The Zenith Legacy
Chapter One: The World of Magic
The sun hung low over the floating islands of the Stepstones, painting the skies in shades of amber and violet. Here, in a world where the ground was a distant memory and the skies reigned supreme, magic was more than a gift—it was a birthright. Elemental abilities coursed through bloodlines, shaping the destiny of those who wielded them. Families bore the weight of their heritage, their powers dictating status and purpose in a society built on strength.
Yet, this world was not without its rules. Magic was bound by traditions, and chief among them was the law of elemental purity. Couples with opposing elemental affinities were strongly discouraged from bearing children, for the union of clashing elements was fraught with peril. Children born of such unions often suffered instability in their abilities, their magic erratic or their health fragile.
Despite these warnings, exceptions existed. Rare children born from these unions could inherit extraordinary powers, an unpredictable fusion of their parents' elements. These individuals were celebrated, but their existence came at a cost, their very nature a gamble with the fates.
In this world of order and power, one family stood out as a symbol of both strength and defiance: the Zeniths.
Chapter Two: The Meeting of Opposites
Mike Zenith stepped off his enchanted ship onto the cobbled stone landing of the Skyislands' central market. His frosty silver hair caught the afternoon sun, its shimmer as striking as the man himself. Towering at 192 cm, with a broad frame and sharp teal blue eyes, Mike exuded a cold authority that turned heads wherever he went.
This visit was no different. His purpose was trade—his mind fixed on securing profitable alliances to elevate his family name. The Skyislands were known for their pristine beauty and thriving commerce, a hub where magic-infused artifacts and rare goods changed hands daily. Yet, as Mike made his way through the bustling crowd, his attention was drawn to something—or someone—unexpected.
A woman moved gracefully through the market, her blonde hair glowing like spun sunlight in the golden hour light. Her dark blue eyes were warm as she greeted merchants and passersby alike. Dressed in a flowing white cloak, she seemed to radiate light itself, her very presence softening the air around her.
Mike stopped in his tracks. The cold precision that usually drove him wavered as he watched her. For the first time in years, his focus shifted from his ambitions. The woman noticed his gaze and smiled faintly, a gesture so genuine that it stirred something in him he didn't recognize.
"Are you lost, traveler?" she asked, her voice light and melodic.
Mike cleared his throat, his usual commanding tone faltering. "No," he replied. "Just… observing."
She chuckled softly. "Well, there's plenty to observe here."
Over the next few days, Mike found himself returning to the market, ostensibly for trade, but his eyes always searched for her. Her name, he learned, was Andalucia Lucio, a woman of the Skyislands with the rare power of Light. Warmth and kindness defined her, a stark contrast to Mike's icy demeanor. Despite their differences, or perhaps because of them, the two found themselves drawn to each other.
Their love defied convention. Against the warnings of their peers and elders, they married, believing that their union could transcend the limitations of their opposing elements. With Andalucia by his side, Mike felt a warmth that he hadn't known was missing, and she, in turn, found strength in his resolve.
The newlyweds left the serene skies of Andalucia's homeland for Frostmill, where Mike's legacy awaited.
Chapter Three: A Family in Frostmill
The Zenith estate loomed like a fortress against the snow-blanketed landscape of Frostmill. Its frosted stone walls mirrored the cold determination of its master, a man now burdened with the weight of his family's name and the expectations of the powerful Zenith bloodline.
When their first child, Zion, was born, Mike and Andalucia's joy was palpable. But as the years passed, Zion showed no signs of magical abilities, and Mike's pride turned to disappointment. The average age for manifestation was seven and up, and when Zion turned seven with still no trace of power, Mike began to view him as a failure.
"Boy," he called him, refusing to give him a name until he proved himself worthy of the Zenith legacy. Andalucia, torn between her love for Zion and her husband, did her best to shield her son from the cold indifference of his father. But even her light couldn't erase the shadow cast by Mike's expectations.
Years later, their second son, Zeke, was born. With his frosty silver hair and teal blue eyes, he was the spitting image of Mike. Yet, like his brother, Zeke's abilities remained dormant, and Mike withheld a name from him as well. The tension in the Zenith household grew, each member caught in a web of unspoken pain and unfulfilled expectations.
Chapter Four: The Night of Lightning
When Zeke was three and a half, a thunderstorm engulfed Frostmill. Thunder boomed across the icy plains, and the Zenith estate was plunged into darkness. Andalucia lit a small lantern, its golden glow barely enough to hold back the oppressive blackness of the storm.
In the dim light, Zeke sat quietly, his small frame curled into his mother's side. Then, without warning, an electric hum filled the air. Zeke's body began to glow, his aura shifting from golden yellow to a vivid teal. The golden hue was a clear reflection of Andalucia's Light magic, but the teal brought with it a frigid chill that sent shivers down Mike's spine.
For the first time since the Great War of Frostmill, Mike felt cold. The sensation transported him back to his youth, to a battle where frostbitten air had stripped him of warmth and security. The memory shook him as much as the sight of his son's power.
"Zeke…" Mike whispered, his voice filled with awe and unease.
The teal aura exploded outward, illuminating the room in an otherworldly light. Sparks danced across the walls, and a freezing pulse of energy surged through the house. Mike stepped closer, only to stop as the cold intensified, biting through his resistance to frost. For a moment, he stood frozen in place, staring at the prodigy before him.
"Zeke," he said finally, the name cutting through the crackling energy. "That's what we'll call him."
Chapter Five: A Family in Crisis
The tension in the Zenith household had reached a breaking point long before that fateful night. For months, Andalucia had been grappling with the decision to leave. She loved Mike—at least, she had once—but the man she had married seemed to have been consumed by the same cold ambition that had defined his upbringing. His harsh discipline, especially toward Zion, was breaking their family apart.
Sitting at her desk late one evening, Andalucia scribbled furiously on a piece of parchment. Her hand trembled as she wrote, the words cutting like a blade through her heart.
"Notice of Divorce."
She stopped, staring at the words. Could she really do this? Could she uproot her life, take her children, and leave? The thought of separating Zion and Zeke from their father felt like tearing a piece of herself away. But then she remembered Zion's bruised face, his wide, tear-filled eyes as he struggled under Mike's unrelenting expectations. The decision had to be made.
