The sun was starting to set, its golden rays stretching long across the rooftops like reluctant fingers. Dusk had come, gentle and slow, shrouding the world in a dying warmth. But the little town of Caelum did not seem to care. It was too busy with happiness.
Banners billowed from windows, and threads of tattered lanterns hung quietly in the air, catching the fading sunlight like fireflies. The whole town was alive with activity—cobblestone roads filled with footfalls, sounds, and the aroma of roasted nuts and sweetbread.
It was the fifth day of the Hunter's Dawn Festival, and Caelum had celebration wrapped around him like a bride's veil.
The bells started ringing—low and resonant, the sound ringing through all the alleys and open windows. It was not merely a signal. It was a call. A tradition.
Children poured into the streets, laughter behind them like ribbons. They ran barefoot on warm stone, racing one another toward the square, their faces more lit than by lantern light.
"Where are you all headed?" a woman called out, readjusting a basket on her hip.
"The library!" a boy yelled, not even stopping to turn around. He was the straggling last of the pack, panting but smiling.
Market stalls thronged close by. Women haggled with nimble hands and sharp tongues, hoarding rations—rice, lentils, dried fruit—sufficient to get them through the remainder of the holy festival week. Men sprawled on stoops, exchanging tales of yesteryear, debating which festival day was most significant.
"It's as if the whole town's wedding," one of them quipped, blowing a cloud of smoke from his pipe. "And Caelum's the bride.
And in some way, it was so. The town seemed alive, even holy—like it recalled something old and good.
But there were those who did not laugh.
A boy—practically ten, dust on his face and sweat on his forehead—was running away from the square, not towards it. His name was Alex.
He sprinted by the bakery, cinnamon fumes hanging over the window, by the crumbling fountain that was no longer in working condition, by three separate neighbors, each of whom shot him the same puzzled stare.
"Do you see him?" Alex gasped. "The old man?"
They shook their heads one after the other. One of them laughed. "Still pursuing phantoms, boy? He's most likely mumbling at a wall again."
Alex dismissed the remark. He had no time for that. Not today.
His heart raced as he traversed the town like a thread pulled through fabric. The adornments, the merriment, the clamor—it was all far away. What did matter was locating him. The old man. Elias.
What if they were correct? What if Elias had wandered off again? What if he'd forgotten today—forgotten him?
Alex clenched his teeth and continued to run. He didn't mind if people believed Elias was crazy. He didn't mind the murmurs or the sympathetic glances. Elias was the only one who got him. The only one who didn't handle him like he was fragile.
Then it struck him. Tomorrow.
The sixth day of the festival.
His birthday.
He would be ten.
Which meant. the possibility of a Mark.
Alex hesitated, the sudden realization making his knees weak. Butterflies curled in his gut—nervous and thrilling all at the same time.
He balled his fists. No time to daydream.
If Elias was anywhere, he was the one place that always seemed like a secret world.
The library.
Alex turned and ran again, this time with surety in his steps. Beyond the lanterns, beyond the dying bells, to the old building that stood at the end of the main road—the sole library in Caelum.
As Alex ran through the cobblestone streets, his breathing was in short gasps. He turned the last corner, boots sliding a little on the stone, and what he saw took his chest tight—not with fear, but with awe.
The library.
Alex noticed dozens of children, the majority about his age—some younger, some barely walking—were running towards it as if pulled by an unseen thread. Their laughter resonated down the alleys like music, blending with the still-ringing bells in the background.
They weren't here for books. They were here for him.
Alex trailed behind the crowd, pushing the heavy wooden doors open with both hands. The hinges creaked with a noise like a sleeping monster stirring from rest, complaining of its age. The smell hit him at once—a rich mixture of old parchment, polished wood, and subtle candlewax. It was the smell of stories. Of time. Of safety.
Lanterns hung from rusted iron hooks on walls, casting soft pools of golden light across the floor. Shadows danced gently between the shelves, and the flickering fire made the book spines glimmer like ancient riches. The shelves themselves were imposing and sturdy, standing like silent sentinels of lost knowledge. To Alex, they were a forest—and this was his happy place in the world.
As he moved deeper within, the cacophony of the street dissipated, supplanted by subdued tones, leafy pages turning, and a single low, constant voice slicing through everything else.
