The sun broke through the silver clouds above the Nasarik estate, its rays spilling across the tranquil gardens that surrounded the ancestral manor. Cherry vines swayed in the soft wind, their petals dancing like whispers of peace. For the first time in a long while, the world felt… still.
Eryndor stood on the open balcony of his chamber, his hands carefully cradling the small, sleeping bundle against his chest.
Aren Nasarik. His son.
The child's soft breathing calmed something deep inside him—the part of Eryndor that had always been ready for battle, for storms and blood and destiny. But this—this little heartbeat—was something even the heavens couldn't script.
Lyanna leaned against the doorway, her dark hair brushing over her shoulders, a faint smile lighting her tired but radiant face.
"He has your eyes," she murmured, her voice soft as velvet.
Eryndor looked down at the infant, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Poor kid. That means trouble follows him by default."
Lyanna chuckled and crossed the room to him, resting her head against his shoulder. "If he's anything like his father, he'll redefine trouble itself."
He turned slightly, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. "That's what I'm afraid of."
The moment lingered—quiet, fragile, perfect—until a faint chime echoed through the air.
A soft, bell-like tone that wasn't of metal or magic, but something older.
Eryndor stiffened. The air around them shimmered faintly, distorting like heat waves.
From the courtyard below, the servants whispered as a cloaked figure walked through the gates. Her steps were slow, deliberate, yet the earth itself seemed to bow beneath her weight. The guards moved to stop her—then froze, their bodies locked mid-motion, as if time itself had forgotten them.
Eryndor gently handed Aren to Lyanna, his expression darkening. "Stay here."
By the time he reached the courtyard, Zephyr and Aldric were already there. Both stood in silence, eyes wary.
The figure stopped at the foot of the Nasarik steps. She pulled back her hood—revealing an elderly woman with silver eyes that shimmered faintly with constellations. Her face was lined with age, yet untouched by time.
Zephyr was the first to speak. "Who are you?"
The woman smiled faintly. "Names have power, Lord Nasarik. I am only a messenger."
Eryndor's voice was low, edged with quiet authority. "A messenger of what?"
She looked at him—straight through him, as if his soul were a page she'd read before.
"The coming of the Noxis."
The word rippled through the courtyard like thunder. Even the air seemed to tighten.
Aldric's expression sharpened. "That name… that's not of this world."
The woman nodded slowly. "No. It is not. The Noxis are higher-dimensional beings—predators of creation. When they descend, worlds unravel, and laws of reality crumble like dust."
Zephyr's eyes narrowed. "And what does this have to do with my grandson?"
The woman's gaze softened with something that wasn't pity—something more ancient, like reverence. "Everything. For the storm he commands and the blood that flows through him mark him as the Conduit of Cycles. The one destined to face the shadow of the higher void."
Eryndor's jaw tightened. "You're saying this thing—this Noxis—will come for me?"
She nodded. "Not for you… but because of you. The birth of Aren Nasarik has stirred the higher realms. The child carries a trace of the astral resonance—something that should not exist in mortal lineage. It is both light and abyss, storm and silence."
Lyanna appeared behind him then, clutching Aren protectively, her eyes wide. "What are you saying?"
The woman turned to her, voice gentler now. "That your child will one day be hunted by beings that do not understand mercy. And that his father will be the one to choose between salvation… or the end of all things."
Lightning flickered in the distant sky, faint and restless.
Eryndor's aura crackled unconsciously, the ground humming beneath his feet. "If this Noxis comes, I'll be waiting."
The woman tilted her head, almost… sad. "That's what every Conduit says, young Nasarik. Until they see what waits beyond the veil."
Her form began to fade, light seeping from her robes as if she were dissolving into starlight. Before she vanished completely, her final words echoed through the courtyard—soft, haunting, absolute:
"When the black sun rises over the astral sea, the storm must either ascend—or drown."
The light vanished.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The wind whispered through the cherry blossoms, carrying the faint sound of Aren's cry from inside.
Lyanna clutched the baby closer. Aldric exhaled slowly, his eyes heavy with thought. "A being from a higher dimension…"
Zephyr turned to Eryndor. "You heard her. Whatever this is, it's not something the mortal realms can face alone."
Eryndor looked toward the sky, where faint thunder rolled without clouds. His hands clenched at his sides, his voice quiet but sharp as the edge of lightning.
"Then I'll find a way to reach them—before they reach us."
He turned back toward the manor, where Lyanna and Aren waited.
And for a fleeting instant, in the reflection of his eyes, the sky seemed to ripple again—like something beyond it was already watching.
The storm had only just begun.