Andalucia folded the parchment and tucked it into a drawer. She resolved to confront Mike in the coming days. He would never agree willingly—she knew him too well—but she had to try.
Chapter Six: The Breaking Point
The day started like any other, with Frostmill blanketed in snow and the Zenith estate shrouded in a heavy silence. Ten-year-old Zion stood in the training room, sweat dripping from his brow as he repeated the same movement over and over, his small body trembling with exertion. Mike stood nearby, his icy gaze sharp with disappointment.
"You're pathetic," Mike said, his tone cold and cutting. "Do you think I was this weak at your age? I had my powers at nine—nine! And here you are, ten years old and still useless."
"I'm trying," Zion whispered, his voice barely audible.
"Trying isn't good enough," Mike snapped. His frustration boiled over, and before he realized it, his hand struck Zion hard across the face. The boy stumbled but didn't fall, his small fists clenched as tears welled in his eyes.
Mike's voice lowered, now filled with disdain. "You'll never live up to the Zenith name. You're too weak to call yourself my son."
Zion's tears finally spilled over, but he didn't dare speak. He turned away, his heart aching as his father's words echoed in his mind. Mike's anger, however, wasn't spent. When Zion didn't respond, Mike's frustration reached its peak. He struck him again, this time harder, sending Zion sprawling to the ground. The boy's head hit the floor with a sickening thud, and his body went limp.
Mike stared at him for a long moment, his breathing heavy. Without a word, he grabbed Zion by the arm and dragged him to the nearest bed, shoving his unconscious body underneath. He kicked him further into the shadows, muttering, "Stay there until you're strong enough to face me."
Chapter Seven: Confrontation
An hour later, Andalucia returned from the village market with Zeke in tow. She set her bags down and called out, "Mike? Son?" When no one answered, a knot of unease tightened in her chest.
"Where's your our son?" she asked Mike when she found him sitting in the study.
"How should I know?" he replied, not bothering to look up. "Probably sulking somewhere. It's all he's good at."
Andalucia's voice rose, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "I asked you to watch him. Where is he, Mike?"
A faint groan from the master bedroom caught her attention. Her heart dropped as she rushed toward the sound, Zeke trailing behind her. When she entered, she froze. Zion's bruised face peeked out from beneath the bed, his voice weak and trembling. "Mom…"
Andalucia knelt down and pulled him out, her hands glowing faintly with golden magic as she cradled him. "My son!" she cried, her voice breaking. "My baby, what happened?"
Before Zion could answer, Mike appeared in the doorway, his cold gaze sweeping over the scene. "You're coddling him again," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "That's why he's so weak."
"What is wrong with you, Mike?" Andalucia shouted, her golden aura flaring. "He's your son, goddamn it!"
Mike stepped into the room, his towering frame casting a long shadow. "A Zenith without powers isn't a Zenith at all. He's had ten years, and still nothing. He's an embarrassment to this family."
Zion stirred weakly, his voice barely audible. "It'll come, Dad. I promise—"
"Zip it, boy," Mike snapped, cutting him off.
Andalucia's magic surged, golden tendrils spiraling around her hands. "I've had enough of your 'discipline,' Mike," she said, her voice trembling with fury. "You will not touch him again."
Mike's icy aura flared in response, frost creeping across the floor. "He's weak, Andalucia. If he can't withstand discipline, how will he ever uphold the Zenith name?"
As the tension between them escalated, Zion's gaze drifted to the doorway. There stood Zeke, his teal eyes wide with fear as silent tears streamed down his face. The sight of his little brother crying was too much for Zion.
"STOP!" Zion shouted, his voice cracking. "Mom... Dad... please."
Mike turned on him, shoving him toward Andalucia. "Then go to your mother, if you're so desperate for comfort."
Andalucia caught Zion before he fell, her hands trembling as she held him. "Are you okay, my baby?" she whispered.
Zion nodded faintly, then looked up at her with tear-filled eyes. "Mom, I know about the divorce," he said, his voice shaking. "I heard you talking about it. If you're going to take custody, just… take Zeke and leave without me."
Andalucia's breath caught. "My baby, I can't—"
"Please," Zion whispered, his voice breaking. "I don't want Dad to hurt you."
Mike, standing a few feet away, didn't hear the exchange. His attention was already elsewhere, his cold indifference evident in every movement.
Chapter Eight: The Escape
The Zenith estate was silent, save for the faint crackle of frost along the windows. Snow swirled outside, a thick, white fog rolling across Frostmill's frozen landscape. Inside her room, Andalucia moved with purpose, her hands trembling as she packed a small traveler's bag. The house, oppressive in its cold silence, felt like a cage she was finally ready to escape.
Zeke lay asleep on her bed, his small frame wrapped in a thick blanket. His tear-streaked cheeks glistened faintly in the moonlight. Across the hall, Zion remained in his room, nursing his bruises. She knew the plan was reckless—foolish, even—but she had no choice. Mike would never agree to a divorce, and staying any longer would destroy her boys.
She tucked clothes into the bag, glancing at the doorway every few moments. The faintest sound of footsteps in the hall would be enough to shatter her resolve. She didn't have much time.
Andalucia knelt beside the bed, carefully wrapping Zeke in another blanket before lifting him into her arms. The boy stirred but didn't wake, his small hands clutching at her shawl as if he sensed the urgency in her movements. She kissed his forehead, holding him close as she turned to leave.
As she stepped into the hallway, she paused outside Zion's room. The door creaked softly as she pushed it open. Inside, her eldest son was awake, sitting on the edge of his bed. His bruised face was illuminated by the faint glow of the frost-covered window.
"My son," she whispered, her voice soft but urgent. "It's time to go."
Zion looked up at her, his teal eyes heavy with exhaustion and pain. For a moment, she thought he might argue, but instead, he nodded. Slowly, he stood, wincing as his bruised ribs protested the movement. He took a step toward her, but then he hesitated.
"I can't," Zion said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Andalucia froze, confusion flashing across her face. "What do you mean? We have to leave now."
Zion's gaze dropped to the floor, his fists clenching at his sides. "If I leave with you... Dad will come after us. He'll never stop. You know he won't."
"Baby.," Andalucia said, her voice breaking. "I can't leave you here. I won't."
"You have to," Zion insisted, his voice trembling. "I can handle him. I'll stay. Just… take Zeke and go."
