It had been a good couple of days since the hunters had shown themselves.
No new footsteps.
No voices on the wind.
No cautious silhouettes at the edge of the trees.
Aetherion wasn't surprised. Encounters like that took time to settle into stories stories told around fires, exaggerated by fear and wonder, argued over, doubted, then told again. He knew better than to expect an immediate return.
But they would come back.
They always did.
The valley had everything a people could need not merely to survive, but to thrive. Fresh water. Game. Fertile land. Natural shelter. A climate that forgave mistakes rather than punishing them outright.
It was an invitation whether he meant it to be or not.
Aetherion stood at the edge of the basin, watching sunlight ripple across the lake.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "They'll be back."
The lack of proper speech, however, was going to be a problem.
Hand gestures. One-syllable utterances. Context-dependent grunts that meant six different things depending on tone and weather. Effective for hunting, maybe but hopeless for anything more complex.
And Aetherion had no intention of pantomiming abstract concepts for the next century.
"When they return," he said to the empty air, "we're fixing that."
He exhaled, already forming plans.
An alphabet. Simple at first. Sounds tied cleanly to symbols. No need for poetry yet just something stable. Something that could carry thought without falling apart halfway through a sentence.
"No more hand-waving," he added dryly. "And absolutely no more conversations that consist of three noises and a shrug."
The wind stirred the grass in response, almost amused.
Aetherion turned back toward the basin, mind already working ahead structures, systems, foundations. If mortals were going to share this land, even at a distance, they would need more than shelter and food.
They would need words.
And when they came back
he intended to give them some.
For now, though, his Reality Marble was stable.
The Firmament of the Boundless Sky rested over the valley like an unseen crown, its laws layered gently atop the world rather than crushing it. Within its reach, the sky listened. The wind carried intent. Lightning waited not restless, but patient.
That gave him options.
Aetherion turned his gaze toward the open plain near the lake's edge. Flat. Elevated. Close enough to water without risking floods. Sheltered naturally by the surrounding mountains. It was ideal not just for habitation, but for work.
"Yes," he murmured. "That'll do."
He stepped forward and let the divine pressure bleed away, anchoring himself fully in the physical world. The sensation was immediate subtle, but undeniable. Less omnipresent awareness. Less certainty. Weight returned to his body in a way it never existed within the Firmament.
Leaving his Reality Marble always did that.
It made him… present.
Vulnerable, technically. Outside his domain, the world was no longer an extension of his will it had teeth again. Physics reasserted itself. Fate resumed its arguments.
But Aetherion didn't flinch.
To truly threaten him now would take something extraordinary. A legendary monster. A god. Something born of the Age of Gods itself and strong enough to force the issue.
And if something like that came wandering into his valley.
"Well," he said dryly, rolling his shoulders, "that's tomorrow's problem."
He crouched and pressed his palm to the earth.
Mana flowed not explosively, not dramatically, but with careful restraint. The ground responded, compacting, leveling, its structure subtly reinforced. Stone veins shifted beneath the surface, aligning themselves in ways only a magician would notice.
Foundations first.
A workshop didn't need to be grand. It needed to be precise. A place where he could experiment, observe, fail safely, and learn. Somewhere mortal enough to remind him what rules still applied and divine enough to bend those rules when necessary.
The wind brushed past him, carrying the distant scent of pine and lakewater.
Aetherion smiled faintly.
God or not, he was still a magician.
And magicians didn't stop learning.
They didn't stop improving.
He rose to his feet, already sketching designs in his mind, fingers twitching with anticipation.
"Alright," he said to the empty plain. "Let's get to work."
And somewhere beyond the mountains, unseen and unaware, the first stories were already being told.
Aetherion stood at the chosen spot for a long moment without moving.
Not because he hesitated but because this part mattered.
A workshop was not a house. It wasn't shelter, or a monument, or a temple meant to impress mortals or gods. It was an extension of thought. A place where mistakes were allowed to exist long enough to be understood.
He inhaled slowly.
Then he knelt and pressed both palms flat against the earth.
Mana flowed.
Not lightning. Not spectacle.
Structure.
The soil beneath his hands compacted, grains locking together as if they had always been meant to fit that way. Stone rose gradually, not bursting upward but being invited, sediment layers sliding and aligning, pressure redistributed so nothing cracked or screamed.
A square foundation took shape broad, solid, sunk deep enough to anchor against quakes, storms, and time. The earth itself agreed to hold it.
Aetherion lifted one hand and traced a sigil in the air, slow and deliberate. The symbol dissolved as it formed, sinking into the foundation unseen.
"Stability," he murmured.
The ground answered with silence which was exactly what he wanted.
He stood and stepped back, assessing angles, distances, sightlines. The lake lay to the east, reflecting the sky. The mountains ringed the basin like a natural wall. Wind flowed consistently from the north, steady and clean.
Good airflow. Good light.
He raised his right hand again.
Stone answered this time.
Blocks emerged from beneath the surface not torn free, but shaped as they rose, edges smoothing, corners sharpening into clean right angles. Limestone for the outer walls. Basalt reinforcement beneath. No mortar yet he stacked them carefully, aligning weight and balance until the structure held on its own.
