Long ago, the sky spoke.
Not with thunder, nor with the fury of lightning—
but with something gentler, older—
an echo that bypassed the ears and touched only the soul.
Its voice was not made of words, but of feeling.
It rustled like wind through the bones of trees,
like warmth hidden in the heart of snow.
Soft. Unwritten. Unrepeatable.
It sang not to be heard—
but to be felt.
And those who felt it… remembered.
Not with their minds, but with their breath.
With the way they looked at the world.
---
In those ancient days, the world was not yet owned.
Rivers did not flow because they were named.
Mountains did not stand tall to be conquered.
Humans… simply listened.
They built no walls between themselves and the sky.
They did not demand fire to burn, nor wind to obey.
They watched the sun not as a source of power,
but as a story that rose and fell each day without fail.
They whispered thanks to shadows,
and bowed to the silence between stars.
For everything was sacred—
because nothing yet belonged.
---
But time, like fire, is never content to remain small.
It grows. It devours.
And in its hunger… it creates memory.
From memory came names.
From names came rules.
And from rules… came dominion.
Humans began to shape the world with their tongues.
They turned the sky's songs into spells.
They bound what once wandered freely.
Spirits were sealed. Power was carved.
And the melody… faded.
The sky did not rage.
It did not retaliate.
It simply… grew silent.
And in that silence, something ancient was lost.
---
Now, the sky bleeds.
It is no longer blue—
but the colour of memory set aflame.
A red that does not burn with warmth,
but sears with something invisible—
a wound too deep for flesh,
too old for healing.
At dawn, its hue resembles blood that forgot how to stop flowing.
A cry with no mouth.
A scream with no breath.
A wound in the soul of the world.
Yet people no longer look up.
They keep their eyes low—on earth, on gold, on shadows pretending to be light.
They speak of gods, but forget the sky.
They wield weapons forged from spirits,
yet never ask if the spirits still wish to be wielded.
They believe they have won.
But they have only… forgotten.
---
Still, the sky remembers.
It waits—not with hope,
but with the patience of something eternal.
Like a song paused, not ended.
And in a place where maps do not reach,
where memory sleeps beneath stone and moss…
the silence moves.
---
Behind the shattered bones of an ancient temple,
among roots that have forgotten what they once held sacred,
a child sits.
Alone.
Unclaimed.
Unnamed.
"He's only five seasons old," a passing whisper once said,
"yet his eyes… do not belong to a child."
He doesn't know where he came from.
He doesn't ask.
Because every night,
when he closes his eyes—
he hears something the world no longer believes in.
A voice.
Not of man, nor beast.
Not even his own.
But a song.
Sometimes soft, like the hush of snow.
Sometimes aching, like a note stretched too long.
Sometimes just… silence with a shape.
He never tells anyone.
There's no one to tell.
---
That morning, the clouds hung low—
as if the sky had bent its knees and come to sit beside him.
The wind held its breath.
The leaves did not move.
Even the light seemed unsure whether to fall or remain.
The child did not move.
But his eyes asked:
"Why does this silence… feel so full?"
A lone bird flew above—
low, slow, as if searching not for food,
but for a memory.
And then, for the first time in years,
the air trembled.
Softly.
Barely.
And in that tremble…
a question came.
"Is there still… someone listening?"
The boy didn't answer.
But his eyes—brimming, not with understanding,
but recognition—
told the truth.
He touched his chest.
Not where the heart beats,
but where the spirit stirs.
And again, the voice returned.
Not as a command. Not as prophecy.
Just… a whisper.
"Is there still someone… who remembers?"
---
The world called him orphan.
The records said nameless.
But the sky…
the sky had called him something else, long before tongues ever could.
Elarion.
It means: He who looks up while others bow their heads.
---
That night, the rains did not fall.
But the earth was soaked—
with dew that arrived too early,
as if the sky wept for a dream it barely recalled.
The boy lay between the arms of roots,
held not by warmth,
but by something older.
And in his dream… he walked.
To the right: fire raged, devouring all in its path.
To the left: ice crept like silence, freezing even the breath of time.
Between them—
a single path.
No stones. No signs.
Only… a note.
A sound.
Not loud. Not even clear.
But honest.
"Not all spirits are lost.
Some… wait.
For one voice willing to continue the song."
---
When he opened his eyes—still dreaming—
the sky was not red.
Nor blue.
But something between.
A colour not found in pigments or flames,
but in the first sound ever sung.
Just one note.
Trembling. Real.
And in that moment…
the sky remembered itself.
---
The elders, years later, would call it illusion.
Mages would name it sky-distortion.
Scholars would dismiss it as a trick of dew and light.
But the trees shed their leaves in hush.
The birds flew lower than ever.
And the wind carried scents of something older than time.
Because they knew.
Even if humans forgot—
the world remembered.
---
And in that breath between belief and forgetting,
a child stepped forward.
No title. No sword.
Only… a whisper.
And from that whisper,
the spirits stirred.
For the world does not always change through flames and banners.
Sometimes, it begins again…
with a song barely remembered.
---
And from there,
between the burning sky and the sleeping world—
a voice was born.
No scream. No tears.
No thunder.
Only…
A Song.
Remembered.