Andalucia's heart shattered. She stepped closer, cradling Zeke in one arm as she reached out to Zion with the other. "My baby, I can't let you do this."
Zion finally met her gaze, his expression filled with a painful resolve. "You have to," he said again, more firmly this time. "If you take me, he'll hunt us down. I don't want him to hurt you. Or Zeke."
Tears streamed down Andalucia's face as she pulled Zion into a hug, careful not to jostle Zeke. "You're so brave," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Too brave for your own good."
Zion leaned into the embrace, his small frame shaking. "Just promise me you'll keep him safe," he said, glancing at his sleeping brother.
"I promise," Andalucia said, her voice heavy with emotion. She pulled back, her hand cupping Zion's bruised cheek. "And when you're ready... find me. Promise me, Zion."
"I promise," he said, his voice breaking.
A loud creak echoed through the house. Both of them froze as Mike's voice called out from his bedroom. "Andalucia? Where are you?"
Panic surged through her. She kissed Zion's forehead, her tears falling onto his skin. "Find me when you're ready, love," she whispered before disappearing into the hallway.
Zion watched as she slipped through the window at the end of the hall, vanishing into the swirling snow outside. For a moment, he stood there, his heart aching as he listened to Mike's heavy footsteps approaching. Then he turned and walked back into his room, closing the door behind him.
Chapter Nine: A Family Divided
The following morning, Frostmill was quiet. The storm had passed, leaving a thick blanket of snow over the Zenith estate. Mike sat in the dining room, his expression unreadable as he sipped his coffee. Zion sat across from him, his gaze fixed on the table.
"She's gone," Mike said after a long silence, his voice flat. "And she took your brother."
Zion didn't respond. He hadn't slept, his mind replaying the events of the night over and over. He could still feel the warmth of his mother's embrace, her whispered words echoing in his mind: "Find me when you're ready."
Mike set his cup down with a clink, his teal eyes narrowing. "I hope you understand what that means for you."
Zion looked up, his bruised face stoic. "Yes, sir."
"You're all I have now," Mike continued, his tone sharp. "And I'll make sure you live up to the Zenith name. You're weak now, but that will change."
Zion nodded faintly, his hands clenched into fists under the table. He knew what staying meant—what it would cost him—but he had made his choice. His mother and brother were safe, and that was all that mattered.
Chapter Ten: The Skyislands
Far from Frostmill, Andalucia and Zeke arrived in the Stepstones Skyislands. The warmth and light of the floating archipelago were a stark contrast to the frozen desolation they had left behind. For the first time in years, Andalucia felt like she could breathe again.
Zeke, still too young to understand the full weight of their escape, marveled at the beauty of their new home. He ran through the village square, his teal eyes wide with wonder as he took in the colorful banners and bustling markets. Andalucia watched him with a bittersweet smile, her heart heavy with the absence of Zion.
"You'll find us," she whispered to herself, clutching the locket around her neck. "I know you will."
Chapter Eleven: Life in the Skyislands
The Skyislands welcomed Andalucia and Zeke with open arms, its warm winds and radiant skies a stark contrast to the icy desolation they had left behind. The floating archipelago became their sanctuary, its peaceful villages perched atop towering spires that rose above the clouds. But despite the beauty of her new home, Andalucia often found her thoughts drifting back to Frostmill, to the son she had left behind.
Zeke, now six, ran barefoot through the village square, his silver hair catching the sunlight as he weaved between the market stalls. His laughter rang out, clear and carefree, a sound that brought a bittersweet smile to Andalucia's face. Though she had shielded him from the truth of their departure, Zeke wasn't oblivious to her sadness.
One evening, as the stars began to dot the Skyislands' expansive heavens, Zeke approached her with hesitation in his step. He sat beside her on the porch, his small hands fidgeting with a loose thread on his tunic.
"Mom," he asked, his voice quiet but filled with curiosity, "do you think brother will come?"
The question stopped Andalucia mid-motion. She had been brushing her hair, the rhythmic strokes a part of her nightly routine, but now her hand froze in place. Her heart ached as she looked down at Zeke, his teal eyes—so much like the ones she had left behind—searching hers for an answer.
She set the brush aside and knelt in front of him, brushing a strand of his silver hair away from his face. "I hope so, my love," she said softly, her voice trembling. "I think about him every day."
Zeke nodded, his young mind unable to fully grasp the weight of her words but comforted nonetheless. For him, life in the Skyislands was filled with wonder. He marveled at the floating bridges of mist that connected the villages, the glowing flowers that lit up the forests at night, and the endless expanse of sky that stretched out in every direction. But there was one part of his past he could not let go: the shadowy memory of his brother, a figure whose name he did not know but whose presence he still felt in his dreams.
The villagers of the Skyislands quickly grew fond of Zeke, his youthful enthusiasm and remarkable abilities earning him admiration from many. Each afternoon, he practiced his Lightning magic in the open meadow near their cottage, drawing a small crowd. The spectacle of his crackling teal aura was captivating, and the villagers would gather to watch, whispering in awe about the young prodigy.
The women, in particular, were taken with Zeke's charm. His silver hair and striking teal eyes made him a favorite among the village ladies, who often brought small gifts or offered to help Andalucia with chores just for the chance to speak with him.
"He's such a special boy," one woman said to Andalucia as they watched Zeke train. "I've never seen a child with powers like his."
Andalucia nodded, a faint smile on her lips. "He's a gift," she said quietly, though her heart was heavy. She knew Zeke's powers came at a cost, the same cost that had driven her to flee Frostmill.
Chapter Twelve: A Cold Legacy
The icy winds of Frostmill howled through the Zenith estate, their relentless chill a reflection of the house's master. Mike Zenith stood in the training yard, his sharp teal eyes fixed on his son, Zion, who struggled to stand upright after hours of grueling practice. Snow swirled around them, the frozen ground cracking faintly beneath Zion's trembling feet.
"Again," Mike commanded, his voice sharp and unwavering.
Zion's breath came in ragged gasps, the cold seeping through his thin training clothes. He gritted his teeth, his fists clenched as faint arcs of plasma crackled around his fingertips. He raised his hands, focusing every ounce of his energy on summoning a controlled burst of power. A jagged arc of plasma shot forward, striking the training dummy in front of him. But instead of a clean hit, the energy exploded, scattering fragments of ice and snow across the yard.
