There was no sound in the place between.
No sky. No ground. Only presence. Light without source, warmth without fire. It was a realm untouched by mortal breath—neither heaven nor void, but a stillness between worlds where time was forgotten and names had no meaning.
And yet… something stirred.
Within the bloom of endless white, a soul cracked open.
Not newly born. Not summoned. Remembered.
A ripple moved through the emptiness. Faint. Like breath across glass. Then—shape. Thought. Will.
He remembered pain.
He remembered chains.
He remembered purpose.
And slowly, Illio awoke.
He had no form—only a presence suspended in this silence, flickering like a candle's soul in the wind. His memory was frayed, but not gone. A sword. A dragon. A name lost. And a world that had once burned behind him.
Then came the voice.
"Illio."
It was not loud. It didn't need to be. It echoed inside him like thunder in a cathedral, heavy with sorrow, thick with time.
He turned—or tried to. There was no body here, no direction. But still, he faced her.
A figure formed before him, robed in shifting silver, her edges blurred by light that refused to settle. She had no face. No crown. Only presence. And when she spoke again, the weight of her voice could have shattered mountains.
"Illio," she said. "Forgive me."
Her words trembled. Not from fear—but grief. Ancient. Quiet. And full of guilt.
"You." His thought reached her not as sound, but as a current of will, ancient and weary. "I know you."
"Yes," she whispered. "You knew me once, though I was not spoken of in temples. I am Themis. One who guides the current of fate. I do not crave belief. I do not demand sacrifice. I exist only to uphold what must come."
She lowered her head, light dimming around her shoulders.
"And what must come… has failed."
Illio's will pressed outward. Not sharp. Not angry. But strained, like metal that had been forged too many times.
"You swore I would rest."
"I did." Her voice cracked. "And I meant it."
A long stillness passed between them.
"But fate is a fire with no master," she said at last. "And even prophecy is flawed when mortals forget. The world you saved has forgotten the edge it once stood upon. The seal weakens, Illio. The rot presses in from beneath."
"Then warn them."
"They would not listen. They cannot see what you saw." Her shoulders lifted—heavy, haunted. "They speak of peace as if it is an inheritance. They believe evil was buried, not bound."
"Then let them face it. My duty is done."
Themis flinched. The space around her rippled—fragile as memory.
"You gave your soul," she said. "And that soul is still all that stands between the world and ruin. I do not ask this because it is right. I ask this because no one else can."
Illio's will recoiled.
Tired. Cracked. Silent.
And then: "Why?"
"Because I made you fight," Themis whispered. "Because I took your rest. And now I ask for it again."
Silence. Deeper than the void.
"I cannot offer you peace, Illio. But I can offer you power. Not as you were—flesh and fury—but something more. I will weave for you a vessel born of dragons. My dragons. Beasts of thought, of spirit, of strength. The greatest I have guided. They will not fight beside you. They will become you."
Seven spiraling flames bloomed behind her—serpents of starlight and scale, dancing slow and mournful. They circled Illio's soul, waiting for his will.
"I can give you this gift," she said. "But I will not force you. I do not have the right."
And then she fell to one knee before him.
"I am not your god," she said. "I am your burden."
For a long moment, there was nothing.
Then, after a long, aching silence, Illio stirred.
His soul flickered—fragile, frayed, and so very tired.
He did not reach for Themis.
He simply rose.
Not with pride. Not with defiance. But with the quiet sorrow of someone who once walked through the end of the world and had hoped—truly hoped—he would never need to do so again.
His will extended toward her, soft as breath.
"I should resent you."
Themis looked up, her glow wavering.
"And yet…" he continued, his essence brushing against hers, not as a weapon—but a whisper of warmth. "You carry the weight too, don't you?"
She said nothing, only lowered her head further.
"You were right." Illio's presence pulsed faintly now. "I gave myself so they could live. So they could laugh and build… and forget. If they are to fall, I could choose silence. I could choose peace."
Another pause.
Then—
"But that would make all of it meaningless."
The light around him deepened—subtle, resolute.
"I do not rise for prophecy. I do not rise for gods. I rise… because I was once as they are...human, innocent, and hopeful."
The flames answered with a low hum, coiling tighter around him.
"Let me not be the same. Let this body be new. But let the soul still remember what it means to bleed for those who never knew my name."
And slowly, almost tenderly, Illio gave himself again.
