COUGH… COUGH…
Tavin hacked up a mouthful of blood—so much that it seeped down the inside of his cracked mask and dripped onto the marble floor beneath him. He knelt before Soryn like a broken beast, his entire body battered, bruised, and torn open in a dozen places. His cloak hung in shreds, cloth burned or sliced away from the brutal clash he'd endured against Rena. Every breath rattled inside his chest, as if even his lungs were fighting to remain intact.
Kyro lay several feet behind him—unconscious, limp, and untouched by his own will—sprawled between Soryn's throne and Tavin's kneeling form. Dust and ash clung to Kyro's clothes, the aftermath of Tavin's explosion that had obliterated Oakthorn Keep.
"Excellent work, Tavin," Soryn said, leaning back in his gleaming throne, a smirk hidden beneath the metal of his mask.
"Looks like you were able to bring back one of the three. With this, we can hopefully lure out the other savages that are desperately on their way to save him."
Tavin raised his head slowly, as though the motion alone pulled at every wound on his body. "Yes… my lord."
Soryn pointed lazily toward the jagged crack running across Tavin's mask. "Tell me about their strength. It seems they are much stronger than even I anticipated, given Ivance's reports."
Tavin drew a shaky breath, as if speaking required as much strength as swinging a blade.
"I will admit… I was a bit careless fighting the two of them at once."
"The green-eyed boy, Tharic, is no problem at all; he fights just as he looks. Although his skills are impressive, he still has a long way to go before he becomes a real threat."
A fresh cough racked Tavin's body, and more blood splattered onto the polished floor.
"The real trouble… is that damn samurai woman, Rena."
Soryn's eyes sharpened from behind the mask, the slits narrowing. "Oh?"
"I thought I had her figured out—thought Ivance was a coward for fearing her."
Tavin's voice grew shaky with anger. "But before I knew it, her power, strength, speed—everything—shifted completely in the second half of the battle. It was almost like… like…"
He grabbed the edge of his mask, squeezing till it creaked, "Like she was testing my strength… looking down on ME!"
Soryn clapped once, the sound echoing across the throne room like a command, "Let's calm down, shall we, Tavin? Your body has taken quite the brutal blow."
Tavin closed his eyes, steadying himself, then reopened them with a calmer stare.
"You're right… sorry about that. It's not like we can just replace—"
"Tavin!" Soryn barked, stomping his foot. The palace floor trembled.
"We are not to discuss that out loud. Remember."
Tavin bowed his head deeply. "Sorry. I forgot."
Soryn motioned with a slow wave of his hand.
"Stand. No need to kneel anymore in front of me. You know I dislike that."
Tavin staggered to his feet, wobbling as his weight nearly gave out from under him. He gripped his blood-soaked left arm, trying to steady his shaking form.
"Rena and Tharic…" Soryn murmured, rising from his throne. His voice carried a hint of fascination. "Interesting. I will not forget those names—especially that samurai woman. She sounds most intriguing."
He stepped down the polished steps of the throne platform, the metallic clink of his boots echoing as he approached Kyro's limp body.
"So this is the boy… huh?"
MEANWHILE…
Kyro opened his eyes again—but instead of stone floors or torchlit walls, he saw a field of soft green grass stretching endlessly beneath him. Sunlight poured warmly over his skin, and the sky above was a perfect blue canvas. He was small—his limbs tiny, his clothes ragged and worn. He was five years old again.
"What… where am I? Is this the afterlife? Did I die already?" Kyro wondered aloud, panic creeping into his voice.
He tried to sit up, but his body refused to move. Not a finger twitched.
"I can't move… so this must mean I'm in a memory flashback. Thank god… I'm not dead yet…"
Relief washed over him as he realized he was still alive—somewhere.
The memory of Oakthorn Keep flashed through his mind like shards of broken glass.
"Tavin… his strength was unlike anything I'd ever seen before. Even though I acted brave and unfazed… truth is I was scared shitless being in his presence."
He remembered the explosion—Tavin's Flame Technique: Rite of the Holy Flame – Ignitionem—and the terrifying ease with which he wielded such devastating power.
"His movement, his abilities… so effortlessly powerful. We couldn't stop him at all."
Kyro's thoughts quieted as he stared at the blazing sun, feeling its warmth soak into his small body.
"I wonder what happened to Tharic and Rena… hopefully they're safe. As soon as I wake up, I swear I'll find them. Then we'll keep going—keep fighting—to save Sylmora from the Lumanaries and the Aether Hunters!"
"There you are!" A woman's voice called from behind him.
Kyro's eyes widened. He tried to look up at her, but—
"What? Why can't I see her face at all?!"
The woman's face was blurred, blackened as if smeared by shadows. Undefined. Unreachable. His memory hadn't rendered her features—like a painting he wasn't allowed to view fully.
"What are you doing here by yourself, anyway? Your father is looking for you," the faceless woman said.
"Mother?!"
WHOOOOSHH—
A gentle breeze swept between them, rustling the tall grass. Trees in the distance swayed, their leaves shimmering in the sunlight.
"Sorry, mother… I was just… looking at the sun and the breeze around me. It's so freeing—the feeling—you know?" Kyro said with a light smile.
Another gust of wind brushed past as he continued, "It's the type of feeling I want us to have one day. I swear I'll make it happen, mother. Our family name will be respected across Sylmora soon enough!"
His mother chuckled softly, her blurred face nodding, "Well, I'm glad I have a son so caring like yourself. I hope to see this vision of yours come true one day. It would make your father and me especially happy."
Kyro finally managed to push himself upright in the memory. Ahead of them stretched a narrow dirt path leading into a familiar forest—toward home.