"Sloppy," Mike snapped, his expression hardening. "You call that control?"
"I'm trying," Zion muttered, his voice barely audible. His muscles burned, and his body screamed for rest, but he knew better than to stop without permission.
"Trying isn't enough," Mike barked, his frosted breath punctuating his words. "If you can't control your power, then you'll never live up to the Zenith name. Do you understand me?"
Zion nodded faintly, though his frustration boiled beneath the surface. He knew better than to argue. Every time he thought he had done enough, Mike's demands rose higher, like a mountain he would never be able to climb.
The Weight of Expectations
At fourteen, Zion had grown into a young man hardened by his father's relentless training. His wiry frame bore the scars of countless grueling sessions, each mark a testament to Mike's unyielding standards. While his plasma magic had grown stronger, its volatile nature made it difficult to control—a fact Mike never let him forget.
Late at night, when the house was silent and the frost-covered windows reflected the dim light of the moon, Zion often found himself sitting alone, staring into the snowy expanse beyond the estate. He thought of his mother and his brother, their faces vivid in his mind despite the years that had passed.
He wondered if they were safe, if they thought of him as often as he thought of them. The thought of Zeke, his little brother who had once followed him everywhere, filled him with both warmth and sadness. He had stayed behind to protect them, but now he questioned whether his sacrifice had truly made a difference.
A Chilling Resolve
The next morning, Zion stood in the training yard once again, his breath visible in the frigid air. He stared at the frost-covered dummy in front of him, his hands glowing faintly with plasma energy. He knew what was expected of him, and he knew the cost of failure.
"Again," Mike ordered from the edge of the yard, his arms crossed. His presence was an unyielding weight on Zion's shoulders.
Zion clenched his fists, the plasma crackling more intensely now. He raised his hands, summoning every ounce of his strength and focus. This time, the energy arced forward in a clean, sharp line, striking the dummy with precision. The frost around it melted instantly, steam rising into the cold air.
Mike's expression didn't change. "Better," he said, his tone devoid of praise. "But not good enough."
Zion lowered his hands, his body trembling with exhaustion. He looked at his father, his teal eyes burning with a mix of defiance and desperation. "What is good enough for you?" he asked quietly.
Mike's gaze hardened, the frost in his aura intensifying. "Perfection," he said simply.
For a moment, Zion stood there, his mind swirling with unspoken thoughts. But he knew better than to voice them. Instead, he turned back to the dummy and prepared to strike again.
Parallel Growth
Far away in the Skyislands, Zeke's powers continued to evolve, his Lightning magic becoming a force of awe and wonder. Villagers gathered each afternoon to watch him practice, their whispers of admiration fueling his determination. Though Zeke loved the attention, he trained not for fame, but for a purpose he couldn't yet articulate—a purpose rooted in the memories of a brother he barely remembered.
Andalucia watched him from a distance, her heart swelling with both pride and worry. She saw so much of Mike in Zeke's determination, but she also saw the warmth and kindness that defined her own magic. She wondered how long they could remain hidden, how long Zeke could grow before the world came looking for him.
"Mom," Zeke asked one day as they walked through the village, "do you think he's training like me?"
Andalucia hesitated, knowing exactly who he meant. She placed a hand on his shoulder, her expression gentle but sad. "I think he's doing everything he can to be strong," she said. "Just like you."
Zeke nodded, his teal eyes shining with resolve. "I'll train harder, then," he said. "So that when we see him again, I'll be strong enough to protect him, too."
Andalucia's heart ached at his words, but she smiled, brushing a hand through his silver hair. "You're already stronger than you know, my love."
Chapter Thirteen: The Weight of the Zenith Name
Frostmill had not changed much in the years since Andalucia and Zeke had left. The cold still dominated the land, and the Zenith estate stood as an unyielding symbol of power. But inside its frosted walls, one thing had changed: Zion.
At 19, Zion had grown into a formidable figure. His once-lean frame was now honed with muscle, his height reaching nearly 180 cm. His light blonde hair fell in uneven strands around his sharp features, and his teal eyes burned with a quiet intensity. The scars that marred his arms and back told a story of relentless training, of a boy molded into a weapon by his father's exacting standards.
"Your plasma is stabilizing," Mike said one morning as he watched Zion practice in the training yard. The older man stood with his arms crossed, his frosty silver hair catching the pale sunlight. "But it's still too unpredictable. You're wasting energy on unnecessary bursts."
Zion's jaw tightened, his hands glowing faintly with plasma as he adjusted his stance. The energy flickered along his fingers, a controlled arc forming between his palms. He thrust it forward, the plasma shooting toward a line of frost-covered targets. It struck with precision, melting the frost instantly.
Mike gave a small nod of approval. "Better," he said, his voice devoid of warmth. "But not enough."
Zion clenched his fists, suppressing the urge to snap back. Over the years, he had learned to silence his anger, to bury it beneath layers of discipline and resolve. But the resentment lingered, festering like an old wound.
That night, as he sat by the frost-covered window of his room, Zion stared out into the snowy expanse beyond the estate. His thoughts drifted, as they often did, to the mother and brother he had not seen in years. He wondered if they would even recognize him now, if Zeke would still look up to him the way he once had.
A faint crackle of plasma danced along his fingertips, the glow casting shadows across the room. He watched it for a moment, his teal eyes narrowing. He had stayed behind to protect them, but now he wasn't sure if his choice had truly made a difference. The only thing he knew for certain was that he had become what his father wanted: a Zenith in name and power.
Chapter Fourteen: The Light Storm Returns
The Skyislands were alive with the colors of the setting sun, the floating villages bathed in shades of gold and crimson. Zeke stood in the open meadow outside their cottage, his teal aura crackling faintly around him as he practiced.
At 15, Zeke had grown into a striking young man. His silver hair, a legacy of his father's bloodline, fell in soft waves around his face, and his teal eyes shone with confidence. He was tall and athletic, his lean frame a testament to years of training. But it was his Lightning magic that truly set him apart.
Villagers often gathered to watch Zeke train, their whispers of admiration filling the air. His control over his Lightning was unmatched, the frosty teal bolts arcing through the air with both precision and power. He had earned the nickname "The Light Storm," a title that reflected both his mastery and the unique duality of his magic.
