Smoke and fire blurred Arion’s world. The temple burned around him, its once-sacred walls crumbling into ruin. The sky blazed in shades of searing orange, and the air thickened with choking ash. Every breath was a struggle, every step heavy with dread.

  Elara!

  A scream tore through the inferno, that’s her voice, he recognized. But the words melted into the roaring flames before he could grasp them. He ran, heart hammering, eyes darting through the destruction. His pulse pounded against his ribs, but his legs felt sluggish, as if something unseen dragged him down.

  The temple wavered, twisting in his vision. The heat licked at his skin— it was not just fire around him, but something deeper, something raw and consuming. Like he could feel the pain of guilt and fear. The weight of something he could not name.

  He looked down to see his footing, the stone beneath his feet rippled like disturbed water, a sickly glow pulsing beneath the cracks.

  Then, the ground split apart.

  A gaping void swallowed everything whole. Arion barely had time to gasp before he was falling down into nothingness.

  Time lost meaning. The flickering orange glow above stretched into clawed fingers, reaching, grasping. Then, suddenly —impact.

  But there was no jolt. No pain. Only silence.

  He stood on a surface wet and sticky, his breath hitching as he recoiled. Strange markings pulsed beneath his feet, their eerie glow casting flickering shadows against towering pillars of bloodstained stone. The air here was thick, pressing against him like unseen hands, charged with an unspoken judgment.

  Ahead, a pentagram lay carved into the floor, its lines traced in blood. A lone figure knelt within, clad in black tattered robes, his forehead pressed to the ground in prostration. Before them slowly appeared something strange— an entity of fire and shadow, chained but alive, its form writhing, barely contained.

  Suddenly, it turned. Two burning eyes locked onto Arion. A chill coiled through his spine. The kneeling figure followed the beast’s gaze as he raised his head. Arion saw him before, but he couldn’t tell when and where; an old man with one good eye, which filled with recognition.

  "You!" the man whispered. His voice trembled, thick with something between fear and surprise.

  Before Arion could react, a strange darkness surged, rushing toward Arion like a living thing. It smothered him, filled his lungs, crushed him under its weight. He tried to scream but he could not hear his voice. He only could watch as the strange world around him shattered.

  Reality slammed back into him, cold and unyielding. The dream was gone.

  Arion’s vision flickered to life—blurry, uncertain. The world swam in and out of focus as he fought to piece together his surroundings.

  First thing that came to his mind when he came back was Cold.

  Through the haze of his mind, he felt the sway beneath him—the steady rhythm of a horse’s gait. The clip-clop of hooves reverberated like distant thunder, each step jarring his broken frame. His hands were bound, tight against the saddle. His head hung heavily, throbbing with the weight of his fractured thoughts.

  Snowflakes drifted down, cold and delicate, melting as they touched his skin. The sensation pulled him further into wakefulness, sharpening his vision just enough to make out the white, powdery expanse below. The pristine snow was marred by the deep imprints of hooves, a trail that marked each passing second.

  Then, his gaze shifted upward. He saw sturdy, black boots —Akeem’s boots, he recognized.

  The royal guard rode the horse he was saddled on, silent and steady, his broad frame an imposing shadow in the dim light. He dragged Arion like a sack of grain. Where am I?

  Pain flared through Arion’s spine, a cruel reminder of everything of the night before. How the Aether drained from his grasp. The kingdom plunging into darkness. How he failed to get to Elara. His mind swirled with fragmented memories, which he put together to understand his present position. The weight of failure clawing at him from within with every memory that came back.

  He tried to move his head to see his surroundings, but his body refused to respond. Moving felt like struggling through a thick fog, every limb weighed down by exhaustion.

  Through the blur, the faces of Aetherians emerged —men and women frozen in place, their wide eyes filled with fear and disbelief. Some stood in the streets, others peered from windows, their expressions a haunting blend of sorrow and dread. A silent testimony to whatever horror had unfolded in his absence.

  What has happened?

  The horse slowed, its pace breaking into an abrupt halt. Arion’s body lurched forward slightly before slumping again. He was too weak to react.

  Akeem dismounted. The muted thud of boots against snow reached Arion’s ears, followed by the rustle of approaching hooves. A fresh wave of unease coiled in his gut.

  Then—Theron’s voice cut through the air, sharp and unyielding. He could hear and feel Theron’s presence, a suffocating, oppressive force that drew nearer with every step.

  Akeem bowed, his deep voice rumbling with measured submission, “Your Majesty.”

