The old man stood at the edge of the clearing, silent as stone, yet every sense within him was sharp as drawn steel.
To the casual eye, he was merely another aging instructor—his presence quiet, his posture relaxed. A forgotten relic overseeing a secluded patch of worn earth nestled deep within the Holy Palace's inner gardens. But beneath that unassuming surface was something far older, far deadlier.
Ser Aldros of the Silver Flame. A name once whispered with reverence and fear in war councils and battlefields alike. Former commander of the Templar Vanguard—now hidden beneath the plain title of "Instructor."
His withdrawal from war had not been for rest, nor disgrace. It was a reassignment, orchestrated by the High Priests themselves. A sword sheathed, not dulled. A watchman of potential, positioned to silently measure the flame in the hearts of the next generation.
And today… something stirred in him.
A pressure on the edge of his awareness. Subtle. Intrusive. Like the faint hum before a hymn, or the tension that clings to the world just before the descent of a miracle.
But it wasn't sinister.
It was light.
Divine.
The birds had ceased their chirping. The sway of the trees had slowed, as if even the wind dared not move.
Ser Aldros turned his head, slowly, eyes narrowing.
From the wooded path emerged a boy—no more than twelve, clad in ceremonial white traced with thin golden thread. His golden-brown hair curled faintly at the ends, tousled from his walk. There were smudges of dust on the hem of his robes, a trail of grass clinging to his sleeves, and yet he walked with purpose.
No escort.
No priest or knight in attendance.
A Saint… alone.
The weight of that truth struck harder than any blade.
Aldros's chest tightened—not with fear, but reverence. Awe.
'So it's true,' he thought, his calloused fingers pressing unconsciously against the etched symbol on his chestplate. 'The Saint has awoken.'
Even in stillness, the world reacted to him.
The mana in the air—usually erratic, humming softly in these sacred grounds—had grown still. Not depleted. Obedient. Like breath held in the lungs of creation itself. A tremble beneath silence.
And then… the boy looked at him.
A soft glance. Innocent, polite.
And yet Aldros felt as though he had been seen. Not his surface, not his title—but the man beneath. His scars. His sins. His soul.
They were not the eyes of a child.
---
I sat quietly on the edge of the stone bench, watching Reivan spar against the instructor with a stubbornness that reminded me of someone I used to be.
The air around me was quiet now. Serene, but unnaturally so. Birds that once chirped nearby had long since gone silent. The branches overhead swayed with lazy rhythm, as though lulled into calm.
I hadn't used any skill. Not intentionally. But the world responded anyway.
'So it really does passively influence the environment…' I reached toward a nearby leaf as it drifted down unnaturally slow, almost weightless in the still air. 'Aether resonates, even when idle.'
Reivan stumbled in the clearing again, catching himself mid-fall. His wooden sword scraped across the ground as he pushed back onto his feet, sweat dripping from his brow. His arms trembled slightly, legs shaking beneath the effort of holding his stance.
Yet he stood.
Even after taking blow after blow from the instructor's slow, precise strikes.
Even after falling three times already.
He stood.
There were red welts on his arms, minor scrapes along his knees, and his palms looked like they had begun to blister from gripping too tight. And still, he didn't stop. He didn't flinch.
I felt something stir in my chest—curiosity? Admiration?
When the paladin finally called a rest, Reivan stumbled over to me and collapsed on the grass, breathing heavily, face flushed.
"You weren't kidding," I said with a small laugh. "You really do throw yourself into your training."
"I warned you," he replied between gasps, flopping back onto his elbows. "You came too close anyway."
I smiled, tilting my head. "I wanted a better look."
His eyes flicked toward me, confused. "Of what? Me getting beat like a rag doll?"
"Of someone who doesn't give up," I answered.
His breath caught slightly. He looked away.
"…You saw that, huh?"
"Hard not to."
We fell into silence, the wind lazily brushing through the canopy above. Reivan stretched his legs across the grass, arms resting behind him as he stared upward.
I glanced at the angry bruise forming along his forearm. Without thinking, I reached over and hovered a hand above the worst spot.
"Hey," I said gently.
He turned toward me. "Hm?"
"Hold still."
I closed my eyes. "[Heal]."
A warm hum vibrated softly in the air. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just present.
Golden light bloomed from my palm, not with intensity, but with purpose. A slow ripple, like the surface of a sunlit pond. It coiled downward, weaving into his skin—not tearing or forcing, but easing into it like morning light through a window.
The bruises faded beneath the glow. Scratches softened and vanished. The swelling disappeared, leaving clean skin unmarred.
Reivan stared.
"…Did you just…?"
I nodded, brushing my sleeve back down. "Simple healing spell. Nothing special."
He touched his arm slowly, as if testing whether it was real. "It didn't hurt at all. It just… felt warm."
"Then it worked," I said.
He didn't say anything for a while.
Then: "That wasn't mana, was it?"
I turned to him. He looked hesitant, as though asking might somehow be offensive. But his eyes were sharp.
"I mean," he continued, "It didn't feel like mana. I've been around the priests. They give off something faint sometimes—but this felt different. Cleaner. Like… like sunlight."
He was closer than he realized.
'He can already tell the difference…?'
I leaned back on my hands and exhaled softly.
"It's called Aether."
He sat up a little straighter. "Aether?"
I nodded. "It's what you use when you're born with the Divine Attribute. It's… like mana, but not."
He blinked. "So what's the difference?"
I tilted my head slightly, then answered, "Mana is drawn from the world. It's wild, flexible, like water. Anyone can learn to use it—some faster than others. But it's always there."
"And Aether?"
"Aether isn't drawn," I said. "It's granted. Or awakened. It doesn't exist in the world the same way mana does. It comes from beyond."
He was quiet for a long moment, clearly trying to piece it together. "So that's why most people can't use it…"
"Exactly."
"And you… you were born with it?"
"Apparently."
He looked down at the grass again. "So that means you're… really the Saint?"
I paused.
The word still didn't sit well with me.
"…That's what they call me," I said.
He studied me again, this time with more care. "You don't seem like how I imagined a Saint would be."
I smirked. "What, you expected someone older? With a glowing halo and a permanent choir following them around?"
He flushed. "No! I just—! I mean—!"
I laughed. A genuine one this time.
"You're not exactly normal either, Reivan."
He blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You're a trainee, right? Not even a knight. So how can you already feel the difference between mana and Aether?"
His mouth opened, then closed. "…I don't know. Master says I'm sensitive to energy flow."
I raised a brow. "Sensitive enough to detect something even veteran knights miss?"
He looked away. I didn't push it further.
Instead, I lay back, gazing up at the pale fragments of sky peeking between the leaves.
"I'm glad you asked, though."
He turned toward me again. "Why?"
"Because most people don't. They just bow, smile, and pretend they understand what I am. But you didn't. You were curious. You wanted to understand. That's… rare."
He didn't reply, but his expression softened.
After a moment, he sat up a bit straighter. "Should I… be calling you something else? Like how Master does?"
I raised a hand. "No need. Just be yourself."
"But—"
"We're friends now, right?"
He stared at me, dumbfounded.
"Friends?" he echoed.
I nodded. "Why not?"
He looked away, flustered. Then—quietly—he whispered, "...Okay. Friends."
The wind picked up again.
And for the first time in hours, the leaves began to move once more.