Not as a martyr.
Not as a hero.
But as a man who could not let the world fall unguarded—not while he still had the will to stand.
As the name Illio, his achievements, miracles and accomplishments, had been sacrificed for the sake of peace. Violently torn away from the fabric of time and the flow of history, a new name was needed. One that would signify and become more than the previous ever could.
The name Themis spoke fell like starlight:
"Live again… Emil."
The dragons obeyed.
The seven flames surged inward—winding, spiraling, weaving. They did not strike Illio's soul, nor consume it. They honored it. One by one, they gave themselves willingly.
The first, a dragon of obsidian fire, breathed magma across the void, casting molten veins into Illio's forming frame. From it came unshakable strength—bone forged like tempered adamant, muscles woven from starlit steel.
The second, draped in shimmering silver and crowned with horns of crystal, wove mana into marrow, threading circuits of pure energy through every nerve and sinew. His new body would sing with magic—its flow instinctual, bound to his breath.
The third was ancient wind—a sky-serpent with wings like thunderclouds. It poured into Illio's lungs, gifting him the grace of movement, the aura of command, the agility to dance with sword and shadow alike.
The fourth whispered through his blood, a creature of silence and storm. From her, he inherited the discipline of aura control—the mastery of martial prowess, the will to bend the unseen to his intent.
The fifth, bearing scales like hammered bronze and eyes of cold flame, exhaled a breath of pure sorcery. Symbols spiraled into his skin—arcane instincts etched into muscle memory, so that even with no master, he would someday remember how to wield magic as easily as drawing breath.
The sixth, the smallest and most sorrowful, gave not power, but resilience. Pain would never break him. Despair would never swallow him. He would remember suffering—and rise anyway.
And the seventh… was silent.
A dragon with no face, cloaked in shadow and light. It did not roar. It watched. It judged. And only when Illio's soul pulsed again—not in anger, but compassion—did the final dragon descend.
It wrapped itself around the others and wove them all into one.
And from that union, a body was born.
Not mortal.
Not divine.
But something in between.
Tall, broad, and tempered with elegance. His blood glowed faintly beneath the skin like coals under snow. His eyes, though closed, flickered with mana and memory. Runes slept along the edges of his spine, dormant, awaiting awakening. His hands bore no scars—only potential.
This was no ordinary vessel.
This was the body of a savior born of calamity—built not to conquer, but to stand between destruction and those who lived in its shadow.
And as the light began to fade, and the realm between unmade itself around him, Illio—no longer Illio—was lowered into the world below.
Not as a storm.
But as a child.
A seed.
A sword yet to be drawn.
----
Dawn came slow to the village of Maerrin.
Not because the sun was hesitant—but because the mountains that cradled it on all sides softened everything: the wind, the light, even time itself. The first rays spilled lazily over the rooftops of shingled wood and moss, kissing dew-drenched fields and narrow stone paths that curved between homes like veins of peace.
The village was not large. But neither was it poor.
It was just enough.
Two hundred and some souls made Maerrin their home—farmers with calloused hands and generous smiles, cobblers and thatchers, alchemists and smiths. Chickens strutted through open yards. The smell of bread and cured meats wafted from chimneys by midmorning. A well stood at the center of the square, ringed by benches and elder-trees that leaned like old men listening to gossip.
And it was here, on an ordinary spring morning, that a man named Alexander stirred from bed with a weary groan and a half-remembered dream already fading from his thoughts.
He was not a great man by legend's measure. No war banners bore his name. No songs were sung of his trade. But in the village of Maerrin, Alexander was trusted. His hands were strong, his voice honest, and his coin always paid in full. He dealt in salt, wine, cloth, and occasionally glass—items brought in by river barge or mule-train, then sold to the townsfolk with neither greed nor pride.
He was awake before the birds.
That morning, he moved slower than usual. His wife—Sophia—had not slept well the night before. She was heavy with child, full of quiet fire and gentle impatience. He'd spent the better part of the previous evening massaging her back, whispering assurances, and placing his ear against her belly to feel the child twist like a secret waiting to be told.
And now… the time was close.
He kissed her forehead before rising. She didn't stir. The house was warm—stone walls thick with age, fire still glowing in the hearth. A cradle stood in the corner, hand-carved from cherrywood. He had spent three days shaping it. Another day smoothing it with beeswax. It waited, empty, like a prayer.
