.
"You're doing it again," a voice said. Imius had circled back, his tone trying for casual but missing by a mile. He studied his friend with wary curiosity. "Always staring at nothing."
The boy was slow to answer. The twin moons' early glimmer reflected in his eyes—eyes that held a weight unsuitable for a fourteen-year-old. There was no pride there, just a profound distance, a quiet yearning for something too vast to name.
"They say Anu defied the heavens," the boy finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah? And?" Imius prompted, shuffling his feet.
"I just wonder… who wrote the rules he was breaking?"
Imius blinked. "Come again?"
"Forget it," the boy said, a faint, one-sided smile touching his lips. "Just thinking out loud."
A familiar frown settled on Imius's face. He'd always known his friend was different. It wasn't just the strange, calm way he carried himself, or how even the wind seemed to soften around him. It was the quiet, unsettling feeling that he was only visiting this world, not truly living in it.
"Did you even listen to the play?" Imius pressed, eager to ground the conversation. "Anu mastered the Ten Thousand Laws. He shattered every chain, even beat the so-called 'Kingly Ruler of Above.' It's incredible."
"Do you believe it happened?" the boy asked, his gaze still upward.
"I… I guess?" Imius shrugged. "It's a great story. A tragic one, too. But my dad says it's just an old legend, polished up by every generation to sound better."
The boy nodded slowly. "Some truths don't live in history books," he murmured. "They're buried in the bones of the world."
Imius stared, baffled. "You say the weirdest things sometimes, you know that?"
The boy offered no explanation. He simply turned and started down the winding steps toward the lantern-lit boulevard below. Imius hurried after him, a mix of annoyance and concern tightening his chest.
Around them, the city was coming alive with post-performance energy. Youths sparred with sticks, imitating the play's heroes. Someone burst into an exaggerated verse from the epic poem, earning a chorus of laughs. An old vendor was loudly complimenting the Saevareth family's lighting design. It was all perfectly, wonderfully normal.
Yet, as the boy passed under an archway of glowing dreamstone, the air shivered. A subtle, silent ripple. No one noticed.
Almost no one.
From a high tower in the Saevareth Third Branch Estate, a woman watched. Her cloak, marked with a black sun ringed by nine blades, denoted her high status within the family. Her sharp eyes tracked the boy's solitary figure until he turned a corner.
"That odd boy from the lower quarters," she muttered to herself, a slight frown on her lips. "There's something… off about him. Best not to pay him any mind. Getting involved with his type is more trouble than it's worth."
Down on the street, as the boy moved from lamplight into shadow, his own shadow seemed to waver for a split second—doubling, then merging back into one.
For everyone else, the tale had concluded.
For him,a strange and certain feeling had taken root: this wasn't just a story. It was a possibility. A forgotten echo. And it held far more secrets than any play could ever tell.