Many, many years ago in a moment lost to the sands of time the world of Aetherion was nothing but chaos.
The skies were torn asunder by war. The ground bled molten fire. From the abyss, the legions of Hell clawed their way upward, bringing with them ruin, hunger, and despair. For an age, creation itself trembled under their march.
Then came the gods.
Radiant beings forged from thought and will children of the Primordial Flame, they descended upon the world to wage war in its name.
And at their forefront stood Lucitas, the God of Light. He was the first to raise a sword against the darkness, and the last to lower it.
When the war finally ended, the screams of demons faded into dust, and the skies wept with relief. The gods stood victorious upon the silent ruin of creation.
But victory came at a cost.
The stars dimmed. The oceans boiled. And the world the very shell they fought to protect was dying.
It was then that Lucitas, in his blinding radiance, decreed that the gods must never again let the void take root in their hearts.
It was then that Lucitas, the God of Light, spoke among the weary victors.
"We have destroyed much," he said, his radiance dimmed by sorrow.
"So let us now create, and fill this emptiness with purpose."
And thus, upon the scarred remains of the old world, the gods began to weave anew. They shaped Aetherion a realm of balance and beauty and into it, each god placed their most beloved creation.
Lucitas breathed life into mankind, born from his own light and will.
Velithra, the Flame Mother, gave birth to the elves, beings of grace and eternal flame.
Tharos, Lord of Storms, molded the dwarves, whose hearts burned as fiercely as the thunder that forged them.
And others followed gods of beasts, of forests, of dreams all gifting Aetherion their cherished children.
Each god looked upon their creation and saw perfection. And in return, the mortals gazed upward and worshipped. Through that worship, the gods' influence grew their power feeding the heavens once more.
But the joy was short-lived.
From the broken corners of creation, the remnants of Hell stirred. Their hatred had not died with their defeat, and now they reached toward Aetherion toward the gods' fragile masterpiece to corrupt it, to reclaim what they had lost.
The gods, unwilling to see their children fall, took action.
In a single, unified decree, they poured their divine essence into the newborn world. The energy of every god fused into one breath one force saturating the very soil, sea, and sky.
That breath became Divine Energy the living pulse of Aetherion itself.
When mortals learned to draw upon it, their bodies strengthened, their spirits awakened. They became capable of wielding the light of gods against the darkness of Hell.
And for the first time in eternity, the gods saw their creations stand not as helpless offspring, but as warriors in their own right.
Aetherion became their home. I close the book and let out a long, tired sigh.
"How pretentious," I mutter under my breath.
Behind me, the maids start whispering again. They always do. "See? I told you he's reading again."
"That's so creepy a one-year-old reading?"
"Maybe he's just looking at the pictures," another says, like that somehow makes it better.
I ignore them. I've learned that silence bothers people more than anything you can say.
Months. I've been stuck in this damned library for months, reading everything I can get my hands on and every book on divine energy says the same thing. The same sanctimonious garbage about the gods and their so-called "wisdom."
Every page bleeds praise for them.
For Lucitas, the "God of light."
For his mercy, his brilliance, his divine grace.
If I roll my eyes any harder, they'll probably get stuck that way.
I already know the truth the books that actually teach something useful, something real, are in the Second Hall. The restricted one. The one only blessed children of the family can enter.
Five years. I'd have to wait five years for the blessing ceremony. Assuming the gods don't find another way to screw me first.
"Oh, looky here."
I speak too soon.
Of course. I turn slightly, already knowing who it is from that annoying, squeaky voice.
Nocra Ardent.
Second son of Marinas Ardent. Three years old. The most insufferable blonde brat I've ever met and that's saying something, considering I used to work customer service in my past life.
He struts up to me with that smug, noble grin that makes me want to throw a chair at him.
"Is the motherless boy trying to learn how to conjure divine energy?" he sneers, snatching the book from my hands. "Let me see that."
I don't fight him for it. I just look at him.
That's all. Just look.
It's funny how quiet people get when they see my eyes. Even at one year old, I know how to look at someone like they're already dead.
"Do you really think this is enough?" Nocra asked, his childish voice dripping with false pity. "The fact that you're divineless is still true, you know. There's never been anyone like you in this family, Delian. Father must be thinking of ways to get rid of you."
He tilted his head, smiling like he'd just told me the funniest joke in the world.
"I know my mother is."
Then he laughed. "But don't worry I told her Delian means us no harm." His grin sharpened. "Actually, what I meant to say was: what harm could a divineless brat possibly do?"
He laughed louder this time, that grating, high-pitched laugh that made the maids outside snicker behind their hands.
I stayed quiet. Just watching.
The man standing a few paces behind Nocra chuckled too Dorathal, his assigned guardian knight. An Aura Blade-class blessed knight of the Ardent family.
From what I'd gathered in the past few months, that title alone made him worth an army. A man who could cut through boulders with a breath of divine energy, who could split the sky with a sword swing. And here he was, babysitting a three-year-old.
I almost laughed.
Almost.
The thought didn't comfort me, though. It reminded me just how deep the Ardent family's power ran and how dangerous the monsters lurking inside this manor really were.
If this was the kind of strength they treated as disposable… then what kind of beasts were the ones standing at the top?
