"So this is it. Now a fugitive. Haunted. Distraught."
The voice trembled through the cold dark, carried on wind and breath and something heavier than exhaustion. "But things weren't always this way."
The forest around him whispered back — leaves rustling like memories trying to remind him of themselves. The moon burned pale, too pale, over a world that had forgotten warmth.
Kael spoke again, voice low, cracked:
"If I said I wanted nothing… desired nothing… maybe things would've been different."
A pause. The crunch of his boots against frost.
"Sometimes I wish I could go back. To those days — the days when I was a child."
And the world shifted.
The cold bled into heat. The dark turned amber. The hiss of the wind became the crackle of a fire.
---
Flashback — The Warmth of a Childhood Night
The room was small — wood walls glowing faintly orange, the air thick with warmth and the scent of smoke. Shadows danced gently across the ceiling.
Kael — barely seven — sat wrapped in a wool blanket that swallowed him whole. His toes peeked from beneath it, wiggling as if to challenge the chill.
"Mama," he whispered, tugging at the hem of her sleeve. "Please read me a story."
His mother looked up from her mending. Firelight brushed across her face — soft lines, weary eyes, and the kind of smile that made the world gentler just for seeing it.
"You've already had three stories this week," she teased.
"But not this one." His eyes gleamed. "The one about the tears."
Her needle stilled. For a heartbeat, silence filled the room — only the faint hum of the fire. Then, softly, she set her cloth aside and reached beneath the small table beside her.
From there, she drew a book — thick, leather-bound, its cover cracked and lined like an old man's hands. Dust motes drifted through the air as she opened it. The sound was slow, reverent — the sigh of something ancient waking.
She smiled again, smaller this time, almost sad.
"Alright, my little star," she said, brushing the hair from his forehead. "This one — this is the story of how our world was born."
Kael sat up straighter, blanket falling to his lap. The fire popped. Shadows leaned closer.
His mother turned the first brittle page and began.
---
The Song of Tears
(An Ancient Bedtime Poem)
Her voice was soft — almost a melody, the words older than memory itself.
> "The Primordial One once wept —
Seven tears of light, and one of shadow.
From those tears, color was born,
And the world first learned to feel."
She turned the page slowly, fingers tracing faint inked lines as if touching ghosts.
> "The Primordial One wept seven tears of light
And one of shadow, from which color was born.
Each tear birthed a vein of emotion,
Forming the Seven Known Colors.
But the single tear of shadow birthed
The Eighth Vein —
A color that feeds on imbalance."
Kael leaned closer, breath fogging faintly in the dim.
His mother's eyes shimmered with the flame as she continued:
> "Because this tear was born of grief,
It carried within it the seed of corruption,
Distortion, and chaos."
The words fell like rain — heavy, rhythmic, each one pulling the light lower in the room.
> "The Seven shone as veins of grace,
Each a pulse of living emotion —
Joy, fury, sorrow, calm, and more,
Woven into hearts that dared to master them."
Kael's small voice interrupted, trembling slightly:
"So… the colors were alive?"
She nodded. "Alive, yes — and dangerous. Each feeling has a pulse, and too much pulse becomes a storm."
He frowned. "Then… the Eighth one… is it bad?"
Her eyes softened. "Not bad, Kael. Just… broken."
She turned another page, the shadows deepening as if listening too.
> "But the Eighth… the shadowed tear,
Was born of grief — unending, deep.
It sang of loss, of hollow dreams,
Of chaos clothed in memory.
And one arose who touched that shade,
Who tamed the grief that none could bear.
He was the Enhancer of All Colors —
The Rampaging Lord of sorrow's flame."
Kael's small hands clenched around the blanket.
"He doesn't sound like a hero."
"He wasn't," she whispered. "He only wanted to make the world feel again — but he forgot that grief devours what it touches."
She continued, her voice now trembling with the fire's hiss.
> "He gathered souls that mirrored pain,
Those broken by love, by loss, by life.
He poured his color into theirs,
And what was bright grew dark, wrong —
A beauty warped with a hue profane."
Kael shuddered. The flames dimmed as if the story itself consumed them.
> "With his mourning host he marched,
Upon the gates of Aetherion's halls.
The Council fell in rivers red,
Their light consumed, their peace undone."
His mother's eyes lifted from the page, watching him quietly. "Do you know what happened next?"
He shook his head.
> "From the ruin, light arose —
The Blighted, pure and pale,
And the Chromai, hybrids, bearers of multiple hues,
Who stood as one against the storm."
She drew a slow breath, and Kael thought she almost sounded proud.
> "Together they defeated the Lord of Grief,
And purged his army from the earth.
Yet his son — the heir of shadow —
Was never found among the slain."
The room fell silent. Only the fire dared move.
Kael whispered, "The heir of shadow… what happened to him?"
Her gaze flickered to the window, where snow brushed the sill.
"Some say he vanished. Others say… he was reborn."
Kael swallowed. "Reborn?"
"In hearts still grieving," she said softly. "In every sorrow too heavy to bear. That's why we keep the Blighted creed."
She spoke the words with quiet reverence:
> "To guard the peace, to bind the grief,
Before the Eighth shall weep again."
Then she closed the book — gently, like laying a body to rest.
---
After the Story — Fear and Comfort
For a long while, Kael said nothing. The only sound was the fire, whispering secrets to itself.
Then, in the smallest voice:
"Mama… what if the beasts come here?"
She blinked, startled. "What beasts, my heart?"
"The ones from the story. The ones born of color's death." His fingers twisted the blanket. "What if they attack us?"
His mother laughed softly, shaking her head. "Don't be, my love. Stories like these remind us why peace must be kept. I'll always be here to protect you."
Her voice was steady, warm — a promise that wrapped around him tighter than any blanket.
"But what if—"
"Shh." She placed a hand on his cheek. "No 'what ifs' tonight."
"But you said the heir was never found!" Kael's voice cracked, halfway between fear and fascination. "What if he's still out there?"
She smiled again, tired but sure. "Then he's far from here. And even if he weren't, no shadow would dare cross your mother."
He giggled a little at that, though his eyes stayed wide. "You're brave, Mama."
She looked away from him then — just for a heartbeat — and Kael didn't notice how her smile faltered in the firelight.
When she turned back, her voice was lighter. "Now come here, little star."
He crawled into her arms, the book pressed between them like a secret. She kissed his forehead, whispering, "You'll understand one day — why the story matters."
He mumbled something in reply, half-asleep.
The candle flickered once, then went out.
And for a moment, the room was only warmth, breath, and silence.
---
Return to the Present — The Weight of Memory
A gust of wind tore through the trees. The warmth was gone. The world was ash and frost again.
Kael stood alone beneath a broken moon, cloak whipping behind him. His voice came out hoarse, half a laugh, half a wound:
"I wish she'd never said that."
He looked down — at his trembling hands, at the faint glimmer beneath his skin. The veins pulsed faintly, not red or blue, but something darker.
"Because she didn't live to keep that promise."