The village was small but alive — a rare flicker of normalcy amid the chaos that had consumed the world. Wooden stalls lined the dusty streets, their wares modest but hard-earned. Children darted between the legs of weary travelers, their laughter a fragile defiance against the harshness surrounding them.
Aeron followed Lyria silently, feeling the weight of countless eyes on him. Though they did not speak of it, he sensed the unspoken question hanging in the air: Who was this stranger, wandering with a warrior's confidence but a god's mystery?
That night, beneath a shroud of clouds that hid the stars, Aeron sat by a small fire outside the village tavern. The warmth soothed his chilled bones, but the restless turmoil inside him refused peace.
His fingers absently traced the cracked leather of his worn gauntlet. Then, without warning, a sudden warmth ignited in his palm — soft and pulsing like the heartbeat of the earth itself.
He flexed his hand, and a faint, shimmering light danced between his fingers, casting ghostly shadows on the ground.
His breath hitched.
Could this fragile glow be the first sign that the divine spark within him still flickered?
Lyria's voice broke through the night's silence, gentle yet firm.
"That power… it's ancient," she said. "Not many would survive it, much less wield it. You're not just healing, Aeron. Something inside you is waking up."
The name startled him — a reminder that this stranger was already becoming more than a mystery to her.
Closing his eyes, Aeron let memories flood through the veil of amnesia — flashes of star-forged crowns, battles waged across endless skies, and the weight of a throne that bore the fate of entire realms.
But intertwined with these visions was a sharp pain: the sting of betrayal, the loneliness of exile, and the heavy burden of mistakes made in the name of power.
The light in his hand flickered and dimmed, leaving him gasping for breath.
Yet beneath the ache, a singular truth rose like dawn.
This was only the beginning.