Auenfeld was quiet that morning. The day began slowly, accompanied by the crowing of roosters and the gentle rustle of fields swaying in the wind. A calm sky hung over the rooftops of the small village, and only a few windows were already lit. In a small house at the edge of the village, however, nothing of that calm could be felt. A sharp cry cut through the silence as a newborn drew its first breath and raised its voice.
"It's time!" the midwife gasped, bending over the bed. "Push, Renalia, once more!"
Renalia clenched her teeth. Sweat ran down her forehead as she gathered her last strength. Another cry echoed through the room, followed by one final, exhausted push. Then, suddenly, it went quiet. For a brief moment, nothing could be heard but the mother's heavy breathing and the soft rustle of cloth. Finally, a short cry broke the silence, filling the room for only an instant before it stopped as abruptly as it had begun.
The midwife frowned in confusion. The child lay calm in her hands. Two eyes, bright as morning, slowly opened and looked straight at Renalia. There was something unusual in that gaze — something that didn't belong to a newborn. Too awake. Too clear. And then something happened that no one in the room had expected: the child moved its lips.
"...Food."
The midwife's eyes flew open in shock. The father, Ralph Erigor III, who had been standing nervously by the door until then, blinked in disbelief and took a step closer.
"Did he just say food?"
Renalia, meanwhile, began to laugh, exhausted. She carefully took the child into her arms and pulled it to her chest.
"Of course you're hungry, my little one," she said gently. "Welcome home, Alvios."
The child closed its eyes for a moment, as if it had expected exactly this. Outside the house, the wind moved over the fields — but for a single breath, it went completely still. No one in the village noticed. No one except the invisible current that flowed through everything. The Aether listened. And somewhere deep within its flow, something answered.
The Erigor family's house had stood at the edge of Auenfeld for generations. It was no grand estate, but to the people of the village it was considered one of the oldest buildings in the area. Two storeys rose above a solid foundation of dark stone, topped by an attic whose beams smelled of dry wood in summer and creaked under the weight of snow in winter. Beneath it all lay a cellar. A simple wooden door led down, but no one in the house had ever seen it opened.
Ralph had tried more than once. First with the old keys passed down through generations. When that failed, he tried tools — hammer and chisel — and later even simple spells he had learned on his travels. But nothing happened. The door remained unmoved. Not even a scratch showed on the wood. Eventually, Ralph gave up.
"Some doors don't open," he said one evening, standing before the locked cellar door, thoughtfully running his hand over the old wood, "because they're not meant to. Not yet."
Little Alvios stood beside him and nodded, though he barely understood what his father meant. In the nights that followed, something happened that he couldn't explain for a long time. Sometimes, when the house was silent and only the wind moved over the rooftops, he thought he heard voices. Quiet. Whispering. As if words were passing through deep water, only reaching his ear at the very end of their journey. He could never make out what was said. But he was certain someone spoke down there.
The years passed. When Alvios turned three, he received a gift from his father. It was no toy, and nothing the other children in the village usually played with. Ralph pressed a simple wooden staff into his hand, smoothly sanded and a little longer than Alvios's arm. The boy studied the piece of wood with curiosity.
"This isn't a toy," Ralph said seriously, kneeling before his son. "This is the beginning of a responsibility."
Renalia, who had been watching from the doorway, immediately crossed her arms.
"He's three years old!" she protested. "He should be learning to read, not fighting!"
Ralph looked over at her and smiled crookedly, as if he had expected this argument long ago.
"Why not both?"
Renalia huffed, but she knew her husband wouldn't be talked out of it so easily. So began something no one in the village ever officially noticed. At night, when the moon hung over the fields and most of the villagers were already asleep, Ralph and Alvios went out behind the house. There, where the fields lay far enough away that no one could hear their movements, father and son practiced with the wooden staff. Slow movements. Steps. Stances. Ralph patiently explained every movement while Alvios tried to imitate it as best he could.
The villagers saw them sometimes. But they pretended not to notice. Perhaps out of courtesy. Perhaps out of curiosity. Or perhaps because they sensed that something lay within this boy that was hard to explain.
Time passed faster than anyone would have expected. When Alvios finally turned eighteen, he was neither a famous fighter nor a great hero out of the stories told by the fire. But he was strong. Strong enough to stand on his own feet. And strong enough to leave the village.
Renalia now stepped beside him, holding a fine silver necklace. In its center glimmered a small rune, its light shimmering faintly greenish-white.
"And this is from me," she said gently.
Alvios studied the amulet with curiosity. "What is it?"
"A protective amulet," she answered. "It carries the rune Vitae Restituere — Sanitas Aetherium." Carefully, she placed the chain around his neck. The metal felt cool against his skin, but the moment it touched his chest, the rune began to glow faintly in rhythm with his heartbeat. "As long as you wear it," Renalia explained, "no illness will weaken you. Your body will stay pure, no matter how far you travel or how cold the wind grows."
Alvios studied the faint glow for a moment before looking up at his mother. "Thank you, Mom. It's beautiful."
"It reacts to your Aether," she added, brushing his shoulder briefly. "If it glows too brightly, rest."
Ralph crossed his arms and nodded in agreement. "Sanitas is nothing to play around with."
Alvios grinned. "Don't worry. I'll be careful."
The harbor of Portus Arcana was the exact opposite of Auenfeld. Where the village was quiet and still, here reigned a constant chaos of voices, footsteps, and noise. Sailors shouted orders across the deck, merchants hawked their wares, and gulls circled screeching above the masts of the ships. Among it all lay a ship whose sails already fluttered in the wind. The Emerald Wind. Ready to set sail.
Renalia held her son tightly once more. "Take care of yourself," she said quietly.
Alvios returned the embrace and grinned, even as something heavy settled somewhere in his chest. "I'll try."
Ralph placed a hand on his shoulder. "And don't forget," he added, "when you come back, bring me a wife."
Alvios raised an eyebrow. "But no Orkin."
Ralph shrugged. "What if she's nice?"
"Then we'll ask questions."
Alvios laughed, though his heart grew heavy in that moment. "I'll come back," he said finally. "Sooner than you think."
The gangplank rattled under his steps as he boarded. Behind him, the sailors were already loosening the ropes, and slowly the ship began to pull away from the pier. He waved to his parents for as long as he could still make them out. At first, they were only small figures among the people at the harbor. Then just dots. Finally, they vanished completely.
"We love you!" Renalia called after him.
"And don't forget," Ralph shouted, "you're never alone!"
Alvios finally turned toward the sea. Before him lay an endless expanse of waves and horizon, one that would carry him out into a world larger than anything he had ever seen. Beside him stood a young man with white hair, someone he had never seen before. For now, they were strangers. Later, Alvios would call him a friend. And later still, a brother.
Alvios raised his hand toward the horizon. "New world," he murmured softly. "Here I come."
Deep within the unseen flow of the Aether, a barely perceptible tremor passed through the current, as if the world itself had been waiting for these words. A quiet murmur moved through the stream. An inaudible breath. And somewhere in that ancient flow, a thought flickered.
This time. Maybe this time. Is it enough.
—End of the Prologue