Slow.
Deliberate.
He worked in silence, lifting, placing, adjusting. Each stone remembered where it belonged once he set it down. The walls grew waist-high, then chest-high, then higher still, forming a wide rectangular space open to the sky.
A workshop first. Roof later.
He paused, wiping dust from his hands more out of habit than need.
Inside, he marked the floor with shallow grooves channels for mana flow, barely visible unless you knew what to look for. One misalignment here would haunt him for centuries.
When the markings were complete, he straightened and flexed his fingers.
"Now," he said quietly.
He snapped once.
The air shuddered not violently, just enough to acknowledge a boundary being drawn. Within the workshop's walls, the Firmament's influence subtly bled through. Wind slowed. Sound softened. Mana density increased by a controlled margin.
Not a full domain.
A pocket.
Safe enough to experiment. Honest enough to fail.
Aetherion stepped inside the unfinished structure and looked around.
Bare stone. Open sky. The smell of earth and lakewater drifting in on the breeze.
It wasn't much.
But it was a beginning.
Outside, somewhere beyond the basin, mortals walked and wondered and told half-remembered stories. Gods watched from afar. Fate adjusted its grip, slightly annoyed.
Aetherion smiled faintly and reached for the next stone.
He had work to do.
The stone was halfway to where he wanted it when the wind changed.
Not sharply. Not enough to disrupt the careful balance he was maintaining but enough to carry something new with it. The faintest hint of smoke. Old leather. Sweat.
Human.
Aetherion set the stone down gently, releasing the mana that held it aloft. It settled into place with a muted thud, perfectly aligned. He didn't turn right away. Instead, he listened.
Footsteps this time.
Careful, but not hesitant.
"They really did come back," he murmured.
He stepped out from the half-built workshop and onto the open plain, making no effort to hide himself. If anything, he made sure he was visible against the pale stone walls and green grass unarmed, hands empty.
They emerged from the treeline in a loose line, twelve of them now.
This group was larger. Better organized. Spears held low, not raised. Stone knives at their sides, slings wound around forearms. Faces marked with ochre and ash in patterns that suggested intention rather than superstition.
And again children.
Two this time. Older. Walking on their own.
Aetherion noted it immediately. Bringing children meant this wasn't just curiosity anymore. It was a test. Or a negotiation.
The woman from before was there, bone necklace catching the light. She raised her hand as soon as she saw him.
Palm out.
Aetherion mirrored it.
No rush. No sudden movements.
They stopped well short of him, eyes flicking past his shoulders to the rising stone structure behind him. Murmurs rippled through the group. One of the men made a low sound in his throat, something between awe and alarm.
The woman spoke again longer this time. More structure to it. Still rough, but there was rhythm now, repetition. Questions layered over one another.
Aetherion listened carefully, head tilted slightly.
He answered by crouching and drawing in the dirt again.
The same symbols as before.
Name.
Water.
Land.
He pointed to the workshop behind him.
"Place," he said clearly.
Then he pointed to himself.
"Aetherion."
He tapped the symbol for place again, then spread his hands outward to encompass the basin.
"Here."
Silence followed.
Then one of the children stepped forward.
Too far.
A man reached out instinctively but Aetherion lifted one finger, slow and calm. Not a command. A suggestion.
The child stopped anyway, staring at him with open curiosity rather than fear.
Aetherion smiled faintly and crouched lower, scratching a new symbol into the dirt simpler than the others. A circle. A line beneath it.
He pointed to the child.
Then to the mark.
The woman inhaled sharply.
Understanding not complete, but forming.
She knelt. Carefully. Deliberately. And copied the symbol beside his.
The others followed, one by one, lowering themselves, weapons laid aside but within reach. They weren't worshiping.
They were listening.
Aetherion straightened slowly, glancing once at the unfinished workshop, then back at them.
"This," he said, pointing to the stone walls, "is work."
He tapped his chest.
"I make."
Then he gestured to the basin again, wide and open.
"You live."
He paused, letting the words new and fragile settle into the space between them.
The wind moved through the grass, carrying the scent of lakewater and stone dust. Somewhere, far above, clouds shifted but no thunder answered.
The woman rose to her feet and spoke a single word, clear and deliberate.
Not a name.
A promise.
Aetherion didn't know the sound yet.
But he would.
And for the first time since arriving in this world, his work was no longer solitary.
Aetherion watched them for a long moment longer, committing faces, posture, breath to memory.
Then he made a decision.
He stepped back from the half-built workshop and lifted his gaze not to the tribe, but upward. The sky above the basin was clear, blue, deceptively calm.
"Stay," he said again, the word slow, deliberate. He pressed his palm lightly to the earth, then drew it upward in a smooth arc.
Lightning did not explode.
It answered.
The air folded inward, sound vanishing for a heartbeat as blue-white light wrapped around him not violent, not blinding, but absolute.
And Aetherion was gone.
----------------------------------------------------------
He reappeared at the highest point of the plain, where stone broke through grass and the wind ran unobstructed. From here, the entire basin lay open beneath him the lake like a polished mirror, the ring of mountains standing guard, the small figures of the tribe gathered near the workshop far below.
