Swoooosh—
A swirling tempest of wind and water coalesced before a grand door, its surface carved with intricate runes—each etched with meticulous care into Blackfrost Ironwood, one of Sylmaris's rarest and most precious blessed trees.
Alaric landed lightly, Seraphyne still in his arms, and gently set her down. Both of them stood still, facing the door with visible hesitation.
From behind the closed entrance radiated a suffocating pressure—dense and ancient, like the gaze of something too vast to be named. The aura alone bore the weight of a mountain, causing even seasoned warriors like them to steady their breath.
They knew they were overstepping. To appear so suddenly—without word or warrant—before his door, it bordered on insolence.
Alaric stepped forward and knocked lightly, his voice composed, yet carrying the faintest tremor of urgency.
"Father. Forgive our intrusion. We come without warning, but... we do now know how to proceed. We seek your guidance."
After several long moments of silence, a low, resonant voice replied.
"Enter. And close the door behind you."
The door creaked open slowly, guided by an unseen force.
A towering portrait of a dignified woman—elegant, her eyes sharp and knowing—hung behind a wide desk made of ancient dark-oakwood. One wall was lined with shelves upon shelves of leatherbound tomes—ancient scriptures, high-level techniques, battle stratagems, and theories of mana evolution—each a chronicle of the world's long history.
In the center of the room sat a low, jet-black tea table carved from frost oak, surrounded by lush, curved sofas of silken velvet. Their deep blue cushions shimmered with silver filigree, enchanted not for vanity but legacy.
A modest chandelier of light-crystal hung overhead, casting a soft golden glow that refracted gently across the room. The space was regal, yet deeply personal.
And at the heart of it all, seated behind the desk, was Valtren Starchrest, the giant of the north.
Even seated, he radiated the unshakable stillness of an ancient mountain. His features were sharp, carved by war and age, and his presence bore the weight of a man who had shaped empires. Clad in a deep crimson coat threaded with runes of gold, the fabric struggled to hide the powerful frame beneath. His hair, streaked with silver, lent him an ageless quality.
His ocean-blue eyes lifted from the weathered tome in his hands and fell upon his son.
"I assume this is about my grandson," he said plainly, no surprise in his voice.
Alaric nodded.
Valtren rose, his movement fluid—measured strength in every step, the kind only decades of discipline could forge. He crossed the room in a single stride, silent as a shifting mountain. His gaze shifted to Seraphyne, who cradled the newborn in her arms. For an instant, the hardened lines of his expression softened.
His eyes lingered on the child.
"...What is his name?"
Seraphyne looked up, her voice barely above a whisper, filled with pride.
"Vaeris."
A silence passed, thick with weight. Then, Valtren's voice dropped, almost reverent.
"May I?"
Seraphyne gave a small nod.
Valtren raised his hand and tapped the infant's forehead with his finger. A sliver of mana left him—an impossibly refined thread that circulated through the child's tiny body, tracing an exact path, gliding over every one of the child's mana pathways with surgical precision.
And then, he froze.
His eyes widened ever so slightly. A moment passed. Then another.
Finally, he stepped back, brows furrowed.
"...His mana is several times purer than mine," he said, voice low. "But more than that—it's not... contained. It flows freely through him. The world's mana isn't surrounding him. It's cradling him."
Alaric and Seraphyne exchanged stunned glances.
"That is why... his body isn't being torn apart," Valtren continued, returning to his seat. "His body isn't absorbing mana like all living beings. It's flowing through him, flowing with him—as if he were the world's mana itself."
Just as he sat, the ambient mana in the room surged.
A sudden spiral of radiant energy began gathering from every corner of the room and beyond—drawn not by spell or intent, but instinct. Valtren's eyes snapped to the infant. Streams of mana converged into Vaeris's tiny form, weaving around him like the arms of a divine mother—protective, reverent, absolute.
"What...?" The Paragon muttered—his voice sharp, disbelieving.
The flow wasn't violent, yet it carried the weight of something ancient. Something absolute.
He stood again, eyes narrowing as he watched the impossible unfold.
"This isn't just an awakening..." Valtren murmured, gaze transfixed. "This is the world itself... answering a call." No spell, no ritual could evoke such a response. This wasn't power—it was recognition, from the world itself.