One afternoon, as Zeke practiced summoning a series of controlled bolts, Andalucia approached him from the porch. Her hair, still golden as the sunlight, caught the breeze as she watched him with a mixture of pride and concern.
"You're pushing yourself harder than usual," she said gently.
Zeke turned to her, his teal eyes steady. "I want to be ready, Mom," he said. "For anything."
Andalucia's heart ached at his words. She stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You're already so strong, my love," she said softly. "But you don't have to carry this weight alone."
Zeke looked at her, his expression serious. "I'm not just doing this for me," he said. "I want to be strong enough to protect you. And… if we ever find him, I want to be strong enough to protect him, too."
Andalucia's breath caught, the mention of her eldest son stirring memories she had tried to bury. "He's strong, too," she said quietly. "Just like you."
Zeke nodded, his gaze drifting toward the horizon. Though he barely remembered his brother, the bond they had shared as children was something he still held onto. He trained every day, not just for himself, but for the family he hoped to reunite.
Parallel Lives
The years had shaped Zion and Zeke into two very different individuals. Zion, forged by the cold discipline of Frostmill and his father's relentless expectations, carried the weight of the Zenith name like a burden. His plasma magic, though powerful, was a constant reminder of his mother's influence—a fact that only deepened the rift between him and Mike.
Zeke, on the other hand, had flourished under the warmth of the Skyislands and Andalucia's gentle guidance. His Lightning magic, a unique blend of his parents' elements, had become a source of strength and pride. Yet, for all his power, he remained tethered to the memory of a brother he had not seen in years.
Though separated by distance and circumstance, both brothers felt the pull of their shared bloodline, the unspoken connection that bound them. And as their powers grew, so too did the forces that would eventually bring them back together—forces that neither of them could foresee.
Chapter Fifteen: Shadows of the Past
The cold halls of the Zenith estate hummed with a quiet menace as Mike Zenith leaned back in his chair, the faint glow of a lantern casting long shadows on the stone walls. Before him stood a row of men and women clad in black suits, their hoods pulled low and masks covering their faces. These were the Warlocks, a secretive clan of assassins and operatives who answered only to him.
Mike's voice cut through the silence like a blade. "You all know your mission."
One of the figures stepped forward, their voice distorted by the mask. "Yes, sir. Bring back the boy. If possible, bring back the woman as well."
Mike nodded, his teal eyes cold and calculating. "And if she resists?"
The Warlock hesitated. "We… subdue her, sir?"
Mike's gaze darkened. He tapped his fingers against the wooden desk, his tone unwavering. "No unnecessary harm. But failure is not an option. You have their descriptions, their likely aliases. Use pirates, investigators, spies—whatever it takes. Just bring me my son."
Deep down, beneath the cold exterior he projected, Mike's emotions warred within him. His love for Andalucia was still there, buried under years of anger and ambition. Yet, his desire to reunite with Zeke—to shape him into a weapon for his growing empire—drove him more. His clan would soon become feared across the realm, and his family's bloodline would sit atop it all.
"Dismissed," he said, his tone brooking no argument. The Warlocks melted into the shadows, leaving Mike alone with his thoughts.
The Attack on the Skyislands
Zeke's 18th birthday had dawned with celebration. The village was alive with joy, the air buzzing with the laughter of his friends and neighbors. The open meadow where he trained had been transformed into a gathering place, with tables of food and garlands of glowing flowers. Zeke, now a striking young man, stood at the center of it all, his silver hair catching the light as he laughed and joked with his friends.
Among them was Dyna, a spirited girl with auburn hair and an infectious smile. She had known Zeke since childhood and was one of his closest friends, though her feelings for him went deeper than she dared admit.
"Eighteen suits you," she teased, nudging him with her elbow. "You're officially an adult now."
Zeke chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. "Feels the same as seventeen, honestly."
Unbeknownst to them, danger was approaching. A skyboat loomed in the distance, its dark sails an ominous contrast against the bright skies. The boat docked on the island's edge, and twenty pirates jumped out, their boots thudding heavily on the cobblestone streets.
Their leader, a burly man with a crooked grin, stepped forward. "My name is Horgy," he bellowed, his voice carrying across the village. "We're here on behalf of the Warlocks. Hand over Zeke and Andalucia, and we'll be on our way."
The villagers, far from weaklings, immediately braced for a fight. Many of them wielded magic of their own, their abilities honed by years of living in the floating islands. Still, the pirates were armed and dangerous.
Andalucia, watching from a nearby alley, felt her heart seize with fear. She began to step forward, ready to surrender herself to protect her son, but a group of villagers moved quickly to shield her. Their tall forms blocked her from view as they whispered urgently, "Stay hidden. We'll handle this."
Desperate, Andalucia grabbed one of the villagers and pleaded, "Find Zeke. Hide him before they do."
The villager, Orphy, nodded and disappeared into the crowd. What she didn't know was that Orphy was no ally—he was an undercover Warlock operative who had been stationed on the island for weeks, awaiting the perfect moment to strike.
As he reached Zeke and his friends, Orphy smirked darkly and shouted, "Get the white cursed boy, pirates!"
Zeke turned sharply at the sound, his teal eyes narrowing as he saw Orphy's expression. "You…" he muttered, realization dawning on him. Before he could react, a gunshot rang out.
Zeke's Fight
One of the pirates had fired a flintlock pistol directly at Dyna, the bullet whizzing through the air toward her chest. Zeke's reflexes, honed through years of training and innate speed, kicked in. In a flash, he moved, yanking Dyna out of the bullet's path just in time.
"You okay?" he asked, his voice steady despite the tension.
Dyna, shaken but unharmed, looked up at him, her face flushing as she realized how close he was. "Y-yeah. Thanks to you."
Zeke turned his attention to the pirate, his teal eyes narrowing. The man sneered, lowering his weapon. "Well, well. Looks like we've found our special boy. Boss wasn't lying about you."
Before the pirate could react, Zeke moved. In an instant, he was behind the man, his speed so blinding it seemed like teleportation. With a powerful right hook, his fist crackling with lightning, Zeke struck the pirate. The impact created a thunderclap, and the man was sent flying off the edge of the island, disappearing into the clouds below.
The other pirates hesitated, glancing at one another nervously. "This kid's no joke," one muttered.
