The dawn broke slowly, brushing the village with a soft light that made dew cling to every blade of grass. Aion stirred, golden eyes flicking open before the sun had fully risen. He could hear the hum of life already awake: roosters crowing, a dog barking in the distance, and the quiet, methodical creak of Mara tending the hearth.
He slipped from his blankets and padded outside barefoot, the cool morning dew soaking into his soles. The world was simple and whole here, but beneath that simplicity, he could feel the pulse of something… different. Something watching.
Drazon was already waiting at the edge of the wheat fields, cloak brushing the ground like shadow made tangible. He turned as Aion approached, his ash-colored hair catching the first rays of light.
"Good morning," Aion said, still half in the haze of dreams.
"Morning," Drazon replied. His voice carried the weight of something older than the village, older than the mountains beyond. "You slept well?"
Aion nodded. "I dreamed… again." He hesitated. "I saw the skies burning."
Drazon's jaw tightened. "Do not be afraid of dreams, Aion. They are not always prophecy. Sometimes, they are memory speaking."
The boy frowned. He understood that he was meant for more than the fields and forests he knew, yet the weight of it pressed down on him even in the calm of morning.
They walked through the wheat, stalks brushing against his fingertips, and Drazon watched him carefully. "You feel the world differently now," he said. "Do you know why?"
Aion shook his head.
"Because it knows you carry a spark it has never seen before. You are no longer just a child. And the world will respond to that whether you want it to or not."
Aion swallowed, a knot forming in his chest. He had felt it. The pulse within him had grown stronger, almost impossible to ignore. At times, it made the air around him hum, made the wheat sway without wind. It was exhilarating. It was frightening.
Drazon stopped in a small clearing where the morning sunlight cut through the mist like thin gold blades. "Today, we will learn something crucial," he said. "Control is the only thing that will keep you from destroying what you love."
Aion listened intently.
"You are stronger than you know," Drazon continued. "But strength without understanding is a blade in the hands of a child. You must learn restraint."
The lesson began simply: moving stones without touching them, shifting air to lift a leaf, bending water in the stream to swirl around his fingers. Each action required focus, patience, and a calm mind. Each failure left him breathless, frustrated, but Drazon never scolded. He only guided.
Hours passed. The sun rose high, and the village faded into background noise. Aion felt every pulse in the earth beneath him, every whisper in the wind, every vibration of the stream's flowing water. It was more than power; it was communion.
"You feel it," Drazon said finally, resting beside him on the warm earth. "The world listens, but it also judges. It tests you. It knows that what lives in you is not meant for human hands alone."
Aion's lips pressed into a thin line. "What if I fail?"
"You will," Drazon admitted. "Many times. That is part of learning. But do not mistake failure for weakness. Even the gods failed before the Verdant Flame burned. Even I failed. What matters is what you do afterward."
The boy stared at the stream. A small fish leapt from the water, startled, and landed back with a splash. Aion smiled faintly. Somehow, even in small failures, the world responded with grace.
A sudden shadow fell over the clearing. Aion's heart skipped. The pulse within him throbbed sharply, urgent and demanding. He looked up to see a figure standing beyond the wheat, tall and thin, moving in a way that seemed unnatural, slipping between light and shadow as if it did not entirely belong to this world.
Drazon's eyes narrowed. "You are not alone."
Aion felt fear, pure and bright. His pulse raced, echoing in his ears. The figure stepped closer, and the wind carried whispers, faint as breath, carrying names in tongues he could not understand. His body trembled, not from weakness, but from awareness — the awareness that his life, his peace, was already being hunted by forces far older than the village.
"Who… what is it?" he asked, voice trembling.
Drazon's hand rested on his shoulder, firm and grounding. "Not yet your concern. For now, you must learn to stand within yourself, even when the shadows press close. Do you understand?"
Aion nodded, swallowing fear. He wanted to run, to hide, but the pulse inside him reminded him that running would not save him. He had been born for more than safety.
The figure paused, a flicker of recognition crossing its features — as if it sensed the spark that lived in the boy. Then it melted into the horizon, vanishing as silently as it had appeared.
Drazon exhaled slowly. "Soon, you will see more," he said. "And soon, you will have to choose. To fight, to flee, or to become something the world may never forgive. But today is not that day. Today, you learn patience."
Aion knelt by the stream, hands dipping into the cool water. He watched ripples spread outward, concentric circles touching every stone and root, each one a reminder of the delicate balance that held the world together.
"I want to be ready," he said softly.
"You already are," Drazon replied, voice low. "But readiness is more than strength. It is knowing the weight of every choice. Every life. Every moment."
The sun climbed higher, and the village below began to stir with human activity. The ordinary sounds of life — hammering, laughter, the cry of a newborn — reminded Aion why restraint mattered. This world, small and fragile, was worth protecting. And he would learn, no matter the cost, to carry its weight.
By midday, they returned to the village. Mara called him to lunch, and for a moment, the pulse inside him quieted. The ordinary warmth of bread, the smell of honey and flour, the gentle touch of his mother's hands — it reminded him that there was still life worth keeping, even amidst shadows and whispers.
But even as he ate, the world outside pressed close. The pulse beneath his skin pulsed like a drum, louder now, a warning and a promise. The universe was beginning to notice him, and nothing that came next would be small or simple.
Drazon watched him from the doorway, silent and steady. He did not interfere, but his eyes, older than mountains, reflected the truth: Aion's path would not be gentle, and the boy would not walk it alone.
Somewhere beyond the hills, beyond the forests, the first faint shadows of what would one day challenge the boy stirred. And yet, in the small village wrapped in smoke and soil, Aion was still allowed one thing: to be a boy.
Aion closed his eyes, letting the sun warm his face, letting the pulse slow, letting the moment linger. For in the quiet, there was strength. And in the quiet, there was hope.
Tomorrow, the shadow would return. And Aion would rise to meet it.