The voice of Elias.
Alex's heart froze for one beat. And then he grinned.
Sitting in his battered leather chair, a fat, weathered book lying open over his lap, Elias resembled one of the people out of the tales he spun. His hair, silver and untamed, poured down his back like moonlight braided into thread. His eyes—intense, smart, much too wise for a man the town referred to as mad—twinkled with a sort of inner flame.
Grandpa, Alex felt his heart fill with warmth.
Children sat all around Elias, on the wooden floor, cross-legged, others leaning forward as if they could not bear to miss a single word. They stared with wide eyes, faces aglow in the light of lanterns. Even the fidgety ones were quiet.
Elias's voice was a river—deep, peaceful, but strong enough to cut through stone. He had the cadence of one who had recited these stories a hundred times, and still believed every word. His voice spun battles, marvels, and old legends into the air like magic.
As Alex entered, the story reached its conclusion.
and with the dying star's final gasp, she disappeared—smiling," Elias finished, the book slowly shutting. The kids burst into delicate applause, others snickering, others pounding their palms like it was the best show on earth.
Alex remained immobile for an instant, just standing there. His chest knot resolved, his pulse slowed. He hadn't abandoned it. He was there. Elias returned to the library every time.
Their gazes met across the room.
Elias didn't speak. He simply smiled.
It was a small action—but to Alex, it was a vow. I'm here. I won't abandon you.
Alex took a vacant position at the back and slipped into the circle, sitting cross-legged along with the others. The dance of shadows cast by the candles on the walls played on Elias's face as he opened a new book—one with faded leather cover and silver threads sewn into the spine.
The room descended into a hush, a sort of sacred quiet that only Elias could achieve.
He surveyed each child in turn, his eyes lingering finally on Alex.
Then he began to speak.
"Tonight," Elias said, his voice calm but full of something deeper, "I share with you a story unlike any other. A story not simply of heroes… but of decisions. Of giving up. And of power that can alter everything."
The kids leaned forward naturally.
Elias let the silence hang, stringing it out like a virtuoso tuning his last string. Then, speaking in a voice just loud enough to carry to every part of the room, he announced:
"The Tale of Azarion Dawnbreaker."
Gasp waves swept through the kids. Even Alex felt a shiver creep up his neck.
A few had heard snippets previously—circulated like rumors down alleys or spoken on festival nights—but never the complete tale. That name was not to be profaned. That name held significance.
Elias reclined, eyes half-lidded as though gazing into a world visible only to him.
"Long before this town was constructed… before even the first stone of the Empire was laid… there was a time of shadows. A time when the world had no guardians. No names. No Marks. Only survival."
He paused, allowing the words to sink in.
"And in that time of darkness… a single man lit the fire that would never go out."
The fire in the lanterns appeared to dance higher, as if responding to his words.
Alex leaned forward with the others, hardly breathing.
He had heard snippets. Bits and fragments. But something about tonight was different. As if this tale had been waiting for him.
Waiting for his ninth birthday. Waiting for his Mark. Waiting for his path to start.
Elias stood in front of the semicircle of wide-eyed children, his staff tapping lightly on the floor as he leaned on it. The dancing lanterns above cast a golden glow to the library, and the sound of parchment rustling and wind outside ceased.
He held up a finger.
"Before the world was made—before Caelum's Hollow, before the stars, before even time itself—there were only two things," he spoke low and slow.
The room leaned forward.
One was Void—a seething tumult, hungry, shapeless, silent. The other, Starlight—luminous, structured, boundless. They despised each other. They adored each other. They could not be separated, and they could not touch without shattering the fabric of reality."
He walked slowly, allowing the silence to accumulate. "But once. they did. Just once. And from that impossible union, something new came into being. Not a god. Not a monster. Something else.
He turned to them, eyes aglow.
"The First Ascendant."
Gasps. The title resonated like thunder in the children's minds.
"He wasn't born of Void or Starlight. He was a product of both of them—wounded by their war, forged by their wrath. With his hands, the world was shaped. Mountains. Oceans. Moonlight. Us."
He tapped his own chest.