By midday, Maerrin was in motion.
Children chased dogs down the winding paths. Old men sharpened scythes for the coming planting season. A troupe of traveling potters passed through, setting up stalls near the well with promises of southern glaze. And all the while, Alexander worked—unloading bolts of linen from his cart, haggling with a baker over a shipment of northern salt.
No one spoke of the sky.
But everyone saw it.
The moon had risen early—before dusk, before stars. Pale and high and tinged with a faint red hue, as if someone had soaked it in old wine and hung it from a thread. The elders furrowed their brows. The midwives made the sign of protection beneath their cloaks. And the ravens that usually roosted atop the eastern ridge never came down to feed.
Sophia felt it too.
She stood near the window as twilight bled into night, hands cradling her swollen belly, eyes turned skyward. The wind had gone still. The world seemed to hold its breath.
And then—
The pain struck.
Not gentle. Not distant.
It was sudden, sharp, deep—a twisting of muscle and marrow, like her body had remembered too late that it was time to break open. Sophia cried out, her hand clawing for the wall as her knees buckled beneath her. The water jug she'd been holding shattered across the floor, and the cottage seemed to lurch with her breath.
Another contraction.
Stronger.
Worse.
She gritted her teeth, dragged herself to the nearest chair, and then screamed—not just from pain, but urgency.
"Help—!" she choked, sweat running down her temples. "Someone get Alexander!"
Outside, a passing boy froze at the sound. His eyes went wide. He didn't ask questions. He ran.
Within minutes, the midwife's daughter burst through the door of the trading post where Alexander was weighing sacks of grain. Her face was red, breath ragged.
"Your wife—sir—your wife—the child is coming!"
He dropped everything.
Didn't stop to speak. Didn't pack his coin. Didn't lock the door. He ran.
Past carts and wagons. Past startled villagers and the muttering elders near the well. He didn't feel his boots strike the ground. He only heard his heart pounding with the rhythm of a name he hadn't spoken aloud yet—his child's name, waiting to be known.
When he threw open the cottage door, the scent of pain and heat hit him like a wall.
Sophia lay on the cot, body trembling, hands clawing at the blanket. Her breath came in low, panicked gasps—controlled only by sheer force of will. The midwife hovered beside her, whispering calm, arranging tools and towels and vials of warm oil.
"She's strong," the midwife said without looking up. "But the child comes fast."
Alexander rushed to her side. He took her hand. It was slick with sweat and shaking hard.
"I'm here," he whispered.
Sophia turned to him, her eyes glassy with pain. "You're late," she rasped with a ghost of a smile.
Another contraction tore through her. She screamed—a long, raw sound that dragged through the bones of the house. The walls themselves seemed to flinch.
The moon climbed higher.
The sky turned darker.
And inside that quiet home, time stretched—each minute a battle, each breath a blade drawn against the inevitable.
Sophia labored for hours.
There were moments she nearly fainted, her grip going limp before the next wave brought her back screaming. Alexander never left her side. He wiped her brow. He whispered prayers he hadn't spoken since boyhood. He held her when the pain was too much, and she sobbed against his shoulder, asking—not for mercy, but simply to not do this alone.
The midwife gave her potions. Spoke quiet things in the old tongue. But even she knew—
This was no ordinary birth.
The air had grown heavy. Not dangerous, but charged. Like something unseen was watching. Like something sacred was returning.
And then, just before the clock struck midnight—
He came.
The child slid free of the blood and pain and screaming, quiet as a falling leaf. The midwife caught him, eyes wide.
He did not cry.
Not at first.
He opened his eyes before sound could reach his lips, and for the briefest second, the midwife's hands faltered. She would later say it was nothing. A trick of the light. The red moon playing with her mind.
But in truth, she had seen his gaze.
Green. Fiercely green. Ancient and searching.
Then the child wailed—and the world remembered it was still a world of men.
Sophia wept, laughing through her exhaustion. Alexander held them both, breath caught somewhere between terror and awe.
No one noticed how the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to bend away from the cradle.
No one saw the faint, pulsing rune that glowed briefly along the child's spine before vanishing into skin.
No one spoke of the blood moon.
And yet, in the language of fate, a name was written.
Emil.
A new name.
A forgotten soul.
A seed, born in peace, wrapped in prophecy, and sleeping in the arms of a mother who would never know what her child had already endured.