Zeke's friends acted quickly, tying up Orphy, who had been exposed as a spy during the commotion. "We'll deal with him later," one of them said. "Zeke, go protect your mom!"
Zeke nodded, his focus sharp. He crouched low, his body crackling with energy. With a burst of speed, he dashed toward the village, moving so fast it sounded like the crack of a whip.
The Final Clash
At the village center, Horgy was growing impatient. "Where's Zeke?" he barked, pointing his cutlass at a trembling villager. "Someone better start talking, or—"
Before he could finish, a blur of motion slammed into him. Zeke's dropkick sent the pirate flying into a nearby wall, where he collapsed, unconscious. The other pirates turned to attack, but Zeke was faster. His reflexes and agility outpaced their every move, and though he avoided lethal force, each strike was precise and devastating.
The villagers joined the fight, using their magic to incapacitate the remaining pirates. Within minutes, the invaders were subdued, tied up, and loaded back onto their skyboat. The villagers worked together to set the ship's sails, sending the pirates and the traitorous Orphy away from the Skyislands.
As the boat disappeared into the horizon, Zeke stood at the village edge, his teal eyes fixed on the horizon. His fists clenched, sparks crackling faintly around his fingertips. He had protected his home, but the name "Warlocks" lingered in his mind, a shadow of something much larger looming over him.
Chapter Sixteen: A Son's Burden
The Warlock hideout was as cold and unyielding as its master. Hidden beneath Frostmill's icy plains, the underground compound was a maze of dark corridors and shadowy chambers. In the main hall, a pirate knelt before Mike Zenith, his head bowed as he relayed the report.
"Boss," the pirate said, his voice trembling slightly, "he's no joke. The boy defeated twenty of your heavily trained men. Lightning fast—none of us could keep up."
For a moment, there was silence. Then, Mike threw his head back and laughed, his voice booming through the chamber. "WAHAHA! THIS TRULY IS MY SON AFTER ALL!" His pride was evident, his frosty blue eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
Zion, standing in the shadows nearby, crossed his arms and watched his father's reaction with a mix of confusion and resentment. At 22, Zion had grown into a powerful mage, his mastery over plasma magic unmatched. His once wiry frame had become lean and muscular through years of training, though his skin now bore an unnatural pallor, and his body carried the signs of overwork.
Mike turned to Zion, his expression shifting to something almost fatherly. "Zion," he said, gesturing for his son to step forward, "your hard work has finally paid off. You've become what I always knew you could be—the strongest Zenith to ever live."
Zion's teal eyes narrowed as he approached. "Will that satisfy you, Father?" he asked, his voice calm but laced with bitterness.
Mike chuckled, placing a hand on Zion's shoulder. "It's not about satisfying me, boy. It's about fulfilling your potential. That's why I'm offering you a place in the Warlocks. It's time for you to stand beside me, to take your rightful place as my heir."
Zion's jaw tightened. The Warlocks—the clandestine organization his father had built in secret—was the very embodiment of Mike's ambition. For years, Zion had known of their existence, but he had kept his distance, reluctant to be drawn into their dark web. Yet, the weight of his father's expectations had always loomed over him, and now, it seemed, he had no choice.
"Suppose I refuse," Zion said quietly, though he already knew the answer.
Mike's expression hardened, though his tone remained composed. "That's not an option. You were always meant to join, Zion. You're my son."
Zion sighed, the flicker of rebellion in his heart extinguished. "Then so be it."
The Cost of Power
Zion's induction into the Warlocks was swift and ruthless. From the moment he donned the black suit and mask, his life became a cycle of missions and bloodshed. Mike wasted no time in sending him out on assignments, testing the limits of his abilities. Zion became a scout, an assassin, and a spy—his plasma magic making him an unparalleled force on the battlefield.
But his power came at a cost.
Zion's control over plasma magic was extraordinary, but it was a double-edged sword. Plasma, a volatile fusion of fire and electricity, responded strongly to emotion, amplifying in intensity when fueled by anger or despair. Over the years, Zion had learned to harness his emotions to strengthen his attacks, but the strain it placed on his body was immense.
Every time he used his magic, it burned him from the inside out. His muscles ached, his chest tightened, and his skin bore the marks of his own power. Despite his rigorous training, Zion's body was not strong enough to fully withstand the toll. The years of overtraining and emotional control had left him progressively weaker.
By the time he turned 22, the effects were undeniable. Zion's once-strong frame had grown thinner, his face pale and gaunt. He suffered from frequent fevers and coughing fits, though he hid his worsening condition from his father. To Mike, Zion's power was proof of his success, and Zion was determined not to appear weak in his eyes.
A Life of Shadows
Zion's missions became increasingly dangerous as Mike relied more heavily on his son's abilities. He infiltrated enemy strongholds, gathered classified intel, and eliminated high-profile targets—all in the name of the Warlocks. His reputation grew, his name whispered in fear across the realm. Yet, Zion felt no pride in his work. Each mission chipped away at his humanity, leaving him colder and more detached.
Despite his loyalty to the Warlocks, Zion remained unaware of his father's true intentions. Mike had carefully hidden his plans for the Skyislands, knowing that Zion's resolve might waver if he discovered the truth. Mike feared that Zion's connection to Andalucia, faint though it was, might lead him to betray the Warlocks.
One evening, after a particularly grueling mission, Zion returned to the Warlock hideout. He removed his mask, revealing a face slick with sweat and pale with exhaustion. Mike was waiting for him in the main hall, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"You've done well," Mike said, handing Zion a goblet of water. "The target was eliminated?"
Zion nodded, his voice hoarse. "Yes. It's done."
Mike's gaze lingered on his son, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. "You look tired."
"I'm fine," Zion replied curtly, though his trembling hands betrayed him. He turned away, unwilling to meet his father's gaze.
Mike watched him leave, a flicker of doubt crossing his mind. Deep down, he knew Zion was pushing himself too hard, but he dismissed the thought. Strength required sacrifice, and Zion was no exception. If he faltered, it was only because he had not yet reached his full potential.
A Growing Shadow
While Zion's body weakened, his skill in combat grew sharper than ever. He became the Warlocks' most reliable operative, completing missions that others deemed impossible. Yet, as his reputation grew, so did the whispers of dissent within the organization. Some Warlocks resented his rapid rise, viewing him as little more than Mike's puppet. Others feared his raw power, which seemed to border on uncontrollable.
