The Burden of Choices

In the desolate lands of Ithralis, Mythril's second-largest continent, the small kingdom of Bastreo stood as a quiet remnant of a once-thriving civilization. Ithralis had been ravaged by decades of relentless wars and the corrupting influence of Nox, leaving Bastreo as little more than a single city. Most of its population had fled to the northeastern continent of Ardrath, seeking safety and prosperity. Those who stayed behind clung to the remnants of a peaceful life amidst the shadows of ruin.

As dawn broke over the city, Lyra Artheros stood by the door of her modest home, fastening the locks with trembling hands. Her son, Theron, stood silently by her side. Lyra, a priestess of the Divine Mother Mythril, felt the weight of her decision pressing heavily on her heart. Theron, though young, was painfully aware of his fate. A rare illness was steadily draining the Sol from his body, a condition that would eventually claim his life.

Theron’s father, Kaelion Artheros, had been a celebrated warrior of Bastreo. He perished with honor during the Second Great War, a conflict that had freed their homeland from the Noxborns. Kaelion’s sacrifice had provided for his family, ensuring Lyra and Theron had enough to live comfortably. Yet, for Lyra, no amount of wealth could fill the void left by her husband’s death.

As Lyra locked the door for what might be the last time, tears welled in her eyes. Her life as an Oracle, a role she once believed to be a blessing, now felt like a burden. Oracles were chosen to guide mortals, maintaining the delicate balance between Sol and Nox in the world. Yet that sacred duty came at a cost.

Lyra had made a heart-wrenching decision: to leave Bastreo. Traveling the world in service of her Divine Mother, Mythril, was the only way she could fulfill her role as an Oracle—and perhaps, find a cure for Theron’s illness. But it meant leaving her son behind with relatives, knowing she might not see him again for years, perhaps decades.

Lyra took a deep breath and said softly, “It’s time to go. The caravan won’t wait for us.”

Theron’s expression remained blank, but his voice carried a quiet determination. “Can I visit Father’s grave first? Just one last time.”

Her chest tightened at his request, but she forced herself to smile. “Of course. I’ll wait for you.”

While Theron ran toward the graveyard, Lyra walked to a neighbor’s house to bid farewell. The morning air was crisp, the lingering mist wrapping the city in a quiet embrace. Beyond the forest lay the graveyard, serene yet heavy with unspoken sorrow.

Theron dashed through the forest, the shadows of gravestones visible through the faint light filtering through the trees. The forest, still cloaked in morning mist, felt cold—a fitting atmosphere for the resting place of heroes.

Theron admired his father deeply, revering the courage and sacrifice Kaelion had shown in protecting their homeland. As he approached the graveyard, the boy slowed his steps, his heart heavy with unspoken words and emotions he couldn’t yet name.

Whispers of the Forgotten

The graveyards of Bastreo told stories of their own. They were a silent testament to the brutality of two wars that had ravaged the continent of Ithralis. The horizon was a sea of gravestones, stretching endlessly across a barren plain. Devoid of life, this expanse was larger than the nation of Bastreo itself. Long ago, this land had been completely shrouded in Nox, but Lady Selratha, the Goddess of Afterlife, had cleansed it of the corruption. Though the Nox was purged, the land remained sterile, unable to support even the smallest blade of grass.

Even amidst the vast number of gravestones, Theron wasn’t wandering aimlessly. It was as if he instinctively knew where his father’s grave was. His ability to sense Sol guided him, a gift that had sharpened due to the depletion of his own Sol. Born with a disease that placed the shackles of death around him, Theron’s weakening Sol made him acutely aware of the energy around him. His mother, Lyra, an oracle herself, had taught him how to manage this ability, but his sensitivity surpassed hers.

Unlike Lyra, who could selectively sense Sol, Theron experienced the constant pull of Sol from his surroundings into his deteriorating body. This unique sensitivity allowed him to perceive the faint remnants of energy left by the dead. The graveyard was a familiar place to him; he had visited countless times with his mother. The overwhelming flood of sensations that came with his ability no longer fazed him. He knew the Sol emanating from his father’s grave and the subtle presence of others around him, even if they were unseen.

When Theron reached his father’s gravestone, he hesitated. For a moment, he simply stood there, letting the waves of Sol ripple through him. Slowly, he placed his hand on the cold stone. Instantly, fragmented visions began to form in his mind.

Theron had no memories of his father, Kaelion Artheros. He was too young when his father had fallen in battle. Yet, through the Sol left behind in his father’s remains, he had seen glimpses of Kaelion’s final moments countless times. These visions had become clearer over the years, as Theron honed his abilities.

Kaelion’s last stand played out like a haunting melody in Theron’s mind. Exhausted after slaying hundreds of Noxborn, Kaelion’s sword had struck something hard and slipped from his grasp. His strength was failing, and retreat was not an option. The spell that allowed him to see in the dark was fading, but in the last fleeting moments of its effect, Kaelion saw the advancing horde of Noxborn closing in on him. With unwavering resolve, he drew the dagger strapped to his back. It was a poor weapon for fighting in complete darkness, but Kaelion didn’t falter.

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He charged into the fray, slashing through the creatures before finally succumbing to their overwhelming numbers. Every time Theron relived this vision, it filled him with pride and sorrow. His father had died a hero—a fact the world seemed to have forgotten, but one that burned brightly in Theron’s heart. Yet, the same question always lingered in Theron’s mind: How did Father feel in those final moments?

