Numen, with his only friends Goren and Milly, made his way back toward their town, Erane, carrying freshly chopped dry wood from the shadowy forest near the river. The forest was misty, veiling the trees in a ghostly blur. Every step they took echoed softly on the damp earth beneath them.
"Hurry up," Goren urged, glancing anxiously at the dimming sky. "Night is falling fast."
"We're almost there. The town isn't far now," Numen reassured, his voice steady but watchful.
Milly and Goren—siblings by blood, companions by nature—had grown up close to Numen, but it was Goren and Numen who shared the unshakable bond of childhood. Together, they had wandered the quiet, eerie paths of Mockvale Forest more times than they could count. This forest was known for its silence—an unsettling stillness broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves or distant animal cry. Wild bushes and strange plants sprawled in all directions, as if guarding ancient secrets.
"The only good thing about this cursed forest," Numen muttered, "is the dry wood. Burns longer than anything else you'll find."
But Goren scoffed, a mischievous gleam in his eye. "No. The best thing here is a certain little mouse who always pulls faces at everything."
Milly blinked. "Mouse? Who is this mouse? I want to meet her."
At that, Numen and Goren exploded with laughter—loud, echoing peals that cut through the mist. Milly froze. A moment passed. And then it hit her.
"They're talking about me."
Her eyes flared with fury, and without warning, she lunged at them. The stick in her hand rose like a weapon of war.
"You idiots!" she shouted, chasing them with the fury of a storm.
Numen and Goren bolted, laughter mixing with panic as they fled through the underbrush. Milly gave chase, her stick swinging through the air like a sword. The wild chase ended only when they burst out of the trees—panting, laughing, and slightly bruised—as the last rays of sunlight vanished behind the hills.
Before dusk settled fully, the three friends reached the winding streets of Erane. Suddenly, dark clouds began gathering above the town, shifting their path like a silent army. A cool, brisk wind swept through the alleys, and the weather turned beautifully cold. Soft ra began to fall, quickly turning into a steady shower.
All three wore dark-colored cloaks, hanging down to their knees, shielding them from the rain. The streets of Erane stretched wide and clean, paved with grey bricks, forming neat paths through the town. In the very heart of Erane stood an ancient, towering square minaret, older than four centuries, around which legends had gathered like dust.
At its summit, an azure flame burned eternally—season after season. The people called it the Draconic Flame Tower, a magnificent structure carved from white marble, a rare masterpiece of ancient artisans. It was said that towers like these had been built all across the Dawndusk and Frostwing regions, gifts from the Sapphire Crown of Dawndusk to the Aurexn Kingdom of Frostwing—a symbol of alliance, power, and Glory.
Erane was a beautiful yet humble town, sparsely populated, where people carried clear hearts and strong morals, always ready to help one another. It was a small town—quiet, peaceful. Tilismen were rarely seen here. In fact, no new Tilismen had been built in Erane for the past half century.
The rain began to pour harder now, echoing against rooftops. Numen had just reached the house of his friends, Milly and Goren. Their father, Uncle Barrus, opened the door warmly and said, "Stay a little longer, Numen. The rain's heavy. Milly's mother just made corn soup—have some before you leave."
But Numen smiled gently and replied, "Uncle, it's already evening. Aunt Larisa is home alone—she's probably waiting for me. I shouldn't delay."
With that, he bid farewell to Milly and Goren. Goren walked with him, thanking him for helping bring the wood.
"No need to thank me, Goren," Numen said quietly, his voice almost drowned by the pattering rain.
Pulling his cloak tighter, Numen stepped into the rain, disappearing into the misty twilight as he made his way home—each step echoing with purpose, every drop a drumbeat of what was still to come.
The cottages in the town all shared an oddly charming, asymmetric design, primarily characterised by gabled roofs and walls built of crafted stone. These ancient homes seemed to breathe history, their weathered structures holding stories whispered by wind and time. Numen, drenched from the relentless downpour, finally reached his modest home. The rhythm of rain tapping on rooftops echoed through the narrow cobbled streets. Standing before the wooden door, he knocked softly, trying not to shiver from the cold.
