The sky above the village of Eloryn was a canvas of fading gold, streaked with the final blush of sunset. Birds dipped low over golden wheat fields, their wings casting brief shadows on the land below. A gentle breeze swept through tall grasses, rustling secrets only nature could understand. The scent of fresh bread cooling on windowsills mingled with river mist and fertile soil, creating an aroma so comforting it could lull a storm to sleep.
In this quiet corner of the world, far from the kingdoms' borders and the echoes of old wars, the people of Eloryn lived simple lives. Tales of Aether and ancient heroes were the stuff of bedtime stories. No one feared monsters, tyrants, or elemental calamities here. Peace was not just a dream—it was a routine.
And nestled within this sleepy hamlet was a boy with silver eyes.
Yoru Arian, ten years old, stood barefoot on the bank of a stream behind his home, skipping pebbles over the shimmering surface. His aim wasn't great—most stones just plopped in with disappointing bloops—but he kept at it with a stubborn frown.
"One day," he muttered, "I'll skip a stone clean across this river."
"It's a stream," came a gravelly voice behind him. "Barely wider than your armspan. And you've been hitting more fish than water."
Arian flinched, then grinned sheepishly. "Father, you always ruin the magic."
Briar stood tall behind him, his broad frame blocking the sinking sun. His arms were crossed, a slight smirk tugging at the edge of his lips—rare, but not unwelcome.
"I ruin it so it doesn't ruin you first," Briar said, stepping beside his son and crouching down. He picked up a stone and flicked it. It danced over the stream like it had a personal grudge against gravity—one, two, three, four skips.
Arian stared, awed. "You used Aether, didn't you?"
Briar snorted. "Boy, I don't waste Aether on rocks. That's just technique. Maybe when you're done throwing pebbles like wet bread, I'll teach you."
Arian laughed and flopped onto the grass, arms behind his head. "One day I'll be better than you. I'll skip stones, punch mountains, and make Aether blades out of air."
"Oh? Then maybe I'll retire early." Briar sat down beside him, voice low and thoughtful. "You really want power, Arian?"
The boy blinked. "Not power for power's sake. Just… I want to protect people. Like you do. And—well—maybe travel. See cities. Float in the sky. And eat meat that doesn't taste like regret."
Briar chuckled, low and deep. "You'll get your wish. But remember—power isn't just strength. It's what you do with it. Some folk burn villages with it. Others… save them."
Arian looked up at the sky, where stars were beginning to peek through the twilight. "Then I want power so I can help protect others and also reach my goals."
Briar didn't respond right away. But his gaze softened, as if he saw something in the boy that he hadn't dared to hope for.
---
The next day, Arian and Briar made their way to the village square—an event in itself, since they rarely visited the market together. The cobblestone streets were bustling with chatter and smells of grilled meat, spices, and fresh vegetables. Children ran through puddles, splashing mud onto irate vendors.
"Alright," Briar said, eyeing a list in his hand. "We need dried herbs, whetstone oil, and… oh, gods. New boots for you. Those things on your feet barely qualify as shoes."
"They're vintage," Arian said proudly, wiggling his big toe through a hole.
"They're ventilation," Briar muttered.
They stopped by an herb stall, where an old woman winked at Arian. "My, my, you've grown tall. Almost tall enough to reach the candy jar I hide from your father."
"Miss Halda, if you give him sugar again, I'll have to exile you from the village," Briar said sternly.
"I'd like to see you try," she cackled.
They continued browsing, bartering with merchants and haggling over prices. Arian spotted a wooden sword and begged for it.
"I'll practice every day!"
"You said that about the broom handle. You ended up using it to fight goats."
"They started it."
Before Briar could roll his eyes, a loud crash echoed through the square. Three rough-looking men pushed their way through the crowd, shouting and knocking over stalls. The tallest of them had a tattoo of a snake winding down his arm.
"Well, well," he sneered, spotting Briar. "If it isn't the ghost of old wars. Didn't think you'd still be breathing out here."
Briar stepped forward slowly. "Kellen. Didn't think you'd crawl this far from the swamps."
"Business," Kellen growled, his companions smirking. "And we don't like people getting in the way."
"You mean people like the baker you just shoved?"
