Chapter 5 – White Walls, Blue Sky

Warmth.

Not suffocating heat. Not the scorching pulse of pain.

A tender warmth—soft, still, safe.

Caelen drifted upward from the dark, floating through a haze of muted thought and dulled sensation. Something cool pressed gently against his back. His body ached, but the pain was distant now—like a memory from another life.

He opened his eyes.

White.

A smooth ceiling stretched above him, painted a color so pure it almost hurt. Royal blue lines traced the edges, forming graceful, symmetrical patterns that seemed both decorative and meaningful. Sunlight spilled through a tall window to his right—golden, gentle—falling across pale stone floors and intricately woven rugs.

For a long moment, he didn't move.

He simply lay there, breathing.

This isn't the Tomb.

The realization struck hard. His chest tightened. Breath caught. Every sense screamed that this couldn't be real—that this kind of stillness, this kind of peace, wasn't meant for someone like him.

He shifted.

Pain surged through his ribs like fire. He gasped, fingers curling into the blanket. Beneath it, tight bandages wrapped his chest, arms, even his legs. Some were stained a dark, dried red—his blood.

He turned his head toward the window, heart pounding.

The sky.

Vast. Endless. Blue.

The same sky he'd glimpsed before the lake swallowed him whole. Now it stretched before him, unobstructed. Not fractured by leaves or filtered through shadows—but open. Real.

He nearly wept.

Slowly, he tried to sit up. His limbs trembled and gave out beneath their own weight. A ragged groan escaped him.

Then—the door creaked open.

Caelen froze.

A woman stepped in, dressed in a crisp white uniform trimmed in blue. Her dark hair was neatly braided down her back. She pushed a cart filled with vials, steaming cloths, and strange metallic tools.

She looked up—and stopped cold.

Their eyes met.

The vial slipped from her hand, clinking harmlessly onto the padded cart. Her lips parted in a breathless sound.

Then she turned and rushed out, her voice rising in alarm.

"He's awake! He's awake!"

The door slammed shut.

Caelen stared after her, stunned.

She looked like me.

No fur. No claws. No horns. Her face—soft, smooth, unmarked.

So… similar.

But Father said—

⸻

Flashback

Caelen sat on cold stone, firelight flickering in his eyes. His father leaned forward, voice low and certain.

"There are seven races in this world, excluding ours: the Varkyn, Nytherin, Vaelari, Thal'kar, Marellin, Sylvarin, and Shadari. The guards here belong to the Shadari. Each race is easy to recognize—none of them look like us.

You may never meet another Elarathi once you escape. So you must remain hidden. Always."

⸻

The memory faded as footsteps echoed beyond the door—measured, heavy.

It opened slowly.

A tall man stepped inside, draped in midnight blue robes trimmed with silver. His face was calm and weathered, framed by short black hair streaked with grey at the temples. His eyes—sharp and intelligent—settled on Caelen.

He closed the door behind him and gave a slight bow.

"You're awake. That's good. You've been unconscious for nearly five days."

Caelen stared, lips dry. "…Where am I?"

"You're safe," the man replied gently. "My name is Arlen Vos. I'm a healer." He pulled a chair beside the bed and sat. "You're in Drakhalis, capital of the Empire of Vaeloria."

Arlen continued, "You used a Veingate in the deepest dungeon of the old castle ruins. That gate hasn't been activated in thousands of years. When they brought you to me, you were half-drowned, starving, torn nearly to pieces."

He paused. "I'm amazed you survived. Most wouldn't."

Caelen said nothing, his thoughts still tangled.

Before he could speak again, the door opened.

An older man entered—broad-shouldered, regal, with silver-white hair and a presence that seemed to command the room. Two guards flanked him, staying close.

Arlen immediately stood and performed a series of precise gestures. "In shadow we see, in flame we rise, by time we endure. Glory to Vaelthorn."

The old man chuckled. His voice was deep and warm. "Arlen, I've told you—when it's just us, there's no need for such formality."

"I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I can't break custom."

"You're the royal physician. Of course you can."

Arlen remained silent.

The old man sighed. "Fine. As you wish." Then he turned to his guards. "Wait outside."

They hesitated—until his gaze sharpened. Without a word, they bowed and slipped out.

Once the door closed, the old man looked back at Arlen. "How is he?"

"A miracle," Arlen said. "Malnourished, half-drowned, torn apart. He shouldn't be alive."

"Good," the old man said, turning his attention to Caelen.

"And who are you, little one?"

"…Caelen," he whispered.

"And what species do you belong to?"

"…Elarathi. I… I'm an Elarathi."

The word hung in the air.

Arlen and the old man exchanged a look.

"I'll be damned," Arlen muttered. "That confirms it. We suspected, with the gate—but now there's no doubt."

"Yes," the old man murmured. "He's from the Demi-human continent—Veyrith'tal."

Caelen blinked. "…Demi-human? Continent?"

Arlen nodded. "Demi-humans—that's what we call the other races. Veyrith'tal is the land they inhabit."

"You, Caelen… are human. Not an Elarathi."

"…Human?" The word felt strange, foreign.

"Yes," the old man said quietly. "That's who we are. Elarathi was the name the Demi-humans gave us. Long ago—when there was still contact between our lands. The term has faded with time."

He leaned closer. "What happened to the humans on that side of the world, boy?"

Caelen hesitated.

Then, slowly, he told them everything his father had taught him—the betrayal, the genocide. How the other races turned on them. How the Elarathi were slaughtered, the weak imprisoned. How he was born in chains. Raised in darkness. The last survivor.

As he spoke, their expressions darkened.

When he finished, silence filled the room.

"…You've endured more than any child should," the old man finally said. "But you're safe now, Caelen. You're among your own."

The words struck him like stone.

Among my own.

He stared at his bandaged hands, the truth pressing against everything he thought he knew.

The old man stood. "There'll be time for questions later. For now—rest. Heal. You are not alone anymore."

He turned and stepped out. Arlen followed, closing the door behind them.

Caelen remained still.

He clutched the sheets, his breath quiet.

Human.

The word echoed in his mind. Strange. Alien. And yet…

It felt right.

He turned toward the window once more, toward the sky stretching endlessly beyond the glass.

Once a dream. A distant promise.

Now, it was right there.

And beyond it?

A world he had never imagined.