Archmage Reborn: the path of shadows

The sky was on fire.

Not metaphorically—literally burning.

Smoke rolled across the stars, choking out the constellations that once guided travelers and dreamers alike. Ash drifted like snow, falling onto a marble floor now smeared red with blood.

Alaric Verus knelt in the wreckage of everything he had built.

The Tower of Concordia, his masterpiece, his pride, was collapsing behind him. Pillars cracked and buckled. Magic—wild and untethered—lashed the air like a wounded beast. The scent of ozone and betrayal hung thick.

It wasn't a wound from battle that had brought him to his knees.

It was something worse.

Betrayal.

Three shadows stood over him, flickering in the glow of the burning hall. They wore the colors of Concordia, the emblems of his own house. But they weren't his allies now.

They were his executioners.

"You taught us everything," said Serana, her voice trembling. Whether from grief or guilt, he couldn't tell. "But you never taught us how to live in your shadow."

Alaric coughed, blood staining his lips. His smile came cracked and bitter.

"You never belonged there to begin with."

No more words. No more arguments.

They drove the blade into his chest—not in anger, but in silence. And somehow, that hurt worse.

His magic surged one final time. He didn't scream. He didn't plead.

He whispered.

"Eclipse Requiem."

And then—

Darkness swallowed everything.

Somewhere else. Some other time.

"Kael! Wake up! He's breathing!"

The voice cracked like lightning in the silence.

Kael gasped—his lungs dragging in air like it was lava. His chest burned. His mind reeled. He opened his eyes to a sky that wasn't his. Pale and broken. Like it had forgotten how to shine.

His body felt wrong.

Too small. Too thin. Weak.

But the pain was real. Sharp. Heavy. Anchoring.

He tried to move, but a firm hand pressed him down.

"Don't rush it," came a man's voice—calm, rough, familiar in a way that made no sense. "You've been burning up for three days straight. Thought we were losing you."

Kael blinked against the light. He was in a hut. Simple, smoky. Thatched roof. Mud walls. A fire crackled nearby, giving off more smoke than heat. Two faces hovered above him—a man and a woman, both older. Lined by hard years, but not cruel.

Strangers.

And yet...

The woman reached for him, brushing his forehead with trembling fingers. Tears ran freely down her cheeks.

"Kael… thank the gods. You're alive, son."

Son.

The word hit harder than any spell.

He stared at them—confused, horrified, disoriented. Not because he didn't understand.

But because he did.

He remembered.

Not clearly. Not completely. But the pieces were there—jagged and flashing like broken glass. A tower. A throne. Blood. Betrayal.

A name.

Alaric Verus.

And yet here he was.

Not dead. Not truly.

Reborn.

Three days later, Kael stood outside the hut, barefoot in the wet mud of a nameless village on the edge of nowhere.

The wind bit through his thin clothes, but he barely felt it. He was thirteen now—or so they said. Small. Undernourished. A boy with no past and a future carved out of dirt.

But inside, something older stirred.

Something ancient.

His hands trembled—not from fear, but from recognition. The memory of runes. Of incantations. Of power that had once answered his call without hesitation.

He didn't have a staff. No grimoires. No sigils burned into the air.

All he had was the fire inside him—and his will.

He closed his eyes. Focused.

A flicker.

A spark.

A flame the size of a fingernail danced in his palm. Brief. Fragile. Real.

It fizzled out within seconds.

But he smiled anyway.

"The weave's thinner here," he muttered, almost to himself. "The magic's slower. Worn down."

"But it's still here."

He looked toward the horizon—where the sun should have been.

"And so am I."

He clenched his fist, heat still tingling in his veins.

"This time... I won't be caught sleeping."