His mother reached down, gently taking his hand in hers. The warmth was familiar, comforting.
"Come, let us go back, shall we? If you finish whatever your father asks of you, I swear you can come back here and admire the sky all you want after."
Kyro smiled, bright and childlike. "Yes!"
He turned once more toward the glowing sun overhead, basking in its warmth, before facing the dirt path ahead. But as he took a single step forward, the world around him warped. The golden light collapsed into darkness like a candle dying in a gale.
Suddenly, everything was pitch-black—except for his hands.
They were chained above him, shackled to a cold stone wall. Thick metal cuffs dug into his wrists, the weight biting into his bones each time he tried to move. His breath echoed in the stillness, shallow and hollow. He tugged instinctively, but the chains rattled uselessly. He was confined, trapped, locked in place.
Then came the voice.
A low whisper, disembodied and ancient, slithered through the dark:
"Why try so hard when it's impossible to escape our destiny?"
The words lingered like smoke, sinking into Kyro's chest. He held his breath. Seconds dragged into minutes. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped when another voice—soft, fragile—slipped through the void.
"…brother…"
"Huh?" Kyro gasped.
His eyes widened. A cold tremor ran through him as he slowly lowered his head, sinking against the wall.
"Brother?! I have a sibling?"
Before he could even process that revelation, a new voice broke through—clear, familiar, chilling.
"Hello there, you awake?" it called out from beyond the darkness.
Kyro blinked—and suddenly the world reformed around him.
He was in a prison cell.
A beam of pale light spilled through rusted window bars, illuminating dust drifting in the air. The walls were damp stone, cracked and stained. Chains clattered softly as Kyro shifted.
"What the… what's going on?" he muttered, squinting upward.
"Ah, I see you're awake now," the familiar voice replied.
Kyro's gaze darted to the front of his cell—where a figure stood.
"Tavin?!" Kyro exclaimed, alarmed by the mask obscuring the man's face.
But the figure chuckled lightly.
"Unfortunately, I am not Tavin. The name is Soryn."
CREEEKK—
The heavy cell door groaned as it eased open. Soryn stepped inside with slow, deliberate grace.
Kyro stared as the man approached. His mask—painted with sweeping sea-blue claw marks over the right eye—glimmered faintly in the dim light, matching the piercing blue gaze burning behind the cutouts. A thin crack marred the upper side of the mask like a scar. His armor was light but masterfully forged, shining with muted tones of blue and silver. A dark cape whispered with each step. White hair, cleanly parted down the center, spilled around the sides of his mask, a few strands crossing over it.
Every step Soryn took made Kyro's body recoil. A suffocating aura radiated from him—raw, cold, overwhelming power. Kyro felt it down to the core of his being.
"So much power… wow…"
"So?" Soryn repeated calmly. "Your name."
"Ah—right. Sorry." Kyro swallowed hard. "Kyro."
"Kyro?" Soryn echoed, kneeling so that he was eye-level with him. "Interesting."
"You must be another Luminarie…" Kyro said under his breath.
Soryn nodded. "Indeed, I am a Luminarie."
Kyro frowned. "Just how many of you guys are there?"
Soryn lifted his right hand and raised four fingers.
"Four of us in total. There used to be six… but they're no longer here."
He spoke without emotion, as if discussing weather.
"Still, our goal has remained unchanged for the last hundred years—rescuing Sylmora from its inevitable doom and steering history toward a future our people deserve."
"Inevitable doom?" Kyro repeated. "Tavin never mentioned any doom when we talked to him."
"That's because only the Luminaries know its exact nature," Soryn answered. "Sharing it with the public would only spark fear and chaos during an already fragile time."
Kyro narrowed his eyes. "Well then tell me this—if your goal is truly to preserve the future, why kill our own people? Shouldn't you be protecting them?"
Soryn's reply was instant, like a blade drawn in one smooth motion.
"How can we protect citizens if there is no country to protect in the first place?"
Kyro froze.
"What… what do you mean?"
"Sylmora stands at the edge of war," Soryn said, rising to his feet. The dim light caught the sharp lines of his armor. "Do you really expect us to win against neighboring nations while our aether remains weak and diluted?"
Kyro opened his mouth—but nothing came out.
"Exactly," Soryn continued. "If we refuse war, our country will fall, and every citizen with it. But if we fight—if we prepare—if we sacrifice—then we preserve everything."
He clasped his hands behind his back.
"To go to war, we need aether at its peak. That requires sacrifice. It is not ideal. But it is the price of survival. The price of peace."
The cell grew quiet. Kyro tightened his fists and glared upward.
"No. I refuse to believe that sacrificing our citizens is the only path forward. I know there's another way, and I will find it. What you're doing is wrong—evil—and you know it!"
His voice cracked with fury.
"I've heard the screams. The cries. People begging just to see another day. They fear the Luminaries more than the enemy nations. Can't you see that? Can't you see the damage you're causing?"
Soryn raised one hand calmly, signaling him to stop.
"You speak of things you do not understand," he said softly. "You have not seen the horrors we've witnessed. You have not endured what we've endured."
"This path—this painful path—is the only one that ensures Sylmora's future. Through it, we will reach everlasting freedom and peace."
He then pointed directly at Kyro, the gesture sharp, decisive.
"But those like you—those who stand in our way without comprehending the weight of our burden—must be removed. Your sacrifice is necessary. For Sylmora's sake, we will not waver."
Kyro trembled with anger, but chains held him down. Soryn's eyes began to glow behind the mask—icy blue and merciless. A cold smile curled beneath the shadows of his mask.
He placed his palm gently, almost tenderly, atop Kyro's head.
"Your sacrifice," he whispered,
"will not be in vain… Kyro."