The class ventured into the nearby forest, learning survival techniques and gathering alchemical ingredients. Near a waterfall, Zirk wandered away, lured by the mesmerizing pull of an unfamiliar current. Aethyr, trained in the ways of the wild by the legendary huntress Aelha, felt a sudden chill — a disruption in the natural order. His instincts screamed danger.

"Professor," Aethyr called, his voice tight with urgency. "Do a headcount."

Zirk was missing.

Aethyr’s heart quickened. He scanned the ground, his eyes sharp as a hawk’s. There — a satchel abandoned by the water’s edge, and the air… heavy with an intoxicating scent. Aethyr recognized it instantly: the hypnotic lure of the Nixie — river spirits who feasted on the souls of the drowned. He acted swiftly, recalling his alchemy lessons. Crushing fresh chamomile, he drank its juice to fortify his mind against the Nixie’s spell.

The riverbank came into view. Zirk floated aimlessly, his limp body carried by the shimmering creatures. The Nixie’s haunting song filled the air, their voices eerily soft, yet terrifying to the bone:

"He will go down, you will drown, drown, deeper down

The river wild will take you, child

He will go down, you will drown, drown, deeper down

The mind grinds slow in a riverbed ghost realm."

Aethyr's blood ran cold, but he pressed on, tracking the Nixie as they led Zirk towards a watery grave. Vaan and Rex, quick to react, raced to the opposite bank, hoping to intercept. Aethyr moved like a shadow, cutting down a tree branch and inching along its length over the river. He stretched his hand out, desperate to reach Zirk. Just as their fingers touched, disaster struck — the Nixie’s cold, pale hands gripped Aethyr’s leg, yanking him into the depths.

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The water enveloped him, cold and suffocating.

Aethyr struggled, the Nixie’s icy hands dragging him deeper into the river’s dark embrace. Their ghostly white gowns swirled like sinister ribbons, their eyes glowing with malevolent hunger. He swung his chopper knife, but his movements were sluggish, his blade weak against their otherworldly forms. The eerie chant grew louder, wrapping around him like chains:

"He will go down, you will drown, drown, deeper down

The river wild will take you, child..."

The Nixies pulled, and Aethyr’s lungs screamed for air, his mind slipping towards unconsciousness. But then — in the deepest depths of despair — a sudden flash pierced the darkness.

Before him stood a man, a towering figure clad in gleaming armor, a crown of silver upon his brow, his presence radiant as the sun breaking through storm clouds. It was a man Aethyr knew well, though he had never seen him like this before.

His father.

Thorigg Whitemane, the tribeking, appeared not in flesh but in spirit, his eyes burning with strength and love. The crown that once symbolized his earthly rule now gleamed with an ethereal light, marking him as a guide from beyond.

Aethyr's eyes widened, his heart pounding as the ghostly figure knelt beside him, his voice deep and commanding, filled with ancient power.

"My son, rise. By the sky, by the flame, by the earth, I live as my name, your name, within me."

Thorigg extended his hand, and as their fingers touched, a surge of energy coursed through Aethyr’s veins. Sparks of lightning danced across his skin, and fire ignited within his soul. Aethyr felt the awakening of his birthright, the dormant magic of his bloodline roaring to life. His eyes blazed with energy, and in his hand, a ball of searing flame was born.