On a quiet winter night, a baby was born within the confines of the Greythorn residence. His first cry, soft and fragile, echoed through the room like a distant whisper, a signal of life that felt too fragile in the wake of what had just passed.
The air was thick with the scent of incense and medicine, mingling with the weight of something heavier—something impossible to grasp, a presence that seemed to linger in the very stones of the house.
Alwin Greythorn, a man of many talents, had never been one for superstition, but in the quiet aftermath of his wife's final breath, a deep, inexplicable ache filled his chest. His wife, a woman of unparalleled grace, had held their son for only moments before her body could no longer bear the weight of her labor.
"Look at him, Alwin," she whispered, her voice trembling with the last vestiges of life. Her hand, still warm, reached out to gently brush the newborn's cheek, her eyes filled with a softness only a mother could hold. "Our son… so beautiful…"
Alwin knelt beside her, his firm hands trembling as he reached for their child. The weight of the moment pressed on him—the joy of new life clashing with the unbearable loss of his beloved wife. He could feel her slip away even as he held their son. The room seemed to grow colder with each passing second, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows on the walls, and yet the warmth of their small family seemed to cling to the air.
"I'll take care of him," Alwin promised, his voice thick with emotion. "I will raise him, just as we always dreamed. I'll teach him everything—alchemy, the ways of the world…"
But before he could finish, his wife's eyes fluttered closed. A final breath—so quiet, so final—escaped her lips, and Alwin was left holding only their son, alone in the room where life had once flourished. The child in his arms was a symbol of hope, yet the weight of grief was unbearable.
The moment stretched. The room grew heavier, as if time itself was holding its breath, reluctant to continue. And in that silence, Alwin Greythorn—an alchemist, a soldier, a man who had once believed in the power of knowledge and control—found himself utterly powerless.
He gazed down at the child in his arms, his heart heavy. Ryder, he whispered the name to himself as though it would bring some comfort, some sense of purpose to the swirling chaos within him.
But nothing could ease the ache.
The first few days were a blur. Alwin, though no stranger to hardship, found himself lost in the quiet moments of the night, when the house was still and the weight of responsibility pressed down upon him. He would sit by the cradle, staring at Ryder with a mixture of love and sorrow, wondering how to carry the legacy of both his wife and his alchemical craft without the woman who had always stood by him.
Ryder's cries in the night were soft, but they filled the house in a way nothing else could. His father would rise, gently rocking him in his arms, the soft murmur of an old lullaby escaping his lips. But each song, each gentle word, felt like a thread binding him to something he could no longer touch—his wife's smile, her warmth, the soft whispers they'd shared in the quiet moments before everything had changed.
"I'll teach you," Alwin had promised, though the words felt hollow. "I'll teach you everything your mother and I knew… but you will be the one to carry the truth of the Greythorn name, Ryder. I will make sure of that."
But there were other things Alwin couldn't teach him—not yet. Hidden truths of a world that had slowly begun to shift, its edges becoming sharper, its mysteries darker.
In the dead of night, he would often sit alone in the study, his fingers tracing the edges of old tomes, feeling the pulse of ancient knowledge as it resonated through the pages.
But now, with Ana gone, Alwin had to raise Ryder alone. It would be difficult for him to balance the demands of fatherhood with his responsibilities as a commander in the military, a role he had occupied for years. The army had long been his world, and he had always been driven by discipline, by duty. But that same duty, once a source of pride, now felt like an insurmountable wall between him and the life he had hoped to build with his family.
His thoughts wandered to the battlefield—the sharp, clashing chaos of war, the roar of battle, the weight of command that had always demanded his focus and loyalty. How could he possibly shoulder the burden of his son's future and lead his soldiers at the same time? Ryder needed him, and Alwin feared that the same world of bloodshed and strategy that had shaped his own life might soon become an inescapable force for his son as well.
As a soldier, Alwin had spent much of his life on battlefields—facing the physical dangers of war, the sharpened edges of blades, the weight of armor pressing down on his shoulders. But those were the dangers he could understand. The dangers of the heart, the unspoken ones that crept in through the cracks when the night was too quiet, these were different.
He often found himself in the study, sitting beside the fire, lost in the shadow of his own thoughts. His hands would idly trace the edges of the alchemical texts stacked on the wooden shelves, the spines worn from years of use. These books had been his closest companions for decades—containing knowledge that had once fueled his ambition, his pursuit of mastery over the elements, his desire to unlock the secrets of the universe.
But now, as his fingers brushed over the old pages, they felt different. The words seemed to pulse with a strange, ancient energy. Something deeper. Something he hadn't noticed before.
The house seemed to grow colder with each passing day, the air heavier with each breath. And as Ryder grew, Alwin could not shake the feeling that his son was more than just the heir to the Greythorn name.
Alwin could feel it. The walls of the house, the old stone and wood that had stood for generations, seemed to hum with a hidden force. Something powerful, ancient. It was as though the house itself was alive, watching, waiting for him to notice what had always been there.
The quiet murmur of the flames was soon replaced by the haunting rhythm of the wind outside, rattling the windows as if calling to him. In the distance, he could hear the faint sound of something else—an echo, perhaps, or the rustle of secrets trying to make themselves known.
"I'll teach you, Ryder," Alwin whispered again, the words more to himself than to his son. "But there is much you will need to understand, and there are things you are not yet ready for…"
But for now, he would do as he promised. He would raise him.