But creation is war. And in the defense of this new world, the Ascendant was hurt. Seriously. His very soul torn asunder by combat. Out of those wounds. he created something."
He lifted his arm and drew a shining line in the air, an emblem of old light.
"The Marks. Each one a fragment of the Ascendant's conflict. A memory. A sacrifice."
The kids whispered, looking down at their own blank wrists.
"He gave them to us—so that even the weakest farmer might hold a piece of his power. But power. is not free."
He groaned and leaned more on his staff.
"Over time, the Ascendant grew tired. Debilitated by wars against the encroaching Void. So, he established Titles—twenty-five of them. Each a living manifestation of a force: Time, War, Hunger, Flame. And he charged them with protecting the world."
"At first, they did." Elias nodded. "They took humanity into an era of miracles. They constructed cities in the sky. They cut rivers across deserts. And they defended the innocent."
A hesitation. His tone became softer.
"But power alters all."
He regarded each child in turn, voice serious now.
"Some Titles began to see mortals as. lesser. They believed their gifts were too sacred to be shared. They closed their temples. They turned away from the cries of the dying."
The children scowled. One of the boys leaned in and whispered, "Is that when the Architect came?"
Elias smiled gently. "Yes. The Architect. A Name of healing, of invention, of hope. He thought that the mortals were still worthy of a chance. So he did the unthinkable—he cut a well into the world's roots themselves. A path by which even mortal-born men. without any inheritance. might earn Marks."
"The Shadowwell."
A shiver of fear and awe passed through the children.
"Initially, it was miraculous. Farmers were made stronger. Children learned to fly. The world celebrated. But. the Shadowwell demanded something in exchange. Sacrifice. Pain. Memories."
"Then, one day—it broke."
His voice cracked just sufficiently to bring quiet.
"The Architect killed thousands. With him stood ten rebellious Titles—ones who had for a long time regarded mortals as pests. They thought that the world must burn. They turned on the others."
The children were deathly silent.
"The seas divided. The heavens flowed fire. The First Prime War raged—and from its wreckage emerged a man. A man. A farmer. He wore no mark. No bloodline. Only sorrow."
Elias's voice growled.
"His name was Azarion Dawnbreaker. The world remembers him by a different name—"
He waited for the pause.
"Mr. Hunter."
A few of the children stiffened.
"His family perished when the Prime War tsunamis destroyed his homeland. But he lived—not by chance, but by will. The Titles witnessed it. And the mark discovered him."
"He did not serve. He did not bow. He hunted. One by one, he laid waste to the Rebellion. All ten fallen Titles. All their legions."
"And then, he did the unthinkable—he faced the Architect himself."
The room breathed.
"They fought beneath a burning sky. Azarion, just a man with a broken blade. The Architect, wielding all the madness of the Shadowwell. But in the end."
Elias closed his eyes.
"Azarion won. He sealed the Architect in the Dark Sun, a prison of no time and no sound. But he paid the price. He was no immortal. He died a mortal death. Old, tired. but victorious."
The kids remained in stunned silence.
"But prior to his demise, he left something behind," Elias declared. "A piece of his soul in the Shadowwell—so that when darkness re-emerges, his will could guide another."
"And more. He etched a monument of hope out of the skies themselves—The Sunspire. As opposed to the Shadowwell, it bestows Marks without fee. A present to the future generation."
He looked out of the window where the twin moons were hanging low.
"Because that is how we mark Hunter's Dawn. Seven hallowed days in tribute to the legacy of Azarion. This day is the Fifth."
One girl lifted a trembling hand. "The Sixth. the Marks. is tomorrow."
Elias nodded with a radiant smile.
"Tomorrow, there comes an Inspector from the Sunspire. And if your hearts remain firm—if your wills are true—you shall each get your first Mark."
The children burst into thrilled whispers, but Elias stepped aside for an instant, long enough that no one caught the flash of sorrow in his eye.
"Sleep well tonight," he spoke more softly now. "For tomorrow, your ways start."
"But first, let's take the lanterns outside."
Ran kids out with enthusiasm.
The fifth evening of the Hunter's Dawn was always the most subdued.
No duels clashing steel, no feasts spilling laughter into the air. Just lanterns—dozens of them—shivering in small hands, waiting to rise.
