Twelve years had passed since the fall.
The boy who once stood on a rooftop, contemplating a life filled with regrets, now stood at the gates of destiny—barefoot on ancient stone, wrapped in ceremonial silver robes that shimmered with woven runes.
Angel Galván's second life had been anything but quiet.
He had grown beneath twin suns and three moons, in a world where dragons slept beneath mountains and thunder answered to names. He had studied spellcraft, swordplay, and the history of ancient bloodlines. But more than anything, he had waited for this day.
The Awakening Ceremony.
The day every twelve-year-old discovered their Gift—the core of their magic. A rite of passage that revealed who they truly were.
And Angel? He had no idea what to expect.
Standing beside him in the circle of white flame were other children, trembling with excitement and fear. His mother held his shoulders firmly from behind, smiling through proud tears. A man he now called "father"—a mage-knight named Cael—stood like a tower of strength beside her. And just behind them, his little sister Marina peeked out, waving her tiny hand.
"Don't be scared, big brother," she whispered.
Angel smiled, but his stomach churned. Not with fear. With pressure. With weight.
The high cleric stepped forward, her staff glowing with quiet power.
"Step into the Flame, child."
He obeyed, stepping onto the glowing rune that pulsed beneath his bare feet. Heat rose, not burning, but seeping into his bones. The crowd quieted. Even the wind stilled.
"Name?" the cleric intoned.
"Angel Galván."
"Heart open. Mind steady. Soul bare. Let the Flame show your truth."
The runes beneath him exploded into light.
Angel felt everything.
The pulse of the world.
The breath of stars.
Time and memory folding in on themselves.
He was falling again—falling through his own mind.
Images surged:
Him as a child, building worlds from sticks and dirt.
Monsters with shadow wings rising from beneath his bed.
A knight with his face, wielding a sword made of dreams.
Cities in the sky. Oceans that sang.
Stories he had never told anyone—living, breathing, bursting out of him.
His mouth opened, but it wasn't a scream—it was a roar. Light burst from his chest. The sky above twisted. The clouds spiraled.
Then—
The ground shook.
From the runes beneath him, a creature rose—towering, majestic, made entirely of shifting ink and stardust. Its form was unstable, flickering between a dragon, a bird, a knight, and a giant quill dripping glowing ink.
Gasps echoed through the crowd.
The cleric dropped to one knee.
"It's not possible," she whispered. "That Gift… was only legend."
The creature turned to Angel, then knelt before him.
And suddenly, a voice rang in his mind. Not his own. Not human. But vast and ancient.
"You are the Dreamborn."
"Your power is not to wield magic—your power is to create it."
Angel's heart pounded. Around him, the world stood frozen.
He had no sword, no fire, no beast.
His Gift was something greater.
Something impossible.
Imagination.
A thousand emotions surged in him—shock, joy, fear… but mostly, awe.
The power he once escaped to in his old life—his stories, his daydreams, his secret universes—had become real. Magic born from thought. Creation from will.
He looked up at the stars and felt something shift.
Angel Galván had been reborn into a world of magic.
Now, at twelve, he had been chosen to reshape it.