Aetherion inhaled.
This time, he did not restrain himself.
Mana surged outward, not as a flood but as a declaration.
"The Firmament of the Boundless Sky," he said not aloud, but into the world.
Reality answered.
The horizon bent.
Not visibly, not in a way mortal eyes would immediately notice but distance softened, curving inward as if the sky itself were being gently drawn closed. High above, clouds rearranged themselves into slow-moving sigils, vast and precise, their shapes defining law rather than weather.
Wind changed.
It no longer wandered.
It moved with purpose, flowing along invisible paths, carrying warmth where crops would grow, coolness where rest would be taken. Lightning traced faint lines through the upper air not striking, not raging, but mapping causality itself.
The stars became visible, pale and distant despite the daylight, rotating with deliberate slowness. Not decoration.
Reference points.
Within the marble's boundary, distance became symbolic. Near meant reachable. Far meant intentional.
At the center here, where Aetherion stood the sky thickened, condensing into presence. A throne formed behind him, wrought from layered firmament and frozen lightning veins, clouds shifting constantly yet never losing shape. Constellations wheeled slowly at its back like a crown that refused stillness.
Aetherion did not sit.
Not yet.
He turned his attention downward.
The marble settled not crushing the world beneath it, but overlaying it, laws interwoven gently enough that mortals could exist inside without being torn apart.
Only then did he vanish again.
----------------------------------------------------------
He returned to the basin in a flash of restrained lightning, appearing between the tribe and the workshop. This time, the air around him felt different , lighter, steadier, as if the world itself had taken a careful breath.
The woman leader stiffened, eyes darting upward.
Aetherion followed her gaze and nodded once.
"Yes," he said softly. "Here."
He spread his hands.
And the land responded.
The ground near the lake flattened smoothly, stones sinking, soil loosening into rich, workable earth. Trees at the edge of the basin bent—not breaking, not uprooting—but shedding branches cleanly, trunks offering themselves as if they had been waiting.
Aetherion moved among them, not commanding, but demonstrating.
He showed them where to place shelters—higher than the waterline, angled to catch the wind without fighting it. He guided their hands as they set poles, tightened bindings, arranged stone fire rings where smoke would carry safely upward.
When they struggled, he slowed the world slightly just enough that motions became easier to follow.
When they tired, the wind cooled.
When fear flickered, the sky remained calm.
No thunder. No awe-striking displays.
Just help.
By nightfall, the beginnings of a camp had taken shape—crude but functional. Fires burned steadily. The lake reflected the stars now visible overhead, brighter than any night sky they had known.
Aetherion stood at the edge of the camp, watching.
This wasn't worship.
This wasn't dominion.
It was coexistence—fragile, unfinished, but real.
He glanced once toward the south, where Olympus lay beyond mountains and distance and divine politics awaited him.
"That is future me problem." he murmured.
The Firmament held.
The camp settled.
The night deepened, and the fire's glow softened against the shadowed shapes of the mountains. Aetherion remained by the center of the camp, watching the tribe settle. The children, exhausted but curious, curled beside their mothers. The adults kept low murmurs, fingers tracing the symbols they had practiced in the dirt earlier. Even in sleep, small hands occasionally brushed the ground, leaving faint impressions of the new words.
Aetherion inhaled slowly, feeling the pulse of the valley through the Firmament. The wind whispered gently around the camp, carrying the faint scent of lakewater and pine, and the stars overhead rotated in their slow, deliberate rhythm. This calm was fragile—one misstep, one stray bolt of lightning, and the night could turn violent—but for now, all was steady.
He knelt again, stick in hand, and began tracing symbols into the dirt, absent-mindedly at first. Then with intention. Each curve, each line, each dot carried sound and meaning. His voice was low, almost a whisper, as he pronounced them:
"TEL–OS. End.
AN–EM. Wind.
LUM–EN. Light."
He paused, lifting his gaze to the sleeping tribe. They would remember this. Even if they could not reproduce the sounds perfectly tonight, the forms—the gestures, the connection between thought, symbol, and sound—would imprint themselves on their minds.
Aetherion reached toward the fire and drew a line in the ashes, gently reshaping the glowing embers into simple geometric patterns. The shapes pulsed faintly, subtle traces of his magic binding sound to form. This was not display, not spectacle. It was teaching—embedding comprehension into reality itself, so even if the mortals forgot the sounds tomorrow, the land, the fire, the earth would whisper them back.
He rose slowly, brushing his hands clean. His eyes swept across the plain, across the workshop foundations still under construction, and to the distant lake. This was the beginning of something fragile and eternal.
The tribe slept now, but their dreams would carry new words. The syllables would twist in their minds, forming thoughts not yet theirs but soon to be.
Aetherion lifted his hand, and the moonlight reflected faintly off the faint magical traces lingering in the dirt. A soft smile touched his lips.
"Tomorrow," he murmured to the valley itself, "we speak again."
And with that, he settled among the stones of the half-built workshop, watching over them, guardian and teacher alike, as the night stretched on beneath the Firmament of the Boundless Sky.