  The words felt hollow, falling flat against the heavy silence. Arion, barely clinging to consciousness, absorbed everything in a quiet haze. His hair hung in his eyes, a thin veil between him and the red king. He didn’t need to see to understand. His mind painted the picture for him —the weight of gazes upon him, the cold amusement that preceded Theron’s voice.

  “And who is this?” Theron asked, curiosity laced with malice.

  Akeem didn’t hesitate. His response was as steady as his posture.

  “Arion Faris, the boy from Luminara; Overseer’s son. He tried to elope with the Princess, as you suspected, Your Majesty.”

  Akeem’s voice carried no emotion, and yet the words struck Arion like a physical blow. His chest ached, the mention of Elara stirring something faint but painful within him.

  Theron let out a low chuckle, the sound rich with dark amusement.

  “Maybe there is a god after all,” he mused, his voice dripping with mockery. “And if there is, it seems he’s with me.”

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  The crunch of boots against snow grew louder—closer—until Arion could feel Theron’s presence looming just above him.

  “Is he dead?” Theron asked.

  Akeem’s response was devoid of emotion. “As dead as the temple seems to be, Your Majesty.”

  Theron’s laughter vibrated through the frozen air, dark and twisted.

  “Good,” he murmured. “Burn him with the rest of his kind.”

  Without another glance, he turned away. His boots crunched over the snow, each step marking his departure. Baalberith and the elite guards followed, their shadows stretching long over the ruin as they disappeared into the cold horizon.

  Arion remained slumped, barely registering their words.

  As dead as the temple.

  The phrase echoed in his skull, twisting through the haze of his mind. His body ached, the cold gnawed at him, but none of it compared to the suffocating weight of confusion and dread.

  Burn him with the rest of his kind.

  The words rang hollow at first, meaningless syllables floating in the void of his exhaustion. But then—the temple.

  A flicker of clarity sliced through his mind.

  What has happened to the temple?

  His breath hitched. His thoughts fractured, overwhelmed by the flood of memories—his father, Rezar, Kony, Kaelen. Did I put them all in danger? The harder he thought, the more his head hurt.

  The horse beneath him jerked forward, then Arion with great effort forced to move his head and his eyes to focus. The blood-soaked ground blurred beneath him. The full reality of the devastation hit him like a physical blow.

  The temple gates shattered, broken beyond recognition. Hundreds of dead bodies, his brothers and sisters—the custodians, the guardians of the Aether, lie lifeless in the dirt. Blood was everywhere, staining the cold snow evident of the massacre that had taken place.

  The horse trotted onward, steady and indifferent, carrying Arion through the aftermath of devastation. He saw the temple burning, once a sanctuary, stood in ruin—charred and broken, it’s remains still smoldering. Flames licked at the sky, a cruel beacon of destruction. Royal soldiers moved with cold precision, their polished armor catching the firelight as they loaded bodies onto carriages. They worked without hesitation, their faces impassive, as though the horror around them was nothing more than another day’s duty.

  The dead were treated like refuse, thrown onto heaps that grew higher with each passing moment.

  This was no mere loss; this was annihilation. Everything Arion had known, everything he had believed in, laid in ruins before him. A crushing weight pressed against his chest, suffocating him beneath the enormity of it. He wanted to fight, he wanted to cry out, to scream against the injustice, but no sound came, only pain.

  He was still here, still breathing, still witnessing it all—yet he remained frozen, trapped in his own battered body as the world spun mercilessly around him.

  The horse’s hooves echoed against the icy cobblestones as they moved away from the temple, heading toward the city gates. Akeem’s gruff voice sliced through the cold air as he approached the city gate guards.

  “Where are they burning the bodies?”

  The guard hesitated, his gaze flickering to Arion’s slumped form before answering. “South clearing, near the old quarry.” His voice was thick with unease.

  Akeem gave a curt nod and spurred his horse forward. The outskirts of the city were eerily quiet, empty save for royal soldiers hauling carriages of the dead. Occasionally, one would stop, dumping bodies onto growing piles. Some already burned, sending thick, acrid smoke into the winter air—the stench of charred flesh mingling with the biting cold.

  When they reached the clearing, Akeem dismounted with practiced ease. He unbuckled the straps binding Arion to the saddle and, without hesitation, lifted his limp form.

  He carried him toward one of the largest heaps— the bodies of the temple’s custodians who died protecting their home. Akeem dropped Arion among the dead. The sight upclose was a grotesque tableau of charred flesh and torn robes. Lifeless hands still clutched shattered, aetherless gauntlets. Scribe medallions, dulled and cracked, lay tangled among frozen faces twisted in fear, pain, or defiance.