Nocra tossed the book back at me. "You should just give up, Delian," he said, voice suddenly serious. "You'll never have what we have. You don't belong here.".
"What are you trying so hard for ....for that old hag?" he taunted.
I spun on my heel the moment Nocra sneered My look landed on him, slow and cold. It was one that didn't belong on a one-year-old face. It didn't belong on any face but I didn't care. Nocra's grin faltered, color draining from it like paint bleeding away.
Dorathal moved before I could think, the knight's blade was out in a blink, the tip hovering inches from my cheek. The room smelled of steel and fear. "How dare you, mere bastard," he growled, voice low and dangerous. "Glaring at the young master like that..."
My eyes didn't leave Nocra. I didn't flinch. My anger wasn't loud; it was a quiet thing that sat behind my ribs and tightened like a wire. The longer Nocra met that stare, the more his bravado crumpled. I could see it in the way his mouth worked, in the tremor stepping up his spine.
"A one-year-old with eyes like that," Dorathal muttered, disgust and unease warring in his tone.
Then something cold pressed against Dorathal's throat.
I didn't even hear her come in.
Cassandra was there blade flat and steady, the steel warm against his skin. The knight froze, sweat beading at his temple. For a heartbeat he looked like a man who'd swallowed his own breath.
"You know better than to point your sword at the blood of Ardent," Cassandra's voice was low, precise — not trembling, not angry. It was the kind of tone that made grown knights hesitate.
"Cassandra Nova," Dorathal hissed, the name tasting bitter. "Still playing guard dog to a doomed pup?"
"Better a guard dog," she said, pressing the dagger to his throat, "than a wolf who forgot his place."
She knew what she was doing. Every word, every threat not for pride, but for warning. In this house, hesitation killed faster than steel.
Dorathal's sword hung useless at his side as he forced a grin that didn't reach his eyes. He sheathed his weapon slowly, fingers shaking.
She didn't smile. She pressed the blade a fraction harder, and for the first time I saw the snake in her eyes coiled, ready. "Do that to the young master again," she warned, "and you'll find yourself twelve feet under before nightfall."
Dorathal backed away on unsteady feet, hands up like a man surrendering to a storm. Nocra gaped, the bravado sucked out of him. The maids in the doorway made small, stunned noises.
Cassandra slid the dagger back into her sleeve and stepped between me and the knight like a human wall. She crouched and gave me a look fierce, tired, full of some loyalty I couldn't repay. For a second, the room felt less like a trap and more like something I could survive.
I looked down at my small hands, then up at her. I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing at all. The silence that followed tasted like promise and warning both.
As the murmurs thickened in the corridor, Nocra's face twisted into something between rage and humiliation. His cheeks were flushed red, his little fists trembling.
"You'll pay for this," he spat, voice cracking as he glared between me and Cassandra. "Both of you."
He jerked his head toward Dorathal, who was already scowling but still wearing that irritating, toothy grin.
"Let's go," Nocra ordered.
Dorathal lingered a heartbeat longer, his gaze falling on me. "Better watch out, boy," he muttered, his tone thick with disdain the kind adults use when they think you're too small to understand.
"How dare you-..." Cassandra hissed, already stepping forward, hand ghosting over her dagger again.
"That's enough, Cassandra."
My voice came out calm too calm for a child's. She froze mid-step, her expression tightening before she glanced back at me. I met her eyes and gave her a wry little smile. It wasn't forced, but it carried a weight that silenced her instantly.
She let out a soft breath and backed down, the tension fading from her shoulders. Dorathal smirked one last time before following Nocra out, their footsteps echoing against the marble floor until they disappeared around the corner.
Silence lingered for a while after they left. The kind that always follows a fight heavy and hollow.
Then Cassandra spoke, her tone softer.
"Master, I have something for you in your room."
I blinked, glancing up at her. "Something for me?"
She smiled. "A gift for your hard work."
We walked back quietly through the manor's halls. The servants bowed as we passed, whispering just out of earshot as usual. By now, their words meant nothing. I'd grown used to their stares.
When we reached my room, I saw it immediately a small package resting neatly atop my desk.
"What's this?" I asked.
"Open it."
I untied the string carefully, half-expecting another cruel prank. But inside… I froze. My eyes widened.
A book. Thick, dark leather binding, lined with gold. The faint smell of old parchment and arcane ink.
The Grimoire of Divine Oracles.
I ran my hand along the cover reverently. "This is…" I swallowed. "This is expensive, Cassandra."
She smiled that same warm, patient smile she always had. "My salary is more than enough, young master."
For a moment, I didn't know what to say. The book felt heavier than it should, like it carried more than just words like it carried meaning. Hope, maybe. Or trust.
"You know," I said finally, voice low, "staying by my side means bearing the insults and judgment of others. Yet you still stay."
I hugged the book close to my chest. "I can never thank you enough. My debt to you has grown tenfold."
Cassandra blinked, caught off guard. For a second, her lips parted, but no sound came out. Then she knelt down to my height and placed a gentle hand on my head.
"Like always," she said softly, her eyes kind, "I promise I'll stay."
Her hand lingered for a heartbeat longer, her warmth seeping through my hair.
I looked up at her a small smile tugging at my lips, genuine and faintly trembling. "Thank you, Cassandra."
And for the first time that day, something in my chest the anger, the bitterness eased, just a little.