Embers Beneath the Whispering Vyrellis

The night had passed and a new day rose from slumber.

The sun stretched low across Aerilon, casting golden rays that filtered through ancient oaks and stone-walled cottages. The air, unusually still, carried the scent of morning dew laced with the faintest trace of smoldering ash—as if the earth itself had been holding its breath. Siro adjusted the worn strap of his satchel and eyed the grand silhouette of the Vyrellis Estate as it came into view.

The manor loomed with its usual regal stillness, but something was different. The guards at the gate didn't greet Siro with their typical lazy nods. They stood straighter, hands near their hilts, eyes flicking sharply at shadows. Siro felt the unease slither under his skin. He stepped past the iron gate, the clang of it shutting behind him like a warning bell.

Inside, the atmosphere was no warmer. Servants moved swiftly, quietly, as though afraid to disturb something unseen. Calisandra Vyrellis—always poised and graceful—gave Siro only a brief, distracted smile. Her hands were clasped tighter than usual. She glanced out a window as though expecting someone... or something.

Renan met him at the marble stairs. "You're late."

"Had to dodge two gossiping merchants and one stubborn chicken," Siro replied. He attempted a grin. It didn't quite land.

Renan glanced down the hallway. "Let's head to the east wing. Fewer ears."

The moment they reached the alcove behind the linen-draped gallery, the tension broke. Renan leaned back against the wall and let out a breath. "I couldn't sleep. I keep thinking about what we read. The Keeper of the Winds. Aeon Spire. It feels like... we brushed against something ancient."

Siro crossed his arms. "Like we tugged on a thread that wasn't meant to unravel yet."

Renan hesitated. "I had a dream. The wind was howling like a storm. I heard voices—chanting in a language I didn't understand. There were bells, too. Soft, but they echoed like thunder."

Siro's heart skipped. He didn't mention it, but the memory of that soft, melodic hum near the old oak tree stirred in his mind. The whisper that clung to the breeze hadn't just been eerie—it had felt... ancient.

"Let's go back," Siro said. "To the tree. Just to listen."

---

The forest was quieter than usual. Even the birds seemed reluctant to sing. When they reached the old oak tree—its roots like frozen waves across the earth—they sat beneath its sprawling branches, backs pressed to the bark.

"Hear that?" Renan whispered.

The wind stirred. It didn't whistle. It sang. Just faintly—like lullabies from another time. The melody had no words, but it tugged at something deep in Siro's chest.

Then... silence.

Unnatural.

The kind of silence that makes your breath sound too loud.

Siro felt the skin on his arms prickle. "Let's go. This place... it's not right."

---

They hurried down the path back toward the manor, boots crunching over brittle leaves. But something was off. The sky—once bright—was now streaked with gray. Over Aerilon, smoke curled into the air. Flickers of unnatural light—blue and orange and ghostly white—lit up the distance.

As they neared the outer lane of the village, they saw people running. A woman slammed into Siro, wild-eyed and panting.

"Run! Fire and ice! They came from the skies—shadows with ember eyes!" she shrieked, before stumbling off.

Renan froze. "That's not bandits."

Siro grabbed his arm. "Come on."

They reached the hillcrest. What they saw stole their breath.

The Vyrellis Estate was under siege.

Walls scorched with black flame. Gardens, once lush, curled in frost. Spires crackled with elemental chaos—ice daggers flung through the air and flames snaked like living serpents across the marble paths.

Masked figures in tattered robes swarmed the grounds, wielding twisted forms of magic. One hurled a sphere of glassy frost that burst into a web of ice. Another commanded tendrils of blue fire that slithered like vipers.

Siro and Renan ducked behind a stone wall.

"Who are they?" Siro whispered.

"I don't know. But they're not ordinary mages."

---

Chaos reigned. Guards fought valiantly but were outmatched by the raw power wielded by the attackers. One was lifted into the air and slammed into a tree by a gust that felt too deliberate—too intelligent.

Just when all hope seemed to slip...

A figure stepped into the fray.

Cloaked in shadow and dust, they moved through the chaos like a whisper in a storm. No weapon. No armor. But each motion was precise. A flick of the wrist sent an attacker stumbling. A pirouette dodged twin fire bolts. A palm strike knocked one cultist cold.

Siro's eyes widened. "Who—what—is that?"

"I... I don't know," Renan replied. "But they're not one of the attackers."

The figure didn't speak. Didn't hesitate. They weaved through spellfire and ice-blades like the wind itself moved around them. One attacker tried to ensnare them with roots, but the figure leapt—spun mid-air—and landed behind the cultist, disarming him with ease.

Siro watched, breath held. Something about them felt... familiar. Not their appearance—he couldn't see their face—but the way the wind circled them. The way the battlefield bent around their presence.

The cultists seemed unnerved. Their formation faltered. Within moments, they began retreating, shouting in a tongue neither boy recognized. They vanished into smoke and shadow, some limping, others dragging injured comrades.

The battle ended as suddenly as it began.

The figure stood still amid the wreckage. Then, without a word, they turned and walked into the fading smoke. By the time the guards regrouped, the stranger was gone.

Only a faint leaf-shaped sigil, glowing softly on the cracked stone where they'd stood, remained.

Renan moved first. He approached the spot cautiously. Siro followed, eyes darting.

Siro's gaze landed on a torn page resting beneath the rubble—a page they recognized.

He picked it up.

Scrawled in old ink, in a dialect half-lost to time, were the words:

"When the wind forgets, the storm returns."

He held it in shaking fingers. Behind him, the estate smoldered. The guards barked orders. Servants cried. Renan's eyes were fixed on the sigil.

Neither of them spoke.

But both knew...

Something had stirred.