Long before Erik and Abby were born, before the warring kingdoms of Rothurd and Arvendon, before the Auctians left for the ocean on the other side of the world, there was a small nondescript village. The village was much the same as other villages, farmers went about their day plowing and sowing the land. Homebodies cleaned and cooked for those working, and children played in the fields and around the town.

A boy sat alone in a wooden chair; parents angry at him for rough housing too much with his younger sister. His older brother came up to him and was giving him some advice when his mom scolded both and sent them along their way. A festival was approaching, so those who could delay their work did, to help prepare the town. The boys chased each other down the street until they came upon the house.

The house was dilapidated, falling in on itself. The only occupant couldn’t keep up with the demands of repairs, as he was younger than the two boys, no more than six years old. His parents had died two years prior, and those looking out for him recently deceased as well. He hadn’t eaten well in two months and his body was starting to show it. The brothers stopped as the malnourished boy walked out of the house carrying clothes.

“Morning Phanes!” the younger said towards the one with laundry.

“Mornin’” Phanes said trying to sound cheery.

“You comin’ to the festival tonight,” the older brother asked.

“You lot know that’s a given, free food? I’m in!” Phanes said with a smile.

“Who do you think the spirit of the woods will grant a gift to this year?” the younger asked.

“If it’s me, I want to move plants around and create my own tree city!” said the older.

“That would be so cool!” said Phanes. “If it’s me I’d want to heal others, so they don’t have to be hurt.”

“Awesome!” the younger said, “Do you want to go play?”

“You bet!” Phanes dropped the laundry, and the boys ran off into a nearby field. The trio of boys darted into the field, the long grass brushing against their legs as they played tag, laughter resonating in the air. The weight of their responsibilities seemed to momentarily vanish, replaced by the carefree joy of childhood.

As they played, the dilapidated house stood as a silent witness to their innocent revelry. Its timeworn structure seemed to sag under the weight of unspoken stories and untold struggles. A faint breeze rustled through the broken windows, carrying whispers of a past that lingered within the weathered walls.

Amid their play, Phanes stumbled, his malnourished frame unable to keep pace with the exuberance of the other two. The older brother, sensing Phanes' fatigue, slowed down, offering a supportive hand.

"Hey, take a breather, Phanes. We don't want you passing out before the festival even begins," he said with a grin.

Phanes chuckled, catching his breath. "I'm good, just need to build up my stamina, you know?"

The younger brother, ever the optimist, chimed in, "Tonight's going to be amazing! I can't wait to see what gifts the spirit of the woods grants."

Phanes nodded, his eyes reflecting a mix of hope and longing. "Yeah, I've been thinking about that. Maybe this year, I'll get the chance to make a real difference. Heal someone who needs it."

The older brother patted Phanes on the back. "That's a noble wish, my friend. And if anyone deserves it, it's you."

Encouraged, the boys continued their play, the field becoming a canvas for their youthful dreams. Phanes momentarily forgot the hardships that awaited him at home, lost in the simple joy of camaraderie.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow on the field, the boys returned to the town, their laughter echoing through the twilight. The festival awaited, a beacon of light and festivity in the heart of their tight-knit community. The dilapidated house, though worn and weathered, seemed to absorb the echoes of their joy, a silent testament to the resilience of the human spirit amidst adversity.

The night encroached upon the village, and the festivities began. Lanterns depicting the local spirit of the woods, a bearded tree like entity with branches for arms and legs; leaves and berries for hair adorned all the households. People were merry, drinking and eating in delight. Phanes had a large plate stuck in front of him covered in various fruits and vegetables with breads and cheeses. He sat with the two brothers from earlier that day. A barmaid with meat was going table to table passing out smoked beavergator from the pit they had made.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

Soon the local spirit made its way to the pit from the forested path. The berries, ripe in its beard, called to various forest animals who nested within the spirit. It was jovial and played with the young children that came to greet it. Soon it made its way to the largest table near the flaming pit.

“Another year is upon us,” It started, its voice gravelly yet high pitched as though a bird was mimicking a voice. “I hope this year is as grand and interesting as all the previous ones. I will make your lands fertile and bounties plentiful so long as you continue to protect my forest.” It rose a wooded mug carved just for it, that held wine made from berries like those in its beard.

“May the Village of Rothurd be as bountiful as ever!” Cried the mayor. Also raising his mug. Cheers of the villagers resounded around the leader.

“Before we continue,” the spirit started to reach into its beard, and it pulled out a small cow-squirrel. “Go little one, chose the ones to come to me.”

The cow-squirrel nodded, jumped off the hand holding it, and scampered around the gathered people. It crawled onto two young ladies, daughters of the mayor. They squealed and jumped for joy. The forest critter jumped down as they celebrated and went to a younger farmer, scratched its ear, and ran up his trousers. He was embarrassed and made his way to the spirit. The next group the cow-squirrel chose was a man and his wife who were expecting a third child.

“Just a few more,” the old spirit said. “And we will begin the awakenings.”

