The days that followed were a blur of heightened tension and suppressed fear. My father, a craftsman who worked in the city's stone quarries, kept me close, teaching me how to smooth and shape blocks of granite, his hands calloused and his face etched with worry. Every time a guard patrolled our street, my heart hammered against my ribs, convinced they were coming for me. The whispers in my blood were growing louder, more insistent, and I had to fight constantly to keep my volatile inner world from showing on the surface.
One evening, as we were sharing a meager meal, my father slid a small, leather-bound pouch across the table. It held a handful of coins and a small, worn map of the surrounding region. "It's time, son," he whispered, his voice thick with sorrow. "You must go. The whispers...they're too loud now. It won't be long before she hears them."
He didn't need to say her name. Lyra. The huntress was closing in, her elemental senses a net cast across the city. She would find me.
I packed a few meager belongings into a satchel: a change of clothes, a loaf of bread from a kind neighbor, and, most importantly, the forbidden historical text. As I kissed my mother goodbye, her tears were a silent confirmation of my father's words. She held me tight, her small, frail body trembling. "Be safe, my son," she sobbed. "Go to the Wilds. The Weavers' reach is weak there."
I slipped out of our small home under the cover of a moonless night, a terrified fugitive. I moved through the narrow back alleys, a ghost in the city I had always called home. But as I neared the city gates, I saw them. The Matriarchal Guard. A full contingent, led by Commander Lyra herself, was at the mouth of the alley I needed to take. They were setting up an elemental barricade—a shimmering, translucent wall of manipulated Aether—to seal off the path.
Panic seized me, and with it, the storm inside me broke.
The whispers became a roar. I didn't think; I acted on pure instinct. I reached out with a desperate, frantic need, not to a single element, but to all of them at once. The air around me crackled with energy. A sudden, violent gust of Aer pushed against the Guard. A small tremor of Terra shook the cobblestones beneath their feet, making them lose their balance. A tiny, controlled flicker of Ignis caused the street lamps to flare and then die, plunging the area into darkness.
The elemental barricade, an intricate weave of Aether, buckled and then shattered with a sound like breaking glass. The force of my raw, untamed power sent a shockwave through the air, knocking the guards off their feet.
I didn't wait to see if they were hurt. I ran.
I ran for the city gates, the chaotic burst of elemental energy still thrumming in my veins. I felt the raw power, the wild, untamed essence of it, and for a terrifying moment, I understood why they called it a taint. It was dangerous, volatile, and intoxicating.
As I slipped through the gates and into the darkness of the Wilds, I risked one final glance back at Aethelgard. The city of stone and song, my home, was now a place of fear and hatred. A lone figure stood at the shattered elemental barricade, her head bowed in shock. It was Elara, my childhood friend, a low-ranking Weaver I had confided in. Her face was a mask of disbelief and horror as she stared at the trail of elemental chaos I had left behind. She saw me not as Kaelen, her friend, but as a monster. And in that moment, I knew I was truly alone.