The first time water flowed from Reinhard's hands, the classroom went silent in a way no adult command had ever managed.
A thin stream formed along his fingers, at first only a shimmer of dampness, then gathering, curling, dropping. It wasn't sweat. It wasn't spill. It was deliberate. It fell in slow, controlled lines, beads gathering, sliding, catching the weak light of the room as though he had reached into the air and drawn the element out by will alone.
Chairs scraped faintly as children leaned forward, held back by habit more than curiosity. No one spoke. Even their breaths felt quieter.
Only beings from Vertibes — those of mid-level aura — and from Catyns — those of the highest aura — could take their aura and turn it into something else. Fire, water, stone, ice, light, darkness — elements shaped by will and density. Those were things of the outer world, beyond these islands. Not of Noren. Certainly not of Azytes.
On Noren Island, beings like them, Azytes, lived under the truth every child learned before speaking properly: aura existed, but only to push. No shaping. No splitting. No change. Their aura could shove small objects a little distance, and even then with low force, like a weak wind nudging a leaf.
Yet here, in that narrow classroom, a boy their age had turned aura into water.
Reinhard's bloodline — HayGram — carried a mutation. Properties of all aura-bearing kinds fused in them like a bridge between worlds. Where others suffocated outside their aura zone, HayGrams could cross borders — living in any aura level land: Azyte, Vertibe, or Catyn. Not only that, they could, like those outer species, specialize their aura. Give it type. Give it form.
On Noren, only four beings had this gift: Malric, Kael, Elizabeth… and now, before their eyes, Reinhard.
As the thin flow from his palms continued, every child could feel, not merely see, the gulf between themselves and him widen further. The respect they had been trained to offer him — as "king," as symbol — now rooted itself deeper. He wasn't just chosen in story. He was physically other. Proof lived in the wet shimmer between his fingers.
He was, to them, the messiah they'd been told to name.
Time splayed forward, days bleeding into each other.
The school's assigned novel — the tale where a king named Reinhard united all beings — received a film adaptation. A theater had been constructed below the Human Government Level 2.B department, in the underground where Malric lived and worked. It existed for one purpose: to project that story onto wall-sized screens.
When lights dimmed in that chamber and Reinhard's fictional image appeared — older, taller, wreathed in aura — children stared with open mouths. They watched "him" leap through storms, shield weaker species, turn invisible currents into roaring elements. In the film, his aura bent like obedient soldiers. He united all species, one scene at a time.
Parents watched too. Every time a villain appeared and spoke against species unification, faces hardened, lips curled. Disgust flowed freely across the crowd. But whenever a character supported the idea, voices softened, shoulders released tension, a warm approval radiated quietly.
The message was not subtle. It was not meant to be.
Children left the theater more certain than before: Reinhard was right, anyone opposed was wrong, and the world must bend to a particular dream. It was a lesson they wore like uniforms, whether or not it sat comfortably inside them.
Time moved again.Enough to match the time required for existence of 18 years old Reinhard HayGram . 8 months had passed since the incident with Elizabeth
Elsewhere in the complex, away from screens and cheers, a small, dark room held a different story.
"So, you're finally acting like a good girl, Elizabeth."
The voice reached her through the shadows. Metal surrounded her — cuffs biting into wrists and ankles, chains running from bed frame to floor. Her body was strapped against the mattress in a position that prevented more than a shallow twist. The air smelled faintly of chemicals and metal — the kind sharpened by regular cleaning that failed to erase the scent of something more human: fear, sweat, and the slow rot of hope.
"You should not have resisted," the voice continued, tone flat. "That only wasted energy. We needed more PLC injections to sustain you."
She refused food. Had been refusing for days. It didn't matter. They had devices to replace bread, tubes and needles that rendered hunger irrelevant. They drove liquid into her veins that kept her alive against her will, forcing her body to comply.
Different injections had different tasks. One set sustained her organs; another wired the unborn creature inside her — Oryn and human — to mold it into a shape and mind that matched their plan. Not merely its body, but what it would feel and how it would respond once born. Everything calibrated.