From inside came a gentle, familiar voice. "Numen, is that you?"
"Yes, Aunt Larisa. It's me," Numen called out, his voice quivering slightly. "Please open the door—I'm soaked through."
The door creaked open, revealing Aunt Larisa, her presence as warm and graceful as ever. She stood clad in a beautifully knit wool ruana of deep blue, her white silk scarf wrapped neatly over her head. Her soft brown curls peeked out gently, and despite her shorter stature compared to Numen, she radiated an aura of love and kindness.
"Come in, come in quickly!" she urged, stepping aside.
As Numen entered, the comforting glow of firelit lamps warmed his soul. The house was lit with small lanterns placed in corners and on shelves, their soft light dancing on the walls. The scent of herbs and something warm cooking welcomed him further.
Once inside, Numen hurriedly removed his soaked clothes and changed into a dry, grey Celtic runana wool robe, typical regional wear for this time of year. The texture of the fabric was thick and coarse, but it brought him instant comfort.
Stomach growling, Numen turned to Larisa. "Aunt, what's for dinner? I'm starving. So hungry I feel like I could devour a whole deer."
Larisa chuckled warmly. "Well, lucky for you, I made your favourite: Mutton with white beans. I had a feeling you'd come home hungry today."
Numen's eyes lit up with anticipation. "That smells amazing already!" he exclaimed, following her into the small but cosy kitchen where the warmth of the food and the scent of spices enveloped him.
Soon, she brought the food to the table, and both sat down to eat. Numen didn't waste a moment before digging in.
"Aunt," he said between mouthfuls, "this is incredible. You always make it just right."
"Eat up, dear," Larisa smiled. "You've grown so much—you need strength now morIt'san ever."
After a while, Larisa's gaze softened as she noticed a mark on Numen's forehead, half-hidden beneath his golden locks.
"Numen, what happened here?" she asked quietly, reaching forward. "How did you get this scar?"
Numen gently moved her hand away. "It's nothing. I got it while climbing a tree in the forest. I slipped a little, but it didn't hurt much. I'm fine."
He brushed his hair back down to cover it. But Larisa saw more than he let on.
"Your father used to do the same," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "He'd get hurt all the time but never said a word. He acted as though nothing had happened."
There was a long pause.
"Your sparkling hazel eyes," she addecentrely, "they must have come from your mother. I always regretted never meeting her. If she were anything like you, she must have been breathtaking."
Numen placed his spoon down, thoughts heavy. "I don't even remember what father looked like anrecognise's been so long since I last saw him. Do you think… he'll ever come back?"
Larisa's smile faded. Her eyes, usually filled with a calm strength, drifted into a memory that had long slumbered in thyouruiet chambers of her heart.
**
867 Tilismic Calendar — Ornis Season
The Ornis Season had arrived with all its splendour, painting the Saok Village in hues of joy and renewal. Nestled deep within the frost-kissed valleys of the Frostwing Region, the village pulsed with life. Lanterns glowed like fireflies against the twilight sky, and laughter echoed through the stone-paved paths that wound between ivy-draped cottages.
Larisa Hyerk stood amid the celebration, her golden scarf fluttering in the crisp evening breeze. Beside her, little Moris—barely three Tilismic Cycles old—clung to her hand with innocent wonder in his eyes, while Guina, five Tilismic Cycles and fearless, twirled excitedly in her bright blue dress, chasing the rhythms of the village drums.
Marlus Hyerk, her husband, stood proudly behind them. A noble-hearted man and loyal servant of the Royal Tilismen houses, he watched the festivities with a rare softness in his eyes. Tonight, there were no duties. Tonight was for celebration.
The air was heavy with the scent of roasted meats, honeyed bread, and fresh wildflowers. Villagers gathered in the heart of Saok to honor the Oath of Tlisk, a sacred ritual marking the successful passage of Tilismen into their binding with the ancestral powers. Bonfires roared, casting dancing shadows over joyful faces, while shimmering goblets of fresh Aurian wine passed from hand to hand.
