Chronicles of the Aetherborn

The next morning, the chief summoned Jordan and Ariana to the Hall of Stones — a vaulted chamber carved into the cliffs behind the village. Torches lined the walls, flickering over murals of battles past: dragons in the skies, empires burning, kings crowned and slain.

A long stone table stretched through the center, with aged scrolls and maps laid bare. At the head stood Ariana's father.

He didn't look pleased.

"You said the attackers wore white and had mirror-eyes," he began, gesturing toward a worn tapestry. "There was once an order like that. Centuries ago. They were called the Veyrith. Thought to be extinct."

"Who were they?" Jordan asked.

"Fanatics," Ariana answered. "Not bound to any kingdom. They served something older than kings. Something from before the Collapse."

Jordan frowned. "The Collapse?"

The chief nodded. "Five hundred years ago, the world changed. Magic twisted. Continents fell. Kingdoms were reshaped. What we call Nytherra today was forged in the aftermath."

He moved to the center of the map, where six crests circled a broken continent.

"These are the Six Crowns of Nytherra:"

Calridan, land of fire-forged steel and brutal law.

Vel'Kora, veiled in snow and secrets.

Draymoor, swamp-born and rich in shadow magic.

Avencrest, noble and golden, once a beacon of order.

Thornevale, cursed forests and blood-bound witches.

Vas'Tiryn, high mountains, old faiths, and hidden monsters.

"Each one sits on a knife's edge," he said. "Allies one day, enemies the next. The balance is held together by trade, fear, and old grudges."

"And you think… whatever attacked the scouts, they're trying to tip that balance?" Jordan asked.

"Or someone already has," the chief said grimly. "And we're too blind to see it."

Later that day, Ariana led Jordan to a hidden grove beyond the cliffs, where a stream shimmered with glowing moss. It was quiet. Safe — or so it seemed.

She sat by the water, pulling off her boots.

"My mother used to bring me here," she said quietly.

Jordan sat beside her. "What happened to her?"

A long silence.

"She died when I was eleven. The king of Avencrest ordered a purge of villages accused of harboring 'darklings' — people born with unstable magic. She wasn't one. But she spoke against them."

Ariana clenched a fist. "She burned for her words."

Jordan looked at her, unsure what to say.

"She told me before she died: Truth in this world is like water—it flows until it's poisoned."

They sat in silence, the stream murmuring beside them.

That night, Jordan couldn't sleep. Restless, he walked to the village gates.

Something felt off.

He stepped outside the wooden fence and into the trees. The wind whispered strange things. Then he saw it—carved into a tree.

A symbol.

A perfect white circle, etched deep and clean — as if burned with light.

He reached out to touch it.

Suddenly, his chest burned.

Not pain — but heat. Power.

Then a voice whispered through the trees. Not spoken, but inside his mind.

"The vessel stirs. The blood remembers."

Jordan staggered back, heart pounding.

Behind him, a figure stood in the fog — faceless, pale-robed, unmoving.

Jordan blinked—then it was gone.

He ran back to the village, breath heavy. His hands trembling.

Elsewhere, in the marble halls of Avencrest, two kings argued beneath a fractured throne.

"We can't ignore the northern scouts," one said. "Something is moving."

"It's probably Thornevale again," the other snapped. "Or Vel'Kora and their damned snow witches."

"But what if it's them?" the first whispered. "The Veyrith…"

The room went cold.

No one spoke.

Not even the shadows.