"Only a week left until delivery," the voice said. "Then you can rest. So do not waste time resisting now. If you fear missing out on your own end, be patient. It is coming."
This time, three syringes. One slid into the side of her neck, cold liquid burning slightly beneath the skin. One pierced gently into the skin of her abdomen, aimed where life twisted within. One pushed into her breast, achingly slow.
Her golden hair — once bright, thick, gleaming — now hung dry and lifeless, strands clinging to her face with oily heaviness. Her eyes were empty, not in the way of shock, but in the way of someone who had walked far beyond fear and found nothing at the end.
Her thoughts moved quietly, with no expression crossing her face.
If there's any chance before it's born, kill myself. If not, then kill Reinhard before he has to live with this longer. If that too fails, kill myself anyway, so I don't have to watch the future they're building.
Her features didn't shift. No crying. No breaking. She'd been raised in an environment where people overreacted at small discomforts. Now, with true horror wrapped around her, her face stayed plain. A still surface, giving away nothing.
The scene snapped away.
—Vathros.
"Oh damn, I overslept." The voice was light but edged with irritation. "Missed the fun of training at dawn… tch, annoying."
He stepped out of his tree-house, bare feet touching rough bark before finding balance at the top of the enormous trunk.
Wind slammed against him in thick, fast gusts, whipping his long black hair into wild arcs above his head. Without wind, the hair fell easily to the middle of his back. Now, it rose a full foot higher, strands snapping like loosened wires.
From this vantage, the world of Vathros spread out in layers — sky warring above, ground seething below.
First came the sky.
Fat-bodied creatures soared in flocks of hundreds, their forms both heavy and sharp. Faces slim but elongated, their mouths and noses fused forward into projection—two nostrils perched above the long muzzle. Their wings beat with powerful speed, moving faster than their body size suggested possible. Each one was twice the size of the man watching them. Despite the mass, they rode the air as if it were merely thick water.
They dominated, yet they were not safe.
Above and among them drifted larger dragons, indistinct in detail but unmistakable in presence, predators cutting through their flocks. Signs of hunting — sudden drops, scattered wings, torn shapes falling — punctuated the sky's rhythm.
Those that fell did not fall long.
On the ground, another hazard waited.
Oathspires — creatures of slick muscle and no facial hair, skins exposed and gleaming. Eight legs, moving with tight coordination, each step precise and fast. Their bodies were built for speed and accuracy, for reaching fallen prey before it had time to die. Teeth lined their jaws with dense, razor-sharp edges, capable of reducing flesh to pulp in seconds.
Anything that dropped from above met them.
The man at the top of the tree glanced down, then forward.
Ahead, vast forms lumbered into sight — massive green creatures, distant cousins to penguins in silhouette but clad in thick, wooden armor. Bark plates layered their bodies, branches and leaves protruding from their backs as if they were half tree, half beast. Each creature measured twenty times his size, every step compressing earth beneath an arbor-clad body.
He jumped.
He landed smoothly on the head of one such creature, knees bending to absorb the impact. The beast barely flinched, altering direction a moment later, as though following an unspoken command. It moved east, guided by his presence alone.
This was Dax ThornWill — rider, watcher, one of the few who could control a creature of this magnitude.
They traveled thousands of kilometers east.
Eventually, they reached the border of Vathros.
Commands broke the air there.
"Draven, take your men and attack the Messen corridor," came a voice hardened by rank. "Use everything you have."
With the order from General Araceli, Draven departed, trailing thousands of soldiers astride varied creatures, most blackened in color: beasts of stone, wing, and claw, all moving together with grim intent.
"General Araceli," a subordinate asked cautiously, "Draven had good potential. Are you certain you want to spend him as bait? Just to distract Liora, so we can move on Rook Serris?"
Araceli turned his gaze on the speaker. "We don't have time to replace him with someone weaker."
"Forgive the question, General."
Before more could be said, a shadow moved overhead.
A bird, human-sized, cut through the wind, its wings strong enough to ride the chaotic air. It aimed straight for Araceli's position.
"Looks like that one's for me," Araceli thought, expression remaining cold and flat.
