Far beyond the valley of Euryale's quiet village, across mountains that clawed the sky and rivers that glittered with stardust, the realm of Aerthrys stirred.
Ezrael Caelum Ashborn stood on the balcony of the citadel of Caelestis—a stronghold suspended in the skies of the Aerthrys Realm, where wind and spirit shaped the very land. His hair, a striking blue that shimmered like a summer sky, whipped around him in the high-altitude breeze. His eyes—stormy grey, rimmed with blue—watched the clouds as if expecting a message only he could decipher.
He had just turned seventeen.
Ezrael was no ordinary heir. Born of the Ashborn bloodline—nobility descended from the second brother of the Sky King himself—he was both honored and shadowed by legacy. The Ashborns were known not only for their royal ties but for their unmatched mana. Ezrael's mana core had awakened white—without stages, without ceilings. The rarest of all. His elemental affinities were light, wind, and spirit.
But it was not magic alone that shaped Ezrael's legend. It was his calm in battle, his unmatched reflexes, and the precision of his decisions. He was called "The Crownless Tempest," not just by the court, but by generals twice his age. He had commanded troops by age thirteen, won three major interrealm tournaments, and quelled a rebellion with only words and two drawn lines in the air.
Yet even with power and praise, Ezrael felt distant. Empty, at times.
He trained relentlessly. Led with grace. But he longed for something... unscripted. A life not written by bloodline or destiny. He often stood here, on this balcony, wondering what freedom felt like.
Today, however, something changed.
A message arrived from one of the observing guilds. A new child had awakened in the mortal realm. One with unclassified readings. Three affinities. One of which might be void.
Lord Caldrin, his tutor and guardian, stood beside him, reading from a thin scroll. "The Hollow Temple requests our attention. The boy's affinities are unclear, but he shows signs of spirit... and possibly void."
Ezrael didn't look away from the sky. "His name?"
"Euryale."
The name echoed.
Ezrael's fingers curled slightly over the balcony rail. Not recognition. Not memory. But something like it. A pulse deep within.
"I want to meet him," Ezrael said quietly.
Lord Caldrin frowned. "You're to attend the Ascendant Council next week. Visiting the lower realms would disrupt—"
"Change it."
"You'll need permission from the Sky King."
"He's my uncle," Ezrael said evenly. "And this is my decision."
As Ezrael turned and walked away, wind gathered behind him. A quiet, swirling force that danced around his shoulders like it answered only to him. Lightning sparked once, far out on the horizon.
Somewhere in a quiet village below, a boy with soft eyes was whispering to the river.
And now, the wind was whispering back.