Through it all, Zion remained focused on his tasks, suppressing his doubts and ignoring his failing health. But deep in his heart, a question lingered: Was this truly what he had fought so hard to become? Was this the legacy he wanted to leave behind?
Chapter Seventeen: A Deadly Quartet
The Warlock hideout buzzed with quiet anticipation as Mike Zenith stood in the central hall, flanked by four of his most trusted operatives. The air was thick with tension, the kind that preceded a dangerous mission. These were not ordinary Warlocks. Each one had been handpicked by Mike himself for their unparalleled skill and ruthlessness.
Pola, a woman with icy silver hair and piercing blue eyes, stood silently, her expression cold as the snow she controlled. Beside her was Toya, a master weapons artist with an arsenal strapped across his body, his sharp eyes scanning the room as if measuring each shadow for potential threats. Jenjo, a towering figure with bulging muscles, leaned on his greataxe, the blade gleaming ominously in the dim light. And finally, there was Hermes, the quiet and enigmatic co-director of the Warlocks. His presence alone was enough to command respect, his dark hood shrouding his face in shadow. The flicker of shadow magic coiled faintly around him, a constant reminder of his deadly potential.
Mike turned to face them, his frosty blue eyes sharp and unyielding. "This mission isn't like the last one," he said, his voice low but firm. "You four will not fail me."
Hermes stepped forward, his voice smooth and calm. "What are our orders?"
Mike's lips curled into a smirk. "Bring back Zeke. Just Zeke. No need to bother with Andalucia this time—she's irrelevant now."
Toya frowned, his hand brushing against the hilt of a sword strapped to his side. "And if the boy resists?"
"He'll resist," Mike said with a chuckle. "But that's where you come in. Do whatever you need to subdue him, but bring him back alive. I want him in one piece." His gaze shifted to Hermes. "I'm counting on you to lead this mission. You know what's at stake."
Hermes nodded, his movements measured and deliberate. "Consider it done."
Hermes: A Shadowed Past
As the group prepared for their departure, Hermes retreated to the shadows, his mind drifting to his past. Born in the dark outskirts of the realm's taverns, he had lived a life of hardship and survival. At eight, his shadow magic had manifested—a rare gift that he had kept secret out of fear. The ability to manipulate darkness, to move unseen and strike from the shadows, was unlike anything anyone in his village had ever encountered.
But his life changed when he was kidnapped and sold into forced labor in Frostmill. For years, he toiled as a woodworker, his gift kept hidden until he was discovered by Mike Zenith. Homeless and starving, Hermes had been taken in by the ambitious businessman, who recognized the potential in his young charge. Under Mike's tutelage, Hermes had become a force to be reckoned with, his shadow magic honed to perfection.
Now, at 33, Hermes was not just a loyal operative—he was one of Mike's closest allies and the co-director of the Warlocks. Yet, even he couldn't deny the growing complexity of his leader's motives. Mike's obsession with Zeke was unlike anything Hermes had seen before, and though he trusted Mike implicitly, a sliver of doubt crept into his mind.
Skyislands Under Siege
The Skyislands basked in the warm glow of the morning sun, their floating spires rising above the clouds like sentinels. Life had returned to normal since the last attack, but the villagers remained vigilant, their collective memory of the pirates still fresh. Zeke had redoubled his training, his lightning magic crackling with renewed intensity as he prepared for the possibility of another assault.
Andalucia watched him from the porch, her heart heavy with worry. Though Zeke's speed and skill had grown exponentially, she couldn't shake the feeling that something darker was looming on the horizon.
Her fears were realized when a shadow fell over the village. A sleek skyboat, black and foreboding, docked at the island's edge. From its depths emerged four figures, their movements precise and purposeful.
The villagers immediately recognized the threat. Pola's icy aura sent a chill through the air, frost creeping across the cobblestones as she stepped forward. Toya unsheathed a pair of razor-sharp blades, their edges glinting in the light. Jenjo hefted his massive greataxe, his every step sending vibrations through the ground. And Hermes, cloaked in shadows, moved with an eerie grace, his dark magic coiling around him like a living entity.
"Where is Zeke?" Hermes' voice cut through the air, calm but deadly. "We have no quarrel with the rest of you. Give us the boy, and we'll leave."
The villagers bristled, their collective resolve unshaken. One of the elders stepped forward, her voice steady. "You'll find no allies here, Warlocks. Leave this place."
Hermes tilted his head, the shadows around him deepening. "A shame. I hoped to avoid unnecessary violence."
Zeke's Response
Zeke, who had been training in the meadow, felt the shift in the air. The hairs on his neck stood on end as he sensed the arrival of something—or someone—powerful. He sprinted toward the village, his lightning aura crackling around him as he pushed himself to the limit.
When he arrived, the scene was chaos. Pola's snow magic froze the ground beneath her feet, creating jagged spikes of ice that forced the villagers to retreat. Toya's blades flashed as he deflected incoming attacks, his mastery of weaponry on full display. Jenjo swung his greataxe with terrifying force, sending crates and barrels flying. And Hermes—Hermes moved like a shadow, appearing and disappearing with uncanny speed as he subdued anyone who tried to stop him.
Zeke skidded to a halt, his teal eyes blazing. "Who are you?" he demanded, his voice carrying across the square.
Hermes turned, his hooded face tilting slightly. "Ah, there you are," he said smoothly. "You've grown since last I saw you, boy."
"You've got the wrong person," Zeke replied, his fists crackling with energy. "Leave now, or you'll regret it."
Hermes chuckled softly. "I highly doubt that."
In a blur, Hermes lunged toward Zeke, his shadow magic trailing behind him like tendrils of smoke. Zeke barely had time to react, his reflexes allowing him to dodge the first strike. The clash that followed was blinding, Zeke's lightning crackling against Hermes' shadows as they danced around each other with inhuman speed.
For the first time in his life, Zeke found himself outmatched. Hermes was faster, his movements almost impossible to predict. But Zeke's determination burned brighter than his fear, and he pushed himself harder, each strike fueled by a desperate need to protect his home.
Chapter Eighteen: The Clash of Lightning and Shadows
The air in the Skyislands crackled with tension as Zeke squared off against Hermes. The villagers and Andalucia, hidden behind the protective wall of their neighbors, watched in fear and awe. Hermes was fast—faster than anyone Zeke had ever faced. Every strike from Zeke's lightning-enhanced speed was met and countered by Hermes' shadowy reflexes.