As it neared, the bird looked once into his eyes and flinched visibly, shuddering in mid-air. It dropped its letter and turned sharply, fleeing in a panic.
The letter did not drift or spiral.
Despite the already strong wind, it seemed to move with its own intent, slicing downwards and attaching itself to the General's palm with magnetic precision.
Transparent paper.
"That means it's from the king," Araceli thought.
He narrowed his eyes and something in that tension shifted his perception; letters that were once invisible revealed themselves, faint but readable.
They want my permission… to allow myself to teleport to the royal palace.
He formed a stone in his hand — it appeared from nowhere, as if pulled out of the air itself. Before the surrounding officers could react, he vanished, swallowed by the stone's black light.
He reappeared within a room nearly devoid of sound.
Only two people existed within that space: General Araceli himself, still clutching the dark stone, and the King, sitting relaxed on his throne with a white stone resting in one hand.
Araceli dropped to one knee and bowed his head slightly. "Your Majesty. Why have you summoned me?"
The King's gaze drifted lazily. "You know that next week the child of Oryn and Elizabeth will be born," he said. "I want you to act as a Lamp, descend upon Noren Island, and kill all of them — humans and Sturtles — without damaging the bodies too much. We'll need those parts intact. You may go."
Araceli did not answer immediately. "Sire… we're in mid-battle. I just sent my most trustworthy general to act as bait, to distract the enemy so we can strike Rook Serris. If I leave now, my men's sacrifice will serve no purpose."
"This war is irrelevant," the King replied. There was no anger in his voice, only disregard. "Its outcome is nothing compared to what will happen on Noren. So, go."
"Your Majesty," Araceli tried again, "attacking Noren will have consequences — long-term ones. It can potentially wipe this nation out of the map."
A faint smile touched the King's lips. "Why should I care about the long term? I'll be dead by then. What happens after doesn't matter."
A tight coil of anger twisted inside Araceli's chest, but his body did not betray him. He merely folded his hands, suppressing the impulse to clench them.
"Understood," he said quietly, and vanished once more.
—
Dax ThornWill brought his wooden-armored mount to the edges of the battlefield. Noise pulsed through the air there — the distant clash of weapons, screams, the thunder of beasts colliding.
"Dax, here to see General Araceli?" someone called out.
"Yeah," Dax replied.
"He left. Went to Noren Island."
Dax fell silent.
He turned his mount away without another word and rode until the noise of battle died behind him.
He found a solitary hill, a silent slope where wind spoke less and thoughts spoke more. Dismounting, he stood still, eyes on the horizon, mind turning.
Why would Malric let Noren be destroyed?
Two possibilities formed, cleanly.
One: he's changed.
Two: he hasn't changed… and he is getting something else out of it.
If it's the second, then my instincts say that something else is Reinhard and Elizabeth. Because why else Malric would allow them to leave Noren at exactly the time of its destruction?
And Reinhard… he is likely the carrier of Malric hidden goal . Which i know obviously.
A small, sharp smile pulled at Dax's lips.
"Reinhard HayGram, huh?" he whispered. "Malric's magnum opus. Same age as me. I'm skipping this year's exams. I'll see you at the next ones."
He couldn't stop it then — the low laughter that slipped out, quiet but alive. It wasn't joy exactly. It was recognition.
Something was coming.
And he intended to be there when it arrived.
Scene shifts to Araceli
Araceli summoned control with a thought, a mental whistle slicing through the chaos.
From the shadows of the battlefield, a colossal dragon emerged, its eight wings fanning out in perfect symmetry — four stretching horizontally, two stacked in vertical tiers — each beat forming a precise, hypnotic rhythm that commanded the air itself.
Its scales shimmered in deep violet, while the wings carried a darker shade, like storm clouds rolling over twilight skies. Massive claws, sharp enough to rend stone, scraped the ground as it moved with unnerving grace.
Araceli reached forward, resting a hand against the dragon's crown, feeling the pulse of raw power beneath the hide. With a calm ease, he swung himself atop the beast, settling into the rhythm of its wings.
Without a word, they lifted, cutting through the wind, vanishing toward Noren Island with lethal intent.