Dawn didn't exist in the Isles. Here, the sky was an oppressive swirl of crimson and gray, with a faint, pale light filtering through the ever-present Crimson Mist. Yet, at the same time each day, Arion awoke, guided by a routine carved into his mind.
Inside the ruined cathedral, his refuge, light danced on the ancient carvings of the walls. Intricate patterns, woven with long-forgotten runes, seemed almost alive beneath his gaze. He rose, his bare feet touching the cold stone floor, and his eyes lingered on a mural. The figure of a goddess, framed by a crescent moon, appeared to watch him in silence.
"I'm ready," he murmured, as much to reassure himself as to prepare for the day ahead.
Kheron, as always, waited for him in a shadowy corner of the cathedral that served as their study chamber. Scattered fragments of books, charred scrolls, and broken stone tablets lay piled around a crude table. The blue flames that surrounded Kheron's floating skull cast an eerie light on the walls, making the runes etched there flicker like living things.
"Today, you'll continue translating this text," Kheron said, his deep voice resonating through the air. He placed a piece of parchment in front of Arion. The surface was marked with ancient symbols, runes—elegant, mysterious, and brimming with untold meaning.
Arion sat quickly, his knife at the ready to carve the symbols onto a wooden tablet for practice. His black-and-red eyes glimmered with determination as he studied the parchment.
"Read the first two lines," Kheron instructed.
Arion furrowed his brow and traced the shapes with his finger. His voice, low and deliberate, carried the weight of each syllable as he spoke the runes aloud. Each word seemed to hum faintly, a resonance that hung in the air as though the runes themselves held life.
Kheron stood still, listening intently. When Arion finished, the specter nodded. "Correct. But you reversed the direction of the third rune. A mistake like that could ruin an entire spell. Start over."
Frustration flickered across Arion's face, but he didn't complain. Instead, he began again, his voice steady and his movements precise. The runes weren't just a language; they were power, a key to understanding the world.
Kheron observed Arion carefully. Despite his young age, the boy was remarkably focused, soaking in knowledge like dry earth drinks rain. He etched the symbols onto his wooden tablet with almost obsessive care, ensuring each curve and line matched the originals perfectly.
"Why is this so important?" Arion asked, not looking up from his work.
Kheron moved closer, his spectral claws hovering over the tablet. "Runes are not just a language. They are truths. Each symbol represents a fundamental law of the world. To master them is to understand the very fabric of reality."
Arion's gaze shifted upward, his crimson pupils glowing faintly in the dim light. "So… if I master them, I can change the world?"
Kheron was silent for a moment. "In theory, yes. But knowledge is a burden. Those who seek to alter the world must be ready to bear its weight."
Arion returned to his work without another word. He didn't fully understand the scope of Kheron's warning, but he knew one thing—he wanted to learn. He wanted to understand. And, above all, he wanted to change things.
After the lesson, Kheron announced it was time to gather provisions. Though Kheron himself needed no sustenance, Arion's human body required food and water, both of which were dangerously scarce in the Isles.
They left the cathedral through a hidden side passage concealed by rubble. The ruins of the capital stretched out before them, a desolate landscape of broken buildings, leaning towers, and collapsed bridges. The air was heavy, saturated with the metallic tang of the Mist.
Their destination was an old marketplace a short distance away. Overgrown with scarlet vegetation and stagnant pools of water, the place had been picked over countless times. Yet Kheron believed there were still pockets of overlooked resources.
"Stay close," Kheron ordered, his spectral lance faintly glowing as he led the way. The Mist seemed to retreat slightly around him, as though reluctant to touch his form. Arion followed in his shadow, his eyes darting to the shifting shapes in the fog.
At the marketplace, Arion climbed through a broken window into a crumbling shop. The shelves were empty, but in the shadowed corners, a few mushrooms grew along the damp walls. He picked them carefully, placing them into a small satchel. A faint noise behind him made his heart jump.
"Just the wind," he whispered to himself, but his hand tightened on the hilt of his knife.
When he emerged, Kheron was standing watch, his glowing eyes scanning the surroundings.
"Never let your guard down," Kheron said, his voice stern. "Even here."
Arion nodded, the weight of the warning settling on his shoulders. The Mist had eyes everywhere, even in silence.
Back at the cathedral, Arion sat by a small makeshift fire, cooking the mushrooms he had found. Their faint, earthy scent filled the air, mingling with the omnipresent chill of the ruins. Kheron stood nearby, his lance planted firmly in the ground like a sentinel.
Arion's gaze fell on the wooden tablet in his lap. The runes he had etched earlier seemed to shimmer faintly in the firelight. He traced them with his finger, lost in thought.
"Do you really think I can learn all this?" he asked suddenly.
Kheron turned, his flaming skull casting flickering light across the stone walls. "You've already learned more than most scholars could in a lifetime. But the question isn't whether you can learn. It's what you'll do with that knowledge."
Arion didn't respond immediately. Deep down, he knew he wanted more than to learn. He wanted answers—about the Mist, about Kheron, about himself. And above all, he wanted to know if the world beyond the Mist was truly as free as he imagined.
Later that evening, as the dim light faded into darkness, Arion heard a faint sound. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it didn't belong to the wind or the usual groans of the ruins.
He rose silently, grabbing his satchel and knife, and crept toward the source of the noise. Kheron was absent, likely patrolling the area. The silence was oppressive, each step over broken stone seeming too loud.
At the edge of a crumbled alley, veiled by thick Mist, Arion saw it—a shadow moving slowly, deliberately. It wasn't a specter, not entirely. It moved differently, its outline faint but tangible.
His instinct screamed at him to run, but his curiosity held him in place. He edged closer, his breathing shallow, his fingers tight on the knife.