Before kingdoms fell and gods wept, there were whispers of Aeon's return. A fragment of the infinite, buried beneath ruin and blood, waiting for a vessel to awaken it once more.
Now, the boy who should have died stands at the center of storms unseen, hunted by guilds, shadow kings, and fates crueler than death itself.
The first light has flickered. And in its glow, the predators gather.
Word of the Dead Hollow massacre spread like wildfire across Varendel's fractured sectors. To most, it was just another tragedy, another graveyard of forgotten souls. But to those who watched the weave of fate, it was a beacon — no, a siren's scream.
The Guild Seers saw it first.
In their sanctum of obsidian mirrors, the reflections twisted and blurred, coalescing into the image of a boy with eyes that burned like the dawn of creation.
"A False Deity," gasped Arch-Seer Velan, his wrinkled hand trembling over the runes etched into the viewing pool. His voice cracked with a mixture of fear and awe. "No... worse. He bears the Mark of Aeon."
Panic rippled through the Guilds. Councils convened in midnight chambers. Orders were shouted. Assassins and enforcers were dispatched. Whatever Kael Vire had become, they wanted him — either as a weapon under their control, or ash beneath their boots.
But before the Guilds could strike, shadows moved faster.
Beneath the festering streets of Varendel, in a palace of rust and silk, Kara Yil — Queen of the Black Lotus Syndicate — lounged upon her thorn-shaped throne. Her eyes, like molten amber, narrowed as her informant finished the report.
"He survived the Reaver. Killed it with conjured light," the informant whispered, breathless. "The Seers call him Aeon's vessel."
Kara tapped a finger against her lips, amused. "A god wearing a beggar's skin," she mused. "How quaint."
Without hesitation, she waved her hand. Shadows detached from the walls — assassins, her finest, clad in duskweave armor. Silent as smoke.
"Bring me the boy," she commanded. "Alive."
Kael, meanwhile, had not slept since the battle. He couldn't. The fragment in his chest pulsed like a second heart, its rhythm weaving into his veins, his bones, his very thoughts. Every breath felt heavier, charged with power he did not understand.
As he crouched in the wreckage of what used to be his home, Kael clenched his fists. His muscles ached with unfamiliar strength. Sparks of light flickered beneath his skin, casting ghostly patterns on the ruined walls.
"I don't know what I am..." he whispered to himself, his voice hoarse — but it was his voice. No longer mute. No longer silent.
But he had no time for reflection.
They came at him in the dead of night.
Silent footsteps, barely a whisper against the rubble. Kael's instincts screamed. He spun just as the first assassin lunged, blades shimmering with poisoned intent.
His body moved without thought. Etherium light flared from his palm, manifesting a crescent blade of pure energy. He parried, the clash igniting sparks that danced like fireflies.
More shadows emerged, circling him.
Kael's breath quickened, but a strange calm settled over his mind. He saw their movements before they made them — like echoes of fate playing out in advance.
One assassin struck from above. Kael ducked, slashing upward, severing shadowflesh from bone. Another aimed for his back, but Kael spun, palm open, and released a burst of blinding light. The assailant disintegrated mid-charge, torn apart by raw force.
But then — the unexpected.
As Kael staggered from the assault, one assassin, cloaked deeper in shadow than the rest, lashed out with a curved blade of void energy. It grazed Kael's side, drawing blood blacker than night.
Pain seared through him, but something deeper awakened.
The fragment in his chest flared like a dying star rekindling. His vision blurred, then sharpened. Tendrils of living darkness erupted from his wound, not to escape — but to consume.
Kael grabbed the assassin by the wrist. His skin burned against the contact, but he didn't let go.
The assassin's eyes widened in horror as Kael's body absorbed him — shadows and all. Bones, soul, and screams folded into Kael's being, leaving nothing behind but drifting ash.
For a moment, Kael stood frozen, breathing hard, as his form twisted and shimmered. Shadowy wings unfurled from his back, vast and terrible. His eyes, once blazing white, now flickered like dying stars.
A voice, ancient and resonant, echoed within him:
"You are not ready. But you will be."
Kael dropped to one knee, gasping as the wings faded and his eyes dimmed to their previous glow. He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, feeling the storm within settle — for now.
Far above, unseen but not unfelt, Kara Yil watched from her private scrying mirror. Her lips curled into a dangerous smile.
"Don't kill him," she murmured to her remaining shadows. "Not yet."
Her amber gaze gleamed with newfound hunger. "He is worth far more alive."
Kael staggered to his feet, the ruins around him eerily quiet. The whispers in his mind hadn't faded — they had only grown louder. And amidst the chorus of voices, one call rose above the rest:
A second fragment.He could feel it.It pulsed in the distance, singing to him across the broken streets of Varendel.
Kael's eyes narrowed with purpose. He didn't understand what he was becoming, but he knew one thing:
If the world wanted to hunt him, then he would hunt fate itself.
And he would win.
[End of Chapter 3]