Hermes darted forward, his figure dissolving into tendrils of darkness before reappearing inches from Zeke's face. The younger man barely managed to deflect the blow, his lightning crackling furiously as he stumbled backward.
"Too slow," Hermes said, his voice calm yet menacing. His shadow magic coiled around him like a living entity, ready to strike.
Zeke's breath came in quick bursts. His teal eyes narrowed, a flicker of determination igniting within him. "If he's fast," Zeke muttered to himself, "then I'll go faster."
Summoning his lightning magic, Zeke pushed himself beyond his limits. For the first time, he combined his natural agility with the speed-enhancing properties of his lightning. Sparks erupted around him as he dashed forward, his movements now a blur of blue light.
Hermes chuckled, impressed. "Now this is getting a little interesting."
To the villagers watching from the sidelines, the battle had become incomprehensible. All they could see were streaks of blue lightning and black lines darting across the battlefield. The sound of clashing magic echoed through the village as the two fighters moved at speeds too fast for the human eye to follow.
But despite Zeke's newfound speed, Hermes still had the upper hand. The Warlock co-director's precision and experience allowed him to predict Zeke's attacks, and he capitalized on a brief opening in Zeke's defenses. In mid-air, Zeke's arms faltered, leaving his torso exposed. Hermes didn't hesitate. He spun and delivered a powerful kick to Zeke's chest, sending him plummeting to the ground with a deafening crash. Dust and debris filled the air as Zeke lay motionless for a moment.
Pola, watching from the sidelines, scoffed. "Damn. I thought he said he'd be stronger."
Zeke coughed and staggered to his feet, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away and grinned weakly. "I'm not going down without a fight... I could do this all day."
Hermes smirked, but a sudden grimace overtook his face. He clutched his chest, his breathing ragged. "What the—" he stammered, his voice tight with pain.
"You're feeling that, huh?" Zeke said, struggling to catch his breath. "When you kicked me, I was charging my lightning. I focused it on my finger and made sure it touched the outside of your chest. Right where your heart is."
Hermes gasped, his body trembling. "You sly son of a b—"
He collapsed, falling into cardiac arrest as the charge overloaded his system. The villagers gasped in shock, their awe briefly overpowering their fear. Zeke stood over Hermes, his chest heaving as he tried to regain his composure. "A queen for a queen," he muttered. "You get a hit; I get a hit."
But his moment of respite didn't last. The remaining three Warlocks—Pola, Toya, and Jenjo—stepped forward, their expressions dark with determination.
"Guess we'll finish the job," Toya said, drawing a pair of curved daggers.
Zeke wiped the blood from his face, his teal eyes blazing with defiance. "I just talked about fairness, guys," he quipped, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
The three Warlocks attacked in unison, their combined strength overwhelming. Pola's icy magic froze the ground beneath Zeke's feet, immobilizing him. She sauntered up to him, her black eyes gleaming mischievously as she traced a finger along his jawline.
"My, my," Pola cooed, her nose inches from Zeke's. "Boss's son turned out to be quite the looker."
Zeke flushed despite himself, his voice caught in his throat. "Get away from me, you freak," he stammered, embarrassed by her boldness.
"Oh, but you're blushing," she teased, leaning closer.
Jenjo, clearly annoyed, barked, "Enough, Pola! Toy with him later. Let's get him on board."
The Turning Point
Meanwhile, Toya sprinted toward Andalucia, hoping to use her as leverage. Zeke struggled against the icy bonds, yelling, "Mom, hide now!"
Andalucia's light magic surged to life as she raised her hands. A brilliant flash of golden energy erupted, blinding Toya and sending him stumbling backward. The villagers quickly took advantage, tying him up with enchanted ropes.
Zeke saw Jenjo charging toward the scene and made a desperate decision. "Didn't know they had such hot stuff in a place so cold," Zeke said, feigning confidence as he looked at Pola.
Pola paused, raising an eyebrow. "Hot, you say?"
"Mhm," Zeke replied, cringing inwardly but maintaining his composure. "Look at my pants."
Pola glanced down, distracted for just a moment. That was all Zeke needed. Two of his fingers, free from the icy restraints, sparked with lightning. He zapped her point-blank, rendering her unconscious as she crumpled to the ground.
Zeke broke free from the ice and dashed toward Jenjo, who swung his massive greataxe in a wide arc. Zeke ducked and retaliated with a kick, but Jenjo blocked it with ease. The towering Warlock's massive frame was slow, but his battle instincts were razor-sharp. He grabbed Zeke by the leg and slammed him into the ground repeatedly, the impact shaking the village square.
By the time Jenjo dropped Zeke, the younger man was limp, his body battered and unconscious. Jenjo hoisted him over his shoulder, securing him on the Warlock skyboat alongside the injured Hermes and unconscious Pola. The villagers watched helplessly as the boat sailed away, taking Zeke with it.
Toya, still tied up, glared at the villagers as they made their decision. Without hesitation, they kicked him off the island, sending him plummeting 30,000 feet into the sea below.
Andalucia's Teleportation
Amidst the chaos, Andalucia suddenly found herself enveloped in a warm light. The world around her shifted, and when she opened her eyes, she was no longer in the village. Instead, she stood in a grand chamber, its walls adorned with glowing runes and ancient artifacts.
"Where am I?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"You are safe here," a deep voice replied. King Smith, ruler of the Skyislands, stepped forward. "I sensed your light magic—it is rare, and it must be protected."
"My son is up there fighting," Andalucia said urgently. "Bring me back! I have to help him."
The king shook his head solemnly. "I'm afraid your son is already gone. I couldn't teleport him here—he isn't fully a Skyislander. But I sensed he was taken, not killed."
Andalucia's heart sank. "Why was I brought here?"
The king's expression softened. "Light magic is sacred. Only three of you remain in the Skyislands, and it is this magic that sustains our lands. You are vital to our survival."
Andalucia's voice broke as she pleaded, "But my son—he's rare too. His lightning is unique."
The king nodded. "I understand your pain. But I couldn't bring him. Only those with the sacred royal light magic could be teleported here."
Andalucia fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face. For now, she had lost her son.