Arian tensed behind his father. "Are they bandits?"
"Worse. They're idiots."
Kellen stepped closer, cracking his knuckles. "You think you scare me? You're not that man anymore."
Briar tilted his head. "Maybe not. But I can still break your nose before lunch."
Kellen lunged.
Briar moved faster.
In a blur, he sidestepped the attack and swept Kellen's legs out from under him. The man hit the ground with a thud that knocked over a vegetable cart. His companions charged, but Briar met them with a calm expression and precise movements—duck, twist, jab to the ribs.
Arian watched, eyes wide. It was like watching water flow around rocks—fluid, relentless.
Within seconds, the thugs were groaning in the mud.
Briar dusted off his hands and turned to Arian. "Lesson one: if someone starts a fight, make sure you finish it politely."
Arian clapped. "That was amazing!"
"Don't get used to it. Fighting's a tool, not a game."
They resumed their shopping while the crowd applauded and the bandits crawled away.
"You're cooler than I thought," Arian whispered.
"I'll pretend that wasn't insulting."
---
Later that night, after dinner, the two shared a rare moment of stillness inside their modest wooden home. Arian pestered Briar with questions from a tattered book they'd bought off a passing merchant.
"Did dragons really exist?"
"Depends on who's drunk."
"What's the capital of Etheros?"
"Big place. Expensive food. Everyone smells like paper and perfume."
"Were you ever famous, Father?"
Briar paused mid-bite. "Infamous, maybe."
Arian squinted. "What's the difference?"
"One gets you free drinks. The other gets you hunted."
"Cool."
"Not cool."
They both laughed.
Days in Eloryn were quiet, but never dull. Arian helped with chores, though his attempts often resulted in mild disasters.
Like the time he tried to wash clothes in the stream and accidentally soaked all their firewood. Or when he helped old Mister Dallon gather eggs and got chased by an angry rooster for three hours.
"You're the only kid I know who can turn a chicken into a life-threatening enemy," Briar had muttered, rubbing ointment on Arian's peck wounds.
"I swear it had bloodlust in its eyes."
"It's a chicken."
"An evil chicken."
But Eloryn's peace was not built to last.
One night, it all changed.
---
(Everything from the original attack, flight, and ending continues as written, with the new expansion below added before "Then, as the sun rose on the ruins of Eloryn...")
---
The flames licked skyward, casting dancing shadows across the ravaged village that once rang with laughter and life. Arian stood in front of the burning pyre, shoulders trembling, eyes wide and dry.
At first, he didn't cry.
He just… stared.
The fire crackled. Wood popped. Smoke drifted into the heavens, taking with it the last traces of Briar Arian—his strength, his voice, his smirks, his scoldings, his warmth.
A numbness hollowed out Arian's chest. The kind that makes you feel weightless and unbearably heavy all at once. He dropped to his knees, legs no longer willing to hold him.
Then the first sob escaped.
It was small, strangled. Almost embarrassed.
But it broke the dam.
He clutched at the dirt, his fingers digging into the earth as if he could somehow pull his father back from beneath it. Tears spilled down his cheeks—hot, desperate, endless. His chest heaved with gasping sobs, each one louder than the last.
"Why… why did it have to be you?" he choked.
He cried until his throat was raw.
He screamed until his voice cracked.
And still he cried.
The forest watched in solemn silence. The pyre burned brighter, as if mourning with him. Smoke curled around him, mixing with the mist from his breath. Ash clung to his face like war paint, but all it masked was pain.
Arian didn't move for hours.
Time lost meaning.
He rocked back and forth beside the grave, whispering apologies, stories, memories—anything to feel close again.
"I should've fought. I should've stayed. I should've done something!"
He pounded the earth with his fists.
Blood mixed with tears.
"No one else is coming back, are they?" he asked the wind, the trees, the sky. No one answered.
The sun began to rise.
His body shook, exhaustion pulling at every limb, but grief would not let go. He curled up beside the grave, hands still reaching for the charred remnants of the pyre, the last flickering embers glowing in the ashes.
He cried until there were no more tears left.
Just empty breath and a heavy silence.
Then, as the sun rose on the ruins of Eloryn, a strange warmth began to burn in his chest...