Music rose—a haunting blend of flutes and drums—calling forth the dancers. Women in embroidered robes and armoured Aurex Tilismen formed elegant circles, moving in harmony, their movements graceful yet powerful, like spirits summoned by the rhythm of the earth itself.
It was a night of unity, of ancient promise and renewal.
Later that night, the family returned to their wooden cottage, tired but joyous. The children fell asleep quickly, curled up under woollen blankets. Larisa and Marlus began tidying up when suddenly there was a knock at the door.
They froze. It was late—well past midnight.
Marlus instinctively grabbed a sharp knife, while Larisa picked up a firelamp. They crept toward the door.
"Who's there?" Marlus demanded.
A familiar voice answered, "It's me… Larisa. Your brother."
The knife fell to the ground with a clatter. Larisa gasped and threw the door open.
There he stood: Darius Morgail. Tall, with striking blue eyes, a clean-shaven face, and long chestnut hair damp from the cold. His build was strong, yet something about his stance seemed weary.
Larisa embraced him, overcome with emotion.
"You look so different," she whispered.
She stepped back and noticed the small boy hiding behind him.
"Darius, is this your son?"
Darius nodded solemnly. "Yes. His name is Numen. He's mine."
Larisa knelt to the boy's level. Numen's wide eyes shimmered with innocence and curiosity.
"He's beautiful," she said, voice cracking.
They welcomed them inside. It had been ten Tilismic years since she had seen her brother. The reunion blossomed with laughter and tears.
Larisa offered a warm cup of green tea to Darius, her eyes still sparkling from the joy of the day's festival.
"It was a beautiful day, wasn't it?" she said softly. "So many colors, laughter... It felt like a moment stolen from a dream."
Darius smiled faintly, seated beside her with his son, Numen, resting quietly in his lap.
Across the room, Marlus leaned forward, watching them with a look of mild disbelief. Then, his voice cut through the stillness:
"When did you get married, Darius? And now you have a child? It's been years... You vanished. And now this boy… Who is his mother? And why isn't she here with you?"
Darius lowered his gaze, his fingers gently stroking the boy's hair.
"His mother lives in the capital city of Frostwing—Nior," he began. "That's where I met her. It all happened so fast… sudden, unexpected. You'd like her, I know you would. Her name is Rina." He paused. "Next time, I promise—I'll introduce you. I give you my word."
Marlus nodded quietly, a little taken aback, and stood.
"Goodnight," he muttered, before walking off to his quarters.
As the fire in the hearth dimmed, Numen fell asleep in his father's arms. Larisa approached and gently lifted him, cradling him like her own, and laid him to rest beside her children.
Then came the silence. A heavy, lingering silence that only family can share. The kind that speaks through glances more than words.
Larisa sat beside her younger brother, sensing the unease beneath his stillness.
"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice low, careful.
Darius nodded once, almost too quickly.
"Yes. Everything's fine."
But Larisa had always seen through him. She reached out, placing a hand over his.
"Darius… I'm not just your sister. I've been like a mother to you since we lost ours. Tell me the truth. What's wrong?"
He hesitated, eyes locked on the fire, as if searching for answers within its fading embers. Then, finally, he spoke:
"Nothing is alright, Larisa. Nior is crumbling. It's on the brink of destruction. Numen was not safe there… I had to bring him here."
He looked at her now, his voice trembling.
"I want you to raise him. Love him as your own. When he turns eighteen Tilismic years... I will return for him. But until then... he must stay far from that place."
Larisa felt her breath catch, her chest tighten. But she didn't protest. She only nodded, eyes brimming with unshed tears.
---
Years Later…
"You've grown into the image of your father," she said at last. "Strong, handsome… And now you're twenty-one Tilismic years old."
Numen didn't speak. He only stared at the fire, as his father once did.
Larisa stood slowly and touched his arm.
"He never returned," she whispered, more to herself than to him.
"But you—you're still here. You should get some rest."
The boy nodded, his silence carrying the weight of forgotten promises.
And the storm outside raged on.
Night passed like a shadow over Numen's soul.
Long after the household had gone quiet, he remained awake, curled in silence, the ache of absence pressing heavily against his heart.
