The first thing Aeren Vael remembered… was nothing.
He woke to a world of ash and shadow, the faint scent of fire clinging to the air as if the world itself had exhaled and never quite recovered. The ground beneath him was blackened stone, fractured and cracked, as though some ancient power had reshaped it with deliberate cruelty. Above, the sky swirled in hues of violet and silver, clouds curling like smoke around an unseen sun. Time itself seemed hesitant here, as though the world waited for him to remember—or to fail.
Aeren's body was thin but lithe, like a sapling hardened in a storm. His hands flexed instinctively, searching for something—anything—but found only emptiness. No memories, no family, no name. Not even the faint echo of a childhood. All he felt was an ache, deep in his chest, as if the very marrow of his bones knew he had lost something, but couldn't name it.
He stood slowly, legs trembling. The wind whispered over the fractured stones, carrying the faintest echoes of voices, cries, laughter… memories that were not his own, yet stung with uncanny familiarity.
Then he saw the light.
It was not sunlight, nor moonlight, but a faint, pulsing glow emanating from his palm. He held his hand out instinctively, and the ash at his feet swirled upward, forming delicate sparks that danced like fireflies. They moved with intelligence, bending toward him and then recoiling, as if alive, or perhaps testing him. Aeren gasped.
A memory—or was it a warning?—flashed through him: "Every spell costs something you will never get back."
The words struck like a hammer, but their source was unknown. He didn't know if it had been spoken aloud or merely thought. And yet, it felt true. Everything he did from this moment would burn some fragment of himself—or the world.
He took a tentative step forward, then another. The ash swirled obediently beneath his boots, and the glow from his hand intensified. The sky trembled faintly, and the fractured ground shuddered. Aeren realized, with a thrill of terror, that he was… doing this. Whatever this was, he had caused it.
Then came the sound: a low, rumbling laughter, distant but unmistakable, carried on the wind like smoke curling through broken stone. It was warm and mocking, sharp and endless. Aeren froze.
"Ah…" the voice said, melodic and cruel, "you have awakened."
A figure emerged from the haze of ash, draped in shadow. She was beautiful in the way danger is beautiful—danger that promises to break you completely if you are foolish enough to step too close. Her eyes glimmered like polished obsidian, reflecting his own glow back at him.
"I…" Aeren's throat felt dry. "Who—are you?"
She smiled, a slow, deliberate tilt of her lips, revealing teeth sharper than a sculptor's chisel. "Names are… fluid here. But you may call me Lysara, for now."
Aeren swallowed. "Lysara…" It sounded right, though he didn't know why.
"You've been asleep long," she said, stepping closer. Shadows clung to her like living ink, stretching and pulling at the edges of the fractured ground. "The world… has changed while you dreamed."
"What happened here?" His voice was barely audible.
She shook her head. "Happened? Nothing happened yet. Everything is happening. And you—" her gaze pierced him —"you are the catalyst."
The glow in Aeren's hand flared suddenly, bright enough to make him stumble back. Sparks leapt from his palm to the cracked stones, forming intricate patterns in the ash—symbols that seemed ancient and yet familiar. Lysara's eyes widened imperceptibly.
"Interesting," she murmured. "You are ash-touched… not common for the living."
"Ash-touched?" The word tasted like metal in his mouth.
"Yes," she said. "It is rare magic, born from loss, from memory you don't even remember having. You are dangerous, Aeren Vael."
His breath caught. "How do you know my name?"
Her smile sharpened. "I know many things. Enough to guide you—or to destroy you."
Aeren wanted to step back, to flee, but his feet felt rooted to the ground, as if the ash itself had claimed him. Fear surged, but beneath it was something else—a spark, tiny and stubborn, that felt like destiny, or perhaps defiance.
"Then… guide me," he said finally. "I need to understand."
Lysara's smile softened, almost imperceptibly, though the shadows still clung to her like serpents. "Very well. But understand this first: every step you take will cost you. Every spell you cast will demand something precious. And the world… will not forgive mistakes. Not even small ones."
The wind shifted, carrying the smell of scorched earth and molten stone. Above, the sky twisted into a swirl of silver and violet, and in the distance, faint silhouettes of floating lands appeared—palaces suspended in the air, bridges of light stretching impossibly between them.
"This," she said, gesturing toward the horizon, "is Aethyra. A world of memory and ash, light and shadow. And it is dying."
Aeren swallowed hard. He looked down at his glowing hand. Sparks still danced, forming shapes that hinted at stories he could not yet recall.
"Then," he said, "I will… save it."
Lysara tilted her head, studying him. "Bold. Foolish. Perhaps both. We shall see."
And with that, the ash beneath his boots shifted, forming a path forward—toward kingdoms, memories, and battles he could not yet imagine. Aeren Vael took his first step into a world that would remember him long after he had forgotten himself.
Chapter End Hook:
Aeren's first spell had already claimed something from him—though he didn't yet know what. And somewhere in the shadows, the Eternal Empress Seraphae watched, smiling faintly, knowing the world's greatest game had just begun.