Chronicles of the Aetherborn

The moment Jordan crossed the shimmering veil surrounding Caerthwyn, he felt a presence—like something ancient had turned its gaze toward him. The air itself was thicker, filled with whispers that seemed to come from the trees themselves. Ancient runes pulsed faintly on the bark, and the leaves glowed with soft hues of silver and emerald under the moonlight.

Ariana walked slightly ahead, her demeanor shifting now that they were home. She moved like a different person here—more poised, more alert.

"You feel that?" Jordan asked, brushing his fingers against a tree trunk that seemed to hum under his touch.

"It's the Wyrd," she replied without turning around. "The spirit of the forest. It senses everything. Especially intruders."

He didn't miss the hint in her tone.

They reached a wooden archway shaped from living roots. Two elven guards stepped forward, their armor made from scale-like leaves hardened with magic. Their eyes narrowed on Jordan.

Ariana raised a hand. "He's with me. A Riftborn. He needs to see the Circle."

The guards exchanged glances, then parted without a word.

Inside the city, Jordan was struck speechless.

Buildings grew from the earth itself—curving towers of woven wood, bridges of ivy and crystal, glowing lanterns suspended midair by floating stones. The elves moved gracefully, eyes shining with ancient wisdom. He saw children training with bows, elders meditating beneath a tree that glowed gold from within, and a choir of voices singing in harmony with the wind.

A young elf girl with amethyst eyes stepped beside Ariana and whispered something. Ariana nodded, then turned to Jordan. "This is Lysaria. She's one of the Sighing Leaves—our seers."

Lysaria studied him, head tilted. "You're marked by fate. And by death."

Jordan blinked. "That's... comforting."

Ariana led him through winding paths, finally stopping at a circular hall embedded into a massive oak. The doors opened soundlessly. Inside, thirteen robed elves stood in a ring. The Circle of Elders.

One of them—an older woman with hair like snow and gold tattoos along her neck—spoke. "Ariana, daughter of Vaerion, you return with one touched by the Rift."

Ariana bowed. "He calls himself Jordan Keane. He came through a Rift—without dying."

Murmurs filled the chamber. The eldest elf stepped forward. "No one survives the Rift unscathed. Unless…"

He looked directly into Jordan's eyes.

"You carry something inside you."

Jordan swallowed, unsure of how to answer.

The Circle began to chant, and suddenly, the air grew hot. Symbols flared around him, and a pulse of power surged from his chest. He screamed—part pain, part release.

From the markings around him, a form flickered—wings of light, a shadow beneath. It vanished as quickly as it came.

The hall fell silent.

Lysaria, still watching from the doorway, whispered, "The Aetherborn awakens."