The Weight of an Empire

The days that followed the world's proclamation passed in a strange, weightless blur.

Aether felt it in the way the village moved around him. The way people glanced his way, their gazes filled with unspoken questions. He could hear the whispers when he walked through the market, the hurried conversations that always cut off when he got too close.

The prince of a forgotten clan.

A boy born on the fringes of civilization, claimed by fate itself.

The world had declared him one of its contenders, and now, Vala'dir no longer knew what to do with him.

He wasn't one of them anymore. He was something else. Something distant.

Something doomed.

Vala'dir had always been a place forgotten by time.

Aether had spent his entire life here, but it wasn't until now—when he was about to leave—that he began to truly see it.

The village sat nestled in the arms of towering cliffs, protected from the worst of the ocean storms. Winding dirt paths wove through small stone houses, smoke curling lazily from their chimneys. The scent of salt and pine clung to the air, mingling with the distant sound of crashing waves.

It wasn't much.

But it was home.

His home.

Aether walked through the main square, where a few of the elders had gathered by the old fire pit, speaking in hushed tones. The moment they noticed him, they stopped. One of them—a woman with silver-threaded hair—murmured something under her breath, pressing a hand to her chest as if warding off some unseen specter.

Aether kept walking.

He understood.

To them, he was already half gone.

He found Caelum standing at the edge of the cliffs, overlooking the restless sea.

His brother had been different since the mark appeared. Quieter. Not that Caelum was ever loud to begin with, but there was something heavier about him now. Something unsettled.

Aether stopped beside him, staring out at the horizon. "You're thinking too much again."

Caelum let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "And you're not thinking enough."

Silence stretched between them. The wind tugged at their clothes, salt clinging to their skin.

Finally, Caelum spoke.

"I've sent word to the capital," he said. "About your selection."

Aether tensed. "Why?"

Caelum's gaze was steady. "Because people will come, Aether. You're a chosen contender. The outside world will be watching." His voice lowered. "I need to know if they intend to help us—or if they plan to take advantage of us."

Aether frowned. "You think the king will care?"

Caelum exhaled sharply. "No. But his enemies might."

Aether said nothing.

He had never cared for politics. He had spent his life with a blade in hand, working steel in the forge, dreaming of far-off places he would never see. He had never thought about alliances, rivalries, the tangled web of power that ruled the world beyond their shores.

But now, he was a part of it.

Now, he was a piece on the board.

And people would want to use him.

That night, his mother found him in the quiet of their home.

She sat beside him on the edge of his bed, hands folded in her lap. For a long time, she said nothing.

Then, softly:

"I always knew you would leave one day."

Aether swallowed. "Not like this."

"No," she agreed. "Not like this."

The candlelight flickered, casting warm shadows across the room. His mother reached out, brushing a strand of dark hair from his face, the way she used to when he was a boy.

"I won't ask you to stay," she murmured. "I won't ask you to turn away from this fate. But promise me something, Aether."

His throat felt tight. "Anything."

Her fingers curled around his. "Don't let the world turn you into something you're not."

Aether stared at her.

"I won't," he whispered.

She smiled faintly. "Good."

Then, without another word, she pulled him into her arms. And for the first time since the mark had appeared, Aether allowed himself to close his eyes, to lean into the warmth of his mother's embrace, to pretend—just for a moment—that he was still just her son.

Not a contender.

Not a piece of fate's design.

Just Aether.

The night before his departure, Aether found his trainer waiting for him in the clearing beyond the village.

Varian stood tall as ever, arms crossed over his broad chest, his expression unreadable. The scars across his body were like echoes of old battles, stories carved into flesh.

"You've been avoiding me," the old warrior said.

Aether sighed. "I haven't."

"You have." Varian stepped forward, studying him carefully. "You think you don't need to train anymore?"

Aether blinked. "What?"

Varian's fist moved fast—too fast. Aether barely had time to dodge before the ground where he had been standing cratered.

He staggered back, heart pounding. "What the hell—"

"You're not ready," Varian said simply.

Aether clenched his fists. "I have six months."

"You don't have six months." Varian's voice was sharp. "You have forever, Aether. Or you have nothing."

Aether's breath hitched.

Varian stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You don't understand what's waiting for you in that tower. You think it's a test? A game? It's a war, boy. And wars don't care about time."

Aether swallowed hard.

Varian studied him for a long moment, then sighed. "I trained you to survive, Aether. But survival is no longer enough. You need to become something more."

Aether hesitated. "What?"

Varian's gaze darkened. "Someone the world fears."

The words settled between them, heavy and sharp.

Aether thought of the tower. Of the unknown horrors waiting for him. Of the thousands of others who had been chosen alongside him—each one an enemy, each one a contender for the throne.

Survival was not enough.

And for the first time, he understood.

Aether stood at the edge of the cliffs, staring out at the vast, endless sea.

Tomorrow, he would leave.

Tomorrow, he would step beyond the only world he had ever known.

He took a slow, steady breath.

No more doubts. No more fear.

His life was no longer his own.

But his choices still were.

And no matter what awaited him in the tower—no matter what fate had planned—he would make his own path.

He would forge his own destiny.

Even if he had to burn the world to do it.