The fragment of land floated so high that even the clouds looked distant, like smudges of pale smoke forgotten below.No mountain reached this place.No wind dared brush its edges.
Upon that suspended piece of earth stood a white temple.Its color was too pure, too absolute, as if it rejected the very idea of decay. The columns cast no shadows. The surface bore no cracks, no dust, no sign that time had ever passed. The place did not breathe. It simply existed, frozen at the edge of creation.
A sanctuary without worshippers.Or perhaps… a tomb without a name.
Deep within its hollow heart, something stirred.
It wasn't sound.More like an echo.A tremor that should have been impossible in a place where nothing moved.
A soul awakened.Ancient.Weathered.Like a page left untouched for countless ages, ink nearly faded, meaning almost lost.
It gathered itself into the faint shape of an azure spark, flickering weakly. A fragile glow, too dim to cast light, yet conscious enough to feel the emptiness pressing around it. It had no face, no voice, no memory. Only one sensation rose from its depths, distant and muted.
It had slept too long.
The spark hovered above the immaculate floor, drifting forward with the hesitance of something remembering how to exist. The temple walls seemed familiar, not in physical form, but in the way one recalls a dream long after it has dissolved. A familiarity without meaning. A tie without name.
It floated toward the threshold.
Beyond that line lay the sky — open, soundless, endless. The moon hung higher still, watching with its cold, ancient gaze. Stars dotted the void like unblinking eyes. And beneath it all, the world sprawled, a blurred tapestry of shifting shadows and pale lights.
The soul crossed the threshold.The ground vanished beneath it.
The fall began.Slow.Silent.Irreversible.
The white temple receded behind it, shrinking into a speck of impossible purity. It did not react. It did not reach out. It did not acknowledge the departure of the being it had sheltered for an age beyond counting.
Below, the world revealed itself layer by layer.
Continents stretched like sleeping beasts.Rivers glimmered like thin golden veins.Mountains pierced the horizon with jagged silhouettes.Fragments of floating ruins drifted among distant clouds, remnants of eras the soul might once have known.
Then came the lights.
Countless golden sparks pulsed across the land.Alive.Bright.Beating like distant hearts.
The soul felt a faint tug of recognition.Not memory — memory was gone.Something older. Instinctive.
Blessed lives.Touched by the sky.
The world felt vibrant, alive in a way it did not remember. Had it always been like this?Had everything changed?Or had the change occurred within itself?
Questions flickered and faded.The fall continued.
Then it noticed something else.
A point of darkness.
One.Single.Unmoving.
A solitary black spark among the thousands of golden ones.
The soul's dim light tightened, as if recoiling — or reaching.It couldn't tell.Not emotion.Not thought.Something deeper.
Recognition.Warning.Invitation.
***
The black point that had pulled the ancient soul down from the heights widened as it descended, turning first into a distant glow, then into the outline of a modest house tucked within a sleeping fishing village, and by the time the soul slipped effortlessly through the wooden wall, the warmth inside struck it like a wave rising against a silent shore.
The small room was lit by a single oil lamp, its glow trembling softly against rough wooden boards and casting gentle shadows over the woman who sat on the bed, her body still trembling faintly from the effort of childbirth. Her brown hair clung to her temples, her cheeks were flushed with exhaustion, yet her eyes—bright, damp, full of something tender and fiercely alive—were fixed on the tiny newborn cradled against her chest. The child was barely more than a shallow breath wrapped in soft cloth, his skin flushed and his movements erratic, as if every sensation was a question he had not yet learned how to ask.
Two midwives moved about the room with quiet precision, folding bloodstained linens, adjusting blankets, whispering reassurances they barely dared to voice aloud. The air carried the smell of sweat, wood, salt, and the faint, unmistakable scent of new life, raw and fragile yet powerful enough to shift the mood of the entire house.
The door creaked open.
A man stepped inside and froze on the threshold, the breath ripped out of him as if he had been struck. His broad shoulders, hardened by years of battle and labor, trembled with an emotion he didn't know how to hold. The scars on his forearms caught the lamplight in pale flashes, and the storm-blue of his eyes softened in an instant, turning glassy.
The woman looked up, and a slow, tired smile lifted her lips.
"You can come closer," she whispered, her voice weak but steady. "Come see your son."
The man inhaled sharply, as if bracing himself the way he once had before charging into battle, then took a hesitant step forward, then another, until he reached the bedside. He sat with an awkwardness that betrayed both his fear and his awe. His hands, accustomed to the grip of iron and the heat of the forge, hovered uncertainly in the air before daring to approach the tiny face.
"My son…" His voice cracked, split cleanly in two. "My… son."
The tears came faster than he could hide them. He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, hoping to conceal the gesture, but the midwives exchanged knowing smiles, and the woman released a soft laugh that trembled with affection.
The baby's thin cry rose into the air, sharp and small but undeniably alive.
The man laughed in return, nerves and joy clashing in the sound.
"He looks like you," he murmured, searching his wife's eyes as if to steady himself. "Thank the heavens for that."
Her smile turned playful, despite her exhaustion.
"Oh? And what's wrong with looking like you?"
"I just hope he doesn't inherit your temper," he replied, leaning back slightly as if bracing for retaliation. "Two of you in one household… I'm not sure the village would survive."
The midwives burst into quiet laughter, and the woman gave him a look that was half a glare, half a smile, the kind that spoke of years shared and countless emotions exchanged without words.
The baby whimpered again, a small, searching sound, and the father extended a finger. The newborn's tiny hand closed around it with surprising strength.
"A fighter already," the man whispered, his voice barely audible.
"Or a blacksmith like his father," the woman answered gently, brushing her fingers over the baby's cheek with a tenderness that made the room feel warmer.
A lull settled over them, soft and expectant, until one of the midwives cleared her throat.
"So… have you chosen a name?"
The question drifted into the room like a spark, quiet but heavy.The parents glanced at each other, their eyes carrying exhaustion, love, fear, hope—all mixed together so seamlessly that words seemed inadequate. The woman lowered her eyes to her son, tracing the tiny line of his jaw as if the name were hidden somewhere on his skin.
Then she breathed it.
"Azem."
The newborn suddenly let out a loud, piercing cry, as if the name had struck some invisible chord inside him.
The midwives laughed. The father blinked in surprise, then a wide, helpless grin spread across his face.
"I'll take that as a yes," he said, shaking his head with a joy that seemed too big for his frame. "Azem… that's your name, little one."
The woman repeated it softly, as though sealing it into the air itself.
"Azem… my little Azem…"
In the far corner of the room, unnoticed by any human eye, the azure soul hovered, motionless, absorbing every breath, every sound, every flicker of warmth. It did not understand the meaning of the name, nor the words, nor the fragile thread of love that connected these people so effortlessly. Yet something held it there, something deeper than memory, something ancient and instinctive that forbade it from slipping away.
It remained suspended above them, a silent witness tied to the newborn's faint heartbeat.
And though it could not yet grasp why, some part of it seemed to know that it would not leave him.Not tomorrow.Not next month.Not for fourteen long years.