That morning, Astren was strangely silent—too silent.
Not serene.
Not tranquil.
But tense.
As if the village was holding its breath, anticipating an arrival.
And something did come.
The Seeker glided through Astren with the fluidity of a shadow mastering human movement. His cloak whispered in the wind, adorned with symbols beyond mortal comprehension. His eyes surveyed the village not out of curiosity, but with a sense of familiarity, as though he had perused the pages of this world before.
He halted before the training field where children were practicing with wooden weapons.
At the center stood Ren Samael.
Breath steady.
Eyes ablaze.
Unwaveringly striking a practice post with astonishing accuracy.
The Seeker's focus intensified. He sensed a faint trace of a power that shouldn't exist within human blood.
The trace of fire. The echo of the one who once transcended eternity…
Ren was oblivious to him, much like a wolf is indifferent to a passing cloud.
He continued his strikes.
Harder.
Faster.
Resolute.
The Seeker murmured quietly:
"Kael's reflection… awaken gently."
Then, he turned away.
Ren shivered momentarily—not from chill but from a weight pressing against his destiny, tugging at his heart.
Yet he dismissed it.
He was not yet ready.
At Stellan's House
Stellan knelt by the riverbank, observing sunlight ripple across the water. An unnatural peace enveloped him—everything seemed to soften in his presence.
The Seeker approached without a sound.
But Stellan turned before he had taken three steps.
"How did you know I was here?" the Seeker asked softly.
Stellan frowned, puzzled by his own answer.
"…I felt you."
The wind fell still.
The Seeker looked at him—not with distrust but with reverence.
For the first time in centuries, his voice quivered.
"Stellan Adrian," he stated.
The boy blinked.
"Do I know you?"
"No." The Seeker knelt, lowering his head. "But I sense what stirs within you."
He held a small stone between his fingers.
"Try to break this."
"…Why?" Stellan asked, hesitant.
"Indulge an old traveler."
Stellan touched the stone.
Nothing changed.
Then—
The stone split in two.
Not from force.
Not from heat.
It unraveled, like a memory being dismantled.
The Seeker gasped.
Ren relied on strength.
Stellan drew on existence.
The Seeker whispered:
"You are not meant for this world."
Stellan trembled. "What does that mean…?"
But the Seeker remained resolute.
"It suggests the universe is starting to recall you."
THE HILL OF TWO PARTS
That evening, Stellan and Ren convened on their favorite hill overlooking Astren.
Neither brought up the unusual occurrences of their day.
They simply observed as the sun drained across the horizon—two boys, oblivious that they stood at a pivotal junction of reality.
Eventually, Ren spoke.
"I'm becoming stronger," he said firmly.
Stellan nodded.
"I know."
Ren tightened his fists. "And you… there's something about you. Something the world responds to."
Stellan didn't contest it.
"I don't seek power," he whispered.
Ren studied him—searching, narrowing his focus.
"…Then I'll accept it."
Not in anger.
Not in hostility.
A vow.
A destiny beginning to unfold.
Two boys.
Two futures.
One rebelling.
One inevitably rising.
Above them, stars twinkled—not randomly, but in design.
A message.
A warning.
A salutation.
Far beyond those stars, two ancient figures observed in silence.
Sylvion.
Kael.
They remained quiet.
This was not their time.
But their echoes had begun to stir.