Arelion didn't know how long he lay on the sand. His limbs were numb, his breaths shallow. When his vision finally cleared, he found himself staring at a sky he had never seen before.
Two moons hung above him.
One silver.
One violet.
The stars were arranged in constellations that whispered of beasts, ancient heroes, and celestial gates. He blinked slowly.
"This… isn't the same place…"
He pushed himself up weakly. The sand beneath him shimmered faintly with mana — something the mortal world he'd known didn't have. Strange flowers glowed with soft blue light, and the air hummed with energy.
Arelion had not survived by chance.
He had been taken.
High above this realm — in an entirely different dimension hidden from all mortal eyes — the Avalon Council gathered.
A circular room floated in an endless void of starlight, seven thrones forming a ring around a towering obsidian seat. Each throne belonged to a ruler of a race:
Raghal, Dragon King — scales of molten gold
Sylvarine, Elven Matriarch — eyes of emerald starlight
Lord Vaelen, Vampire Duke — cold as winter night
Morgath, Demon Warlord — horns etched in runes
Tirox, Basilica Titan — body of living stone
Sereth, Human Sage — calm but worn
Umbra'Kel, the Bizarre Entity — shifting, shadow-born
And above them all sat
Varathos, the Supreme Lord of Avalon
— the only being whose presence silenced all others.
Tonight, the chamber vibrated with tension.
Raghal slammed a clawed fist against his throne.
"The destruction gods have begun again. Their trail of carnage grows. Velthera is next."
A map of burning realms floated before them — worlds annihilated by beings who thrived on destruction.
Sylvarine's voice trembled.
"We are bound by the Higher Oath. We cannot descend into lower realms and interfere directly… or Avalon itself will crumble."
"Then we prepare mortals," Sereth said somberly. "We select a champion to guide them."
Varathos raised a hand. Silence fell instantly.
"Every kingdom ruler shall send their ten most promising youths. From them… our apprentice will arise."
But as the council spoke, Varathos drifted his gaze elsewhere.
Across the void.
Through dimensions.
Past the barriers known even to gods.
His eyes fell upon a small boy lying helpless on a glowing shore.
No one else noticed. No other council member sensed the disturbance. But Varathos felt it:
A thread of power.
A divine fragment hidden beneath a fragile mortal shell.
A soul carrying an echo of a god long lost.
He whispered to himself:
"So… Azerion's blood has not ended."
His face revealed nothing.
He spoke nothing.
He instructed nothing.
But inwardly, he marked the boy.
Not as a threat.
Not as a chosen.
But as something that fate itself had left for him to watch.
Meanwhile, Arelion struggled to his feet, feeling only fear and loneliness.
He had no idea that beings older than worlds were discussing the fate of realms overhead.
No idea that shadows watched him.
No idea that destiny had begun weaving threads around him.
Avalon agents — robed figures who served the council — approached quietly. One knelt beside the dazed boy.
"He survived the sea rift," the agent murmured. "Just a lost child… another we must send to Velthera's mortal lands."
Arelion didn't resist as they lifted him. He didn't speak.
He only stared blankly as the agents carried him past luminous trees and mana-woven paths toward a dimensional gate.
The gate flared open — a swirling rift of silver light.
Beyond it lay Velthera, the world of mortals.
The world where Arelion would grow, struggle, train, bleed, and eventually rise.
A world that needed a savior…
and had no idea one had just arrived.
As the gate closed behind him, Varathos whispered:
"Little spark… let us see where your path leads."