  Arion tried to speak, but his lips barely moved—no sound escaped. His body refused to obey, every muscle heavy and unresponsive.

  Akeem scanned the clearing, ensuring no one watched. He crouched down, close enough for Arion to see the flicker of something behind his usually unreadable expression—guilt? Or something darker.

  “We’re even now,” Akeem said quietly, voice steady but edged with finality. “You spared mine, I spared yours.”

  He straightened, turning to leave, but paused. A shadow of a smirk touched his lips.

  “If you can walk out of here before the guards burn you to ashes with the rest of the dead,” he added, tone mocking. His eyes lingered on Arion, calculating. He knew perfectly well Arion could not move. Perhaps part of him even wanted to see it happen.

  With that, he stepped away, boots crunching over snow and ash, leaving Arion alone atop the mound of the dead, the cold pressing down like a hand over his chest.

  His gaze stuck above at the sky. Watching the snowflakes lazily drifting downward—delicate, pure, untouched by the carnage below. They melted against his skin, ghostly reminders of life in a place that had none.

  He thought of nothing. Felt nothing.

  The snow kept falling, the only motion in a world gone still.

  Slowly, his eyes began to close, the sky fading into darkness.

  ***

  What felt like moments could have been hours. Time had lost meaning, swallowed by blinding snow and biting cold. Arion's body felt frozen, fused to the earth, a speck in the vast, lifeless landscape. His vision blurred, the world reduced to a howling wind that cut through him, snowflakes falling like icy whispers.

  Then—A jolt, a pull.

  His body shifted, dragged across the pile of dead. He forced his eyes open and saw a burly soldier gripping his arm, adjusting him atop the pile.

  The soldier froze. With a startled gasp, the man stumbled back, crashing into the snow.

  “Th-This one’s alive!” he shouted, but his call was swallowed by the howling wind and swirling blizzard. Panic twisted his movements as he reached for his sword, but it slipped from his hands and clattered to the ground.

  The soldier hesitated, looking around nervously, his breath visible in the frigid air. His inexperience showed in his frantic movements. Finally, he seemed to resolve himself, reaching for the sword lying on the ground beside him.

  If this is it... Arion thought, then so be it.

  The soldier’s hands trembled as he raised the blade, preparing to end Arion’s misery. The blade gleamed faintly in the muted light as the soldier recoiled, swinging it downward.

  Before the strike could land, the air split with the sharp, unmistakable sound of arrows slicing through the storm. Two arrows, swift and unerring, thwok—thwack—pierced the soldier’s chest and neck. Blood spurted from his mouth as he gurgled, dropping his sword and collapsing to the ground, lifeless.

  Arion tried to move his head towards the direction from where the arrows came, his vision blurry but still sharp enough to catch movement through the snow. A shadowy figure emerged galloping on a horse through the blizzard.

  The figure was a man—tall, broad-shouldered, and clad in brown leather armor that bore no sigil or emblem. His dark skin glistened faintly, as though coated in ice, and his bald head reflected the dim light of the overcast sky.

  The man moved closer, his boots crunching against the blood-soaked snow. He stopped a few paces away, crouching down to examine Arion. His gaze was steady, assessing, and without a word, he turned to what seemed like a white horse beside him.

  Arion’s breath hitched as his focus shifted to the creature. At first glance, it seemed like an ordinary horse, but then his eyes caught details that defied explanation. The creature’s hide shimmered faintly, not like fur but like polished scales, catching even the faintest light. Its eyes were larger than a typical horse’s, glowing faintly with an otherworldly blue light.

  Between its eyes, a single horn jutted from its forehead, its tip emitting a soft, ethereal glow.

  A Reem? Arion thought, his mind struggling to reconcile the impossibility before him. Is this a dream? Or... am I dead?

  The man nodded at the creature; his expression unreadable. He then grabbed Arion with surprising ease, lifting him like he weighed nothing. Arion felt the strength in his arms as he was hoisted onto the back of the Reem.

  The creature didn’t flinch, standing perfectly still as though understanding the gravity of the moment. The man mounted the creature, securing him before gripping the reins. The Reem reared up slightly, its horn glowing brighter as it began to gallop. The motion was impossibly smooth, almost as if the ground beneath it bent to accommodate its steps.

  Snow whipped past them, the world blurring into streaks of white and gray as they moved faster than any horse should. Arion’s mind swirled with unanswered questions, but his body remained numb, yielding to the relentless rhythm of the ride.

  The last thing he saw before the storm swallowed them was the faint glow of the burning temple tower, shrinking and flickering in the snowy haze, vanishing with each stride.

  ***