The village awoke under a sky of muted gray, a thin mist curling along the rooftops, clinging to the cobblestones like breath. Aion had risen early, as he often did, drawn to the fields before the sun had fully claimed the day. The air was cool, carrying the faint scent of rain and soil, the promise of something that was not yet named.
Drazon waited at the edge of the wheat fields, as he always did. His cloak hung heavy and silent, moving like a shadow detached from the body that cast it. The ash of his hair seemed darker in the dim light, and his eyes, ancient and still, watched the boy with a focus that pressed without speaking.
"Something stirs," Drazon said, his voice low, almost a whisper. "Do you feel it?"
Aion nodded, heart hammering. The pulse beneath his skin, that quiet rhythm that had guided him through both dream and day, throbbed sharply now. It was as if the earth itself had taken notice, stirring beneath his feet, whispering a warning.
"I… I think so," he said, eyes scanning the edges of the fields. The wheat swayed gently, though there was no wind. Shadows clung to the roots of trees, stretching and twitching as if alive.
Drazon's gaze followed the movement. "Not all shadows are mere absence of light," he said. "Some are presences of their own. You must learn to see, not just with your eyes, but with the pulse inside you. Let it guide you."
Aion closed his eyes. The pulse rose, echoing in every fiber of his being. It whispered of something beyond the village, something waiting. Fear and curiosity tangled in his chest, a knot he could neither untie nor ignore.
Suddenly, a ripple of motion passed through the mist. The shadow detached itself from the far edge of the wheat, shifting, coalescing into a form that was almost human but not quite. Its presence pressed down on the air like a weight, making the birds pause mid-flight, making the streams of water in the fields shimmer unnaturally.
Aion's pulse surged violently. He stepped back, the wooden horse slipping slightly from his grasp.
"Stay calm," Drazon murmured, stepping between the boy and the shadow. "Watch. Learn."
The figure moved closer, and Aion could see that its edges were ragged, like smoke clinging to a broken flame. It did not speak, yet he heard whispers—ancient, fragmented, full of cold hunger. Names, places, and promises of ruin that were older than any memory he had ever known.
"You feel it, don't you?" Drazon asked. "The hunger behind the shadow. The world speaks through it, but it listens only to power. To fear."
Aion nodded, his small hands trembling. He had never felt so aware of his own heartbeat, the pulse that marked him as different. Something inside him responded, not with anger, but with understanding. He did not want to hurt, yet he could not ignore the presence pressing down on the village, pressing down on him.
Drazon crouched slightly, his voice quiet, intimate. "Power is not enough. Awareness alone will not save you. You must understand the choice you carry. Every action has consequence. Even standing still is a choice."
The shadow paused, as if sensing the conversation, or perhaps reading the pulse that radiated from Aion. It flickered, uncertainty rippling through its form. Then it lunged, moving faster than the eye could follow, dissolving into mist only to reappear closer.
Aion's instincts flared. He felt the pulse beneath his skin respond, weaving through him like living fire. He raised his hands, uncertain, trembling—but the air obeyed. The wind lifted, swirling around the shadow, tugging at it, holding it at bay.
"Good," Drazon said. "Not control, not yet, but awareness. You felt it. You acted without thought. That is the first step."
The shadow recoiled, hissing with a sound like tearing silk. Aion's eyes widened. It had never reacted before. His pulse thrummed, a mixture of exhilaration and fear.
Drazon stepped closer, voice steady. "Do not be tempted to destroy. The moment you act without restraint, you become the thing you fear. Remember that, always."
Aion nodded, feeling the weight of the words settle on him like a stone in his chest. He let the wind die down, the shadow retreating slightly, lingering at the edge of the wheat as if uncertain.
"You see it now," Drazon said, hand resting lightly on his shoulder. "The world is not safe. It has never been. And yet… it is worth guarding."
Aion stared at the retreating shape. "Will it come back?"
"Yes," Drazon admitted. "And each time, it will test you differently. You will learn not only what you can do, but who you are. And who you choose to be."
The boy looked down at the wooden horse in his hands, the imperfect toy carved by Elden, worn by play and time. It was a symbol of simplicity, of human care untouched by divine design. He felt a strange comfort in it. For all the pulse, all the shadows, all the weight of what lived inside him, this small thing reminded him of the world worth defending.
The shadow did not vanish completely, only dissolved into the mist, a promise of darkness yet to come. And Aion understood, with the clarity that comes only from facing the impossible, that his life had changed. The quiet village, the fields, the laughter of other children — none of it would remain untouched for long.
Drazon led him back through the wheat, the boy's pulse slowly calming. The first rays of sunlight broke through the clouds, casting long, trembling shadows across the village.
"You must rest," Drazon said. "The mind and body require balance. But tonight, the shadow will return. You will be ready to feel it, to see it, to act. And each time, you will learn more."
Aion nodded silently, understanding for the first time that life was not a series of moments to be lived, but a series of choices to be made. Some small. Some vast. Some that could break the world if handled wrong.
He returned home, where Mara waited, her hands warm with bread and the quiet magic of human care. Aion smiled faintly, grateful for her presence, for the ordinary warmth of the mundane. The pulse beneath his skin slowed, though it would never fully rest.
That night, he lay beneath his blanket, listening to the heartbeat of the house, the soft creak of the walls, the whispers of wind outside the window. Somewhere beyond the village, the shadow lingered, waiting. Somewhere beyond the forests and hills, the world was watching. And somewhere, deep inside him, a spark of understanding took root: the path ahead would demand everything he had, and more than he had yet imagined.
The first whisper of shadow had arrived. And Aion, for all his fear and doubt, would meet it.