Kids clustered on the grassy slope outside Caelum, where the stars seemed nearer and the quiet wasn't empty, but sacred. Each kid held a homemade lantern—painted, scribbled, or smudged with charcoal—hugging dreams they weren't brave enough to say out loud.
Alex stood among them, holding his lantern tightly. The paper was slightly creased, but the artwork within was bright: a stick figure holding a book and a stick figure with a sword standing under an ascendant sun. One had Elias's beard and robes. The other had Alex's tousled hair and an enormous, drawn-out grin.
He had rewritten it twice after smudging the sun.
In back of the children, parents and spectators stood in reverent quiet. Elias remained a few steps away from Alex, his arms crossed behind him. The shadows of remembrance moved across his face like pale clouds.
Above them all, nestled in the gnarled limbs of an old elm tree, a crow sat motionless. Its feathers glowed softly in the moonlight, dark but somehow silky—like ink that wouldn't quite dry. Its eyes were glowing marbles, too big for its head, too clever for any bird.
It blinked slowly, cocking its head.
He invites you along with him," the crow growled. Its voice was sleepily childlike and raspy. "He believes you are family."
The voice of the crow did not touch mortal ears. Only wind conveyed it. Only one man was able to really hear it, and Elias offered no response—only the faintest flicker of a look toward the tree.
The crow puffed its chest out, flapped once, and folded its wings once more. "Still in hiding. Still pretending."
Its tone wasn't taunting—merely. aged.
Alex looked up at Elias. "Do you think the Watcher is really real?"
Elias blinked, then smiled weakly. "Some say he never departed. That he assisted Azarion in constructing the Sunspire."
"Really? The true one?"
Elias nodded. "The Watcher hears everything, they say. Promises. Secrets. Lies spoken in the shadows. Even vows uttered on the wind."
Alex gazed back at his lantern. "So. if I make a vow tonight, he'll hear it?"
"If you mean it."
Alex looked intently at the small drawing. "I swear I'll take care of him too. Like he took care of me."
Elias didn't say anything. He didn't have to.
Children around them were releasing. Lanterns started to soar—dozens at first, then scores—flickering lights floating up into the darkness like delicate golden fireflies.
Some had suns on them. Some had swords. One had a small crow.
Alex's fingers trembled slightly. His lantern bobbed in his hands.
"What if mine doesn't go?" he whispered.
"Then I'll help you," Elias said.
Together, they raised the lantern, cupping it gently until the breeze caught it. It lifted, hesitant at first, then steadily upward, glowing with the warmth of the charcoal drawing inside.
The figure with the book. The figure with the sword.
The sun between them.
The crow cocked its head again, now standing atop the lopsided chimney of the old library.
"He has no idea," it whispered.
It watched the lantern float, eyes mirrored off the flame.
"Not yet. But soon.
Its body glimmered for an instant. Where there had been feathers, smooth black fur rippled instead. Its wings became stubby and rounded, its beak curved into a mischievous smile. In this adorable shape, the crow resembled almost a cuddly toy come to life—one that could talk, lead, and nip if needed.
Its voice also altered—softer now, more playful.
"Should I tell him?" it queried the stars. "Or let it unfold?
The stars did not respond. But the wind stirred softly through the trees, as if warning silence.
Below, the townspeople began their silent journey home, leaving the sky to keep their prayers. Only a few children stayed behind, watching their lanterns disappear in the constellations.
Alex gazed up until his neck ached. "Do you think Azarion sealed the Architect?"
He did," Elias said softly. "And he died doing it. A mortal with no mark, but a soul powerful enough to withstand gods."
"Did the Watcher assist him too?"
"Azarion requested one thing of the Watcher," Elias replied. "To remember. To never look away. And the Watcher. upheld that vow.
Folk still called on the Watcher today—not as a deity, but as a witness. Couples exchanged vows under his eyes. Warriors swore oaths under his stars. And children whispered to the darkness, praying he listened.
One lantern floated higher than the rest. Alex's. Its light was gentle, but unwavering.
The crow puffed out its wings and grinned.
"He'll be ready," it whispered. "One day."
And somewhere far beyond stars and wind and human sight—
the Watcher watched.