The cow-squirrel nodded and went to the younger brother Phanes knew and played with. From the younger’s head it jumped into the fruits and vegetables on Phanes plate stuffed in its cheeks with strawberries. Then it crawled onto his arm and patted it. Phanes was ecstatic, he ran and joined the line. One by one the chosen walked to the spirit.

The spirit stood up and extended its hand, as he did, the fingers extended into splitting branches each growing until they rested on the chosen’s heads.

“To help with this village, I will awaken within your soul as I have for countless people before, your kah,” the spirit intoned, its voice a blend of ancient wisdom and ethereal resonance. The spirit breathed in, and its body glowed with a faint hue. Those connected to it experienced a similar glowing sensation, their eyes, hair, and fingernails radiating a soft blue light.

Phanes felt a strength well within him, like a button had been pressed and pressure filled his entire being. The surge of power was both intoxicating and foreboding, an unseen force weaving its tendrils around his very essence. Unbeknownst to him, this seemingly innocuous moment marked the cataclysmic birth of Phanes, the Eternal King.

In the wake of this inexplicable empowerment, Phanes found himself standing at the precipice of fate, where the choices he made would echo across the realms. He became the unwitting creator of a kingdom, an architect of dreams and nightmares alike. However, with every stroke of his newfound power, he also assumed the mantle of the bringer of ruin, a harbinger of consequences that would cascade through the threads of existence.

The air around him thickened with an unsettling energy, as if the universe itself held its breath in anticipation of the world-shattering decisions that lay ahead. Phanes, once a mere mortal, now bore the weight of intertwined destinies, a puppeteer in a cosmic play that transcended the boundaries of comprehension. Little did he grasp the enormity of the forces he had unleashed, the intricate dance of light and darkness set into motion by the birth of the Eternal King. The ominous orchestration of his actions would echo through time, leaving an indelible mark on the tapestry of reality, where every step carried the resonance of impending doom and celestial reckoning.

As the spirit's glow faded, Phanes gradually emerged from the hazy realm between sleep and wakefulness, his senses reassembling themselves like pieces of a fragmented puzzle. The lingering echoes of a distant dream played on the edges of his consciousness, a dream that stretched back to the inception of his abilities. It clung to him, an indelible memory that felt both like a distant recollection and a recent occurrence.

The chains that bound him, more tangible than metaphysical, seemed to tighten with each passing moment. He could sense their weight, an oppressive force that tethered him to a reality that was as murky as the waters surrounding him. It was as if the dream had followed him into this submerged prison, refusing to release its grip on his thoughts.

The water, once an encompassing barrier, now underwent a subtle transformation. It broke down, molecule by molecule, into breathable air, enveloping him in a protective bubble that shielded him from the drowning depths. In this strange equilibrium, suspended between the liquid and the gaseous, Phanes found a fragile sanctuary. The never-changing state of his surroundings mirrored the his own current existence.

In this disorienting abyss, he grappled with the disconcerting reality of not knowing which way was up or down, left or right. The absence of spatial orientation rendered him powerless, a mere captive adrift in the boundless expanse of this aquatic prison. The water held its secrets, concealing the path to freedom like a shroud over an ancient crypt. He knew the water had come from somewhere, he just did not know where.

All that remained in this isolated realm were the fragments of his memories, fragments that he clung to like a castaway to a piece of driftwood in a vast sea. Each memory was a lifeline, a tether to his identity, and he found solace in the act of reflection. The repetition of this mental exercise became his only pastime, a ritualistic exploration of his own history in the absence of any present.

As he delved into the corridors of his mind, Phanes retraced the steps of his journey – from the innocence of childhood to the weighty responsibilities of kingship. The memories flickered like spectral images, and he found himself reliving moments of joy, sorrow, and the inexorable pull of destiny. A destiny he fought against at every waking moment, a destiny he wished to craft for himself. They were fragments of a mosaic that formed the tapestry of his existence.

Yet, amidst the waves of the past, Phanes yearned for something more. The dream, the memory of awakening, beckoned to him like a distant call in the darkness. It held answers and insights that eluded his conscious mind. With each cycle of reflection, he sought to unravel the shackles that confined him to this aqueous purgatory. In the stillness of his introspection, Phanes grappled with the intangible, searching for meaning in the cryptic dance of his memories. The waters whispered ancient secrets, and he listened, hoping to decipher the language of his own past in a bid to navigate the uncertain currents of his future.

In one last conscious reflection he thought back to his people. He had return to his kingdom several times throughout its existence. Each time correcting or setting a new path for it to take. He wished Arvendon’s fall for imprisoning him in this far away kingdom. Sealing him in his sleep was the act of cowards, but given Phanes’ track record of unbelievable feats, such as what he had done to the moon, he had eventually cooled his opinion of those who imprisoned him.

Unbeknownst to him, the people of his kingdom had made unto him a prophecy of his return, and that return will spark a change in the entirety of Luminastra. Had a narrator passing by not corrected grammar one night thus acting their divine law upon it, this prophecy may never have come true. It lay over one hearth in a small village inn located in the heart of Rothurd:

The Sun and Lightning will strike the Earth. Thus, to the Eternal King’s rebirth.

Enemy to all, in battles fierce, Arvendon shall fall to his might and mirth.