The Kingdom Left Behind
The fires had long since died, but the scars on the capital of Velmora remained. Cracked marble columns jutted from broken earth, glass from the great cathedral scattered like stardust across the streets, and the once pristine banners of the royal family hung in tatters, fluttering weakly in the breeze.
Smoke still clung to the air, haunting every corner with the memory of war.
The invaders had been driven back. Victory had been declared.
But it didn't feel like victory.
No parades marched through the streets. No music rang from the palace steps. The capital city was too quiet. It mourned in silence, stunned by the suddenness and scale of the violence.
Rumors whispered louder than any herald.
The King and Queen were gone.
Not officially declared dead, but neither had been seen since the assault. Their chambers were left untouched. Their bodies unrecovered. The royal guard who survived the last stand said they were separated from the monarchs in the chaos.
Some believed they had been killed. Others clung to the hope of escape. And a few, the most cynical, suggested treason from within.
But the most widespread belief, passed from mouths in markets to nobles' halls, was that the King and Queen had been assassinated.
And so, the crown passed to a new bearer: Thalan von Velmora.
The younger brother of King Elric, Thalan had long been respected as a soldier and strategist. A man of the people, with calloused hands and a voice that steadied trembling troops. He had not asked for the throne, but when the kingdom teetered, he stepped into the breach.
His first royal address was not given from the golden steps of the palace, but from a battered courtyard surrounded by cracked stone and scorched gardens.
"I did not want this crown," he said, speaking without ornament or flourish. "But I will carry it. For Velmora. For my brother. For you."
The people accepted him.
Thalan ruled with dignity. He oversaw relief efforts, restored order to the outer provinces, and commanded the rebuilding of the city's defenses.
But the grief was not so easily repaired.
White ribbons hung from doorposts and tree limbs. Lanterns glowed on windowsills every night in honor of the fallen. And in hushed tones, the people asked the same question:
"What happened to the child?"
The heir.
No announcement had ever been made of a birth, but the Queen had not hidden her pregnancy in the final months. Some say she gave birth during the siege. Others claim the child died alongside her. A few believed the baby never existed at all.
But the truth?
The truth was that the child had been hidden, spirited away by loyal hands.
A spark of royal blood still lived.
And far from the capital, in a quiet corner of the realm, that spark had just begun to kindle.
One Month Later
The cottage smelled of wild thyme and clean air.
Rina moved through the small space with practiced ease, her boots soft on the wood floor, her voice a low hum that filled the silence with warmth. She had done this before—the simple life. The planting, the gathering, the quiet.
But this time, it wasn't just for herself.
Aleron lay nestled in a woven bassinet beside the hearth, blinking slowly at the flickering firelight. His fingers twitched at the ends of his bundled arms, his tiny chest rising and falling with each soft breath.
It was his one-month birthday.
And he was starting to feel everything.
The warmth of the hearth. The softness of the quilted fabric beneath him. The vibrations of Rina's voice as she sang something wordless and old.
He still cried often. Slept often. His body demanded it. But the fog had begun to lift. Each day, he felt more present. More rooted in this fragile little body.
And today, something new stirred.
He blinked again. His vision had grown sharper, more focused. And in the soft haze of morning light, he saw them—
Tiny motes of color drifting through the air. Blue and gold and pale green, like glowing dust caught in a sunbeam.
Mana, he thought. Or something like it.
He could see it. Not just sense it, like he had in his past life. Here, it was visible, tangible, swirling gently around Rina and pooling near the hearthstones.
And then, without warning, a sound echoed in his mind.
A soft chime, like the ring of crystal.
Text unfolded across his vision, clear and unmistakable.
[God's Whisper Activated]
System Initiating...
Welcome, Aleron.
Task Assigned: Form your First Core – Path: Wizard
His breath caught.
He hadn't expected it. He'd almost forgotten.
But the memory returned like an ember stirred from ashes.
Nyx. The void. Her smile.
His gift.
God's Whisper.
The system was real.
He felt no surge of power, no dramatic awakening. Only the quiet certainty that something hidden had clicked into place.
Aleron closed his eyes and breathed in.
Mana trickled into him—slow, unrefined, wild. But it was there. His infant body struggled to channel it. Every pulse of power made his fingers twitch and his head spin.
Still, he focused.
He visualized his center. His core. A space within where magic could take root. He imagined a spark, a flame, a wellspring.
He drew it inward, shaping the flow with careful intent.
And then—
[Core Formation Progress: 1%]
Continue concentration to advance.
It worked.
The tiniest ember had formed.
It flickered, unstable and weak, but it was real. A start. A claim on the path of magic.
Aleron let the breath out through his nose, exhaustion already creeping in. He'd reached the limit of what his body could handle for now.
But for the first time since waking in this world, he felt something other than confusion or frustration.
He felt progress.
He felt like himself.
And as sleep took him again, the corner of his mouth lifted into the faintest, most satisfied smile.
The first spark had been lit.
And he had a long journey ahead.