He removed his hand from the gravestone and took out a wet cloth to clean it. As he worked, his thoughts turned inward. Despite his young age, Theron’s ability to sense Sol had given him a deep understanding of the world around him. He had matured mentally far beyond his years. The city of Bastreo, with its small population, offered little opportunity for interaction with children his age. Most of his time was spent helping his mother, a priestess at the Temple of Mother Mythril, or learning to manage his overwhelming senses.

After finishing his task, he stood in front of the gravestone and whispered, “Goodbye, Father. I don’t know if I’ll ever come back here. Maybe by then, the Sol from your grave will have faded. I wish I could be like you—strong, fearless. But I don’t think I have much time left. I’m sorry… for leaving Mother behind.”

Tears streamed down his face as he spoke. The brave face he had shown his mother earlier was gone, replaced by raw emotion. He wiped his eyes and picked up the cloth.

Theron began walking away from the graveyard, but he wasn’t heading toward the city. There was one last place he wanted to visit before he left.

At the edge of the forest separating the graveyard from Bastreo stood a large tree. This tree, nourished by the Sol released from the countless dead, had grown tall and resilient—a silent witness to the passage of time. Theron often sought refuge here. As a child, the overwhelming memories he sensed in the graveyard sometimes frightened him, and the tree became a place of solace.

He climbed it with practiced ease, settling onto a sturdy branch. From this vantage point, he gazed out at the endless sea of gravestones. The sight calmed him, grounding him in the present. Yet, he couldn’t linger. He realized he might already be late.

With one last look, Theron descended the tree and started running toward the city gates.

The Departure

As Theron ran toward the city gates, his mother, Lyra, stood waiting, her serene presence commanding respect even amidst her sadness. They had arrived just in time; the caravan bound for Ardrath was preparing to depart. But Lyra had one last duty to fulfill.

The Artheros family was well-known in Bastreo. Kaelion’s valor as a warrior and Lyra’s healing touch as a priestess had etched their names into the hearts of the people. Lyra, in particular, was revered for her ability to ease the burdens of war survivors with her blessings and spells. Many residents had gathered near the gates to bid farewell, not only to express their gratitude but also to honor the family’s sacrifices.

Standing among the crowd, Lyra thanked the well-wishers with a warm but heavy heart. Then, from her bag, she retrieved a holy scripture—an Oracle’s sacred text. Turning to a specific page, she began reciting an incantation. Her voice rose like a hymn, steady and melodic, weaving hope and gratitude into each word—a final gift to the city that had given her so much yet taken so much more. As the words of the blessing resonated through the air, a soft golden glow surrounded her, leaving the gathered townsfolk awestruck. This was her final gift to the city she loved so dearly.

Meanwhile, Theron, standing by the caravan, was filled with a mix of excitement and trepidation. He had never ventured beyond Bastreo due to his illness—a rare condition that drained Sol from his body while simultaneously pulling Sol from his surroundings into him. This ability made him acutely sensitive to the Sol around him, a sensitivity his mother feared would overwhelm him in larger, more populated places.

Bastreo’s cracked walls bore silent witness to years of war and decay. Beyond the gates lay the fabled Stone Bridge, a colossal structure connecting the continents of Ithralis and Ardrath across the eastern ocean. Built during an era of peace, it had once been celebrated as a marvel of engineering and a symbol of unity. Now, it was a road rarely traveled, its grandeur faded but its resilience unyielding.

The other continents, such as Eryndor in the north, worshipped numerous gods and maintained strong ties with them. However, even amidst the mixed opinions about gods in Ithralis, only Selratha, the Goddess of Afterlife, was worshipped there, with no reverence given to any other deity .

As Theron climbed into the caravan, his eyes lit up at the sight of a familiar face. It was Orlan, a kindly merchant from Bastreo. Orlan was a modest trader who lived humbly with his wife, struggling to make ends meet. Having lost both of their sons in the war, Orlan and his wife had taken a special liking to Theron, treating him as though he were their own.

Whenever Lyra had to leave the city for her duties, Theron would stay at Orlan’s house. Orlan had taught him how to hunt, showing him the art of tracking and using a bow. Once, he had even gifted Theron a finely crafted bow, encouraging the boy to hone his skills. Despite archery being regarded as a lowly skill compared to swords or spears, Theron had shown incredible talent. His unique ability to sense Sol allowed him to hit targets with uncanny precision, even without looking.

However, Theron had returned the bow to Orlan before their departure, as visitors were not permitted to carry weapons when entering another nation. “Thank you for everything,” Theron had said, his gratitude genuine.

“Looking forward to the journey, lad?” Orlan asked with a warm grin.

Theron’s eyes lit up. “I’ve dreamed of seeing Ardrath! I just hope it’s as amazing as the stories.”

For Lyra, Ardrath was no mystery. She had visited the northeastern continent many times. Unlike Eryndor, where nations worshiped various gods, Ardrath’s nations united under the worship of the Divine Mother Mythril. They resented the gods, holding them responsible for Ithralis’ downfall due to their power struggles. This shared devotion to Mythril gave Oracles like Lyra a special status in Ardrath. She was often invited by its rulers to bestow blessings and perform ceremonies.

The nations of Ardrath were governed collectively under an organization called the Holy Assembly, comprising noblemen, kings, and renowned warriors. Known for its formidable military strength, the continent’s unity stood in stark contrast to Ithralis’ fragmented remnants.

As the caravan began to move, Theron gazed out at the fading silhouette of Bastreo. The journey ahead was unknown, but his heart swelled with anticipation. This was not just a departure from his home but the beginning of a new chapter in his life—a journey that would test his strength, his abilities, and his resolve.