He often cried—quietly, secretly.
There were nights, like this one, when the memory of his mother and father overwhelmed him—faces blurred by time, voices lost to the wind.
And yet, morning came.
The sun's first golden rays crept gently through the curtains of their home, scattering across wooden floors and illuminating the stillness within.
Larisa, already awake, moved with her usual grace, preparing breakfast with the quiet care of one who has known both joy and sorrow. As the warmth of baked bread and brewed herbs filled the room, she called out:
"Numen? Are you awake?"
Silence answered her.
She paused. Perhaps he was still sleeping—though something in her heart stirred uneasily.
Maybe last night's conversation had left its mark deeper than she thought.
With soft steps, she walked to his room and knocked gently. The door creaked open with the faintest nudge.
The bed was untouched.
The window was slightly ajar.
He wasn't there.
Her heart skipped. She looked around, then sighed deeply.
Without wasting a moment, Larisa wrapped her golden scarf around her head and stepped outside.
The morning sun rose gently over the valley, casting long golden fingers of light across the rippling surface of the river. Upon its quiet banks, beneath the vast open sky, sat Numen—still, thoughtful, and strangely serene.
The boy had found solitude where others feared loneliness. He spoke softly to the sun's rays, as though they bore answers from the heavens. Around him, birds—small, bright, and curious—had gathered, perching on nearby rocks, fluttering down to sit beside him in a hush of fragile wings. It was as though the forest itself had declared Numen its chosen companion, its whisperer of secrets.
These birds never feared him. In fact, they were drawn to him—enchanted, as though Numen held a quiet gravity that stilled the world. They chirped and trilled, resting close, as if he were their king in silence and light.
Numen's cottage was not far from this place—just two winding lanes away—but the riverside had become his sanctuary. Here, where the morning light danced on moving water and cast glimmering halos on the stones, he felt at peace. As the sun climbed higher, its beams touched the river, turning the flowing surface into a mirror of gold and silver. The sight made Numen smile—one of those rare, genuine smiles that rose from the soul.
Then, from behind the tall reeds, a familiar voice called out.
"So this is where you've been hiding…"
Numen turned.
Aunt Larisa stood there, her golden scarf caught in the wind, watching the boy among the birds with something close to awe. Her breath caught for a moment. Is this… a miracle? she wondered. As if all the birds in the forest had chosen him...
"I should have known you'd be here," she said, stepping closer.
Numen smiled brightly. "Come sit! I want you to meet them. These are my friends. They always come to keep me company when I'm feeling... alone."
Larisa lowered herself beside him, her eyes never leaving the birds that had now turned their attention curiously toward her.
"They seem to love you," she whispered. "Look around you, Numen. Do you ever wonder what they're saying to you?"
He looked down, brushing his hand across the feathers of a bird that had nestled by his side. "I don't really know," he admitted quietly. "But they talk to me. I can feel it. Like... they're trying to tell me something. I just don't understand it yet."
Larisa smiled softly, resting a hand on his shoulder. "That's your light, Numen. That's what makes you different. You carry something rare inside you—something pure. A hope. A new hope for glory."
They sat in silence for a while, letting the sounds of nature fill the space between them. The river whispered, the birds hummed, and the wind carried the scent of pine and morning dew.
Eventually, the two rose and walked back home together, back at the cottage, the morning air was filled with the aroma of toasted bread and herbal tea. Larisa and Numen shared breakfast at the old wooden table, the quiet comfort between them stretching like a soft thread.
Just as they were finishing, the door creaked open and in bounded Goren, his cheeks already flushed with excitement—and hunger.
"Good morning!" he grinned, bowing awkwardly. "Aunt Larisa! Greetings to you!"
"Come in, Goren," she chuckled warmly. "You're just in time."
Without a second thought, Goren plopped himself at the table and began attacking the food with the appetite of a creature twice his size.
"Easy there, fat bear," Numen teased, laughing. "Leave some for the rest of us!"
Goren licked honey from his fingers and grinned. "That was just the beginning, my friend. I haven't even started yet!"
The calm was suddenly pierced by the sound of a sharp knock at the door.
