A new world

In the heart of Infynis lay the Kingdom of Valtheris, ruled by the royal family of House Valtheris. For centuries, the kingdom had thrived by learning how to control Essence, the lifeblood of the world. Essence flowed through the land, the air, and the people, it was the key to power. Mages, revered as the architects of progress, used Essence to build towering spires, create enchanted artifacts, and even heal the sick. The kingdom's prosperity was built on their mastery of this primordial energy, and its cities were a testament to their ingenuity.

At the north of the kingdom stood the city of Eldoria.With it massive walls, it looked more of a fortress than a city. A single tower could be seen in the heart of the city, a marvel design of crystal and steel that pulsed with the light of Essence. This spire was drawing Essence from the area and distributing it through a network empowering the city. The streets were paved with smooth, luminous stones, and the air was filled with the hum of magical machinery. Markets bustled with goods, and the wealthy lived in opulent mansions adorned with glowing runes.

But life was never fair. Beyond the walls of the city and bustling markets lay the Slums, a sprawling expanse of poverty and despair. Here, the light of Essence did not reach, and the people lived everyday in despair. Survival was the main goal, and even that was not guaranteed.

The air was thick with the stench of waste and rot, and the ground was mud and filth. Shacks of wood and rusted metal stacked against one another. The people here were gaunt and hollow-eyed, their faces etched with the marks of hunger and despair. Children with frail figures could be seen running around, while the elderly sat in doorways, their eyes vacant, waiting for death to claim them.

This was a place where Essence was scarce, its absence felt in every cracked wall and empty stomach. The people of the Slums lived on the edge of society, forgotten by the mages and nobles who ruled the city. They survived on scraps, their lives a constant struggle against the harsh realities of their existence.

In a part of the Slums stood a shack no bigger than a doghouse, its walls emitting the stench of rot risking to fall burying whoever was living inside. The roof offered little protection from the elements. Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of sweat and dust, and the only light came from a single, flickering candle. A thin mat of straw served as a bed, and a few meager possessions—a cracked bowl, a rusted knife, a threadbare blanket—were scattered across the dirt floor.

This was home.

Lyra lay on the straw mat, her body trembling. Her raven-black hair clung to her sweat-drenched face, and her hands gripped the edges of the mat so tightly her knuckles turned white. She had no medicine to ease her pain, no one to help her. The only sound in the shack was her ragged breathing and the occasional groans as another wave of pain washed over her.

"Just a little more," she whispered to herself, her voice hoarse but steady. "Just a little more."

With a final, gut-wrenching cry, the child was born. Lyra's hands trembled as she reached for him, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. He was small, his skin a dusky red, but his cries were strong—a defiant sound in a place where defiance was often crushed. She held him close, her heart swelling with a love so fierce it almost hurt.

But it was his eyes that caught her attention. They were a striking shade of grey, almost luminous, like polished silver reflecting the dim light of the shack. They were unlike anything she had ever seen, beautiful yet there was something else she saw for a fleeting moment, something about them was... unsettling. 'What am I thinking.' She pushed it out of her mind and focused on the warmth of her child. "Hello little one." she whispered, her voice filled with tenderness. "My little Zephyr..."

Zephyr opened his eyes, his vision blurred and unfocused. The world around him was hazy, his senses overwhelmed by the unfamiliar scenery. He felt weak, his limbs heavy and uncoordinated, but there was a strange sense of completeness, a feeling of wholeness he had never known before. The rough texture of straw beneath him, the faint smell of dust and blood, the sound of ragged breathing nearby—it all felt alien, yet somehow real.

He tried to move, to understand where he was, but his body refused to cooperate. Instead, he lay still, his grey eyes absorbing every detail of his new reality.

He saw a woman looking down at him, her face pale and exhausted but radiating a gentle warmth. Her dark hair framed a face of striking beauty, and her eyes, though shadowed by fatigue, held a love so fierce it was almost tangible.

Lyra smiled, a tired but genuine smile that reached her dark eyes. "Welcome, little one," she whispered, her voice soft and soothing. She gently shifted him in her arms, cradling him close to her chest. He felt the warmth of her body, the steady beat of her heart, and a sense of… belonging.

As Zephyr lay in his mother's arms, his mind began to race. He was no longer on Earth. He was here, in this harsh, unforgiving world, reborn as a child. His body was weak, but his mind was sharp, his thoughts clear and calculating.

He took in the details of the shack, the poverty, the desperation. This was not the world he had dreamed of, but it was the world he had been given. And he would make the most of it.