Three precise taps. Then silence.
Numen, mid-laughter with Goren and Aunt Larisa at the breakfast table, froze. He glanced at the others. No one had been expecting anyone. Rising from his chair, he moved toward the door. As he opened it, the wind met him first—cool and fragrant with pine—but no one stood there.
Instead, lying at the doorstep like forgotten relics of destiny, were two envelopes.
Both were sealed. One bore his name—Numen Morgail—neatly written in bold ink across thick parchment. The other was addressed to Larisa Morgail Hyerk.
Numen's breath caught.
He looked around the empty street—no footprints, no horse, no carriage. Nothing. Only the whisper of the wind.
He bent down slowly, as if touching something sacred, and picked them up. The paper was smooth but heavy—official. Ancient.
He brought the letters inside, his hands trembling slightly. "Aunt Larisa," he said, his voice hushed with awe, "there's… there's a letter. For both of us."
"A letter?" Goren blinked, leaning forward. "For you? That's rare. Has anyone ever sent you a letter before?"
"No," Numen admitted, heart pounding. "Never. But—what if—it's from my father? What if… it's from Darius?"
Aunt Larisa turned pale at the name, her eyes flickering with emotion. Slowly, she took the letters from Numen's hands. When she looked at the one with his name, something in her expression softened. A hint of hope.
"Well," she murmured, "let's see what's inside."
They sat together, the room suddenly silent but charged with something unspoken. Numen's letter was sealed with a black sigil—ornate and royal-looking, embossed with the image of three wings entwined in a triangle. A strange crest, unlike anything Numen had seen before.
Larisa carefully broke the seal.
From within the envelope fell a black, three-pronged key, crafted with astonishing precision. At its center shimmered a tiny emerald gemstone, delicately embedded. Alongside it, a small scroll, tied in silver string, slipped out.
Larisa slowly unrolled the scroll, eyes scanning the parchment.
The first half was written in a language she didn't recognize—runes that pulsed faintly on the paper, written in the ancient Tilismic tongue. She couldn't read it.
But the second half… was written in the Common Tongue:
> "Numen, this key will take you to the destiny."
On the back of the scroll, the three-winged sigil appeared again, inked in black wax.
Larisa gasped softly, her fingers trembling around the scroll. "This… this might be from Darius. It must be. Who else would send something like this to you? It's like… a calling."
Goren leaned closer, inspecting the black key. "This isn't just any key. It looks like a royal Tilismen forge-mark—this is not something ordinary people carry. How did it end up here?"
Numen's heart raced. His mind flooded with questions.
Why now? What door does this key open? Why didn't Father come himself? Is he… in danger? Or trying to protect me?
Larisa, still holding the key with reverence, pulled her locket from around her neck and slipped the strange key into it, securing it like a sacred heirloom. She fastened the chain around Numen's neck with firm hands and met his eyes.
"Your father must have had his reasons," she said quietly. "But if this truly is from him… then it's time. You must go to him. And… you must also learn the truth about your mother."
Numen could only nod, the weight of the key pressing against his chest like the first breath of fate. The burden of questions had never felt heavier.
After a long silence, he finally looked at Larisa and asked, "What about your letter, Aunt?"
Larisa hesitated. Then opened it.
Her fingers froze.
It was a letter—from Marlus, her long-lost husband.
She read aloud:
> "I, Marlus, send greetings and pray that you are well. Moris and Guina await your return. The time has come to come home. Korus will arrive soon, and there will be no better opportunity to stay at the palace of Aneryl. Tomorrow morning, a Royal Steed will arrive at your doorstep. Take it. Two days' ride will bring you to Brauss, where we shall join the Seacrown royal convoy bound for the City of Aneryl."
Larisa's hand trembled. Her voice faltered.
He was alive… he had waited… and now, he called her back to a life she'd left behind.
Goren looked between the two of them, bewildered. "So… both of you are being summoned. At the same time. By people from your past. That can't be a coincidence."
Numen stared at the key on his chest.
The wheels of fate had begun to turn—and their quiet lives by the river had just become the first page of a much greater journey.