Chapter 15 : No Seed, No Right

  On the 317th day of the year, under a dual eclipse, a child is born in Myralis, the capital of the Vael’Tareth Clan. His birth stirs the natural world—storms calm, the ocean stills, and a long-dead tree blooms. His eyes glow with the rare Celestine Vein, and his cries ripple through the city.

  The clan healer senses the awakening of the Seed of Aether within him, an extraordinary sign. Lord Kaerith, the family patriarch, recognizes the child as no ordinary heir—one destined to shake the skies. By midnight, the child is named Raen Vael’Tareth.

  ___________________________

  Four Years Later.

  The City of Myralis

  Four years have passed since the birth of Raen Vael’Tareth, and the whispers of his miraculous arrival have softened into the daily hum of life. Myralis, a settlement nestled on the fringes of a vast forest, lies far from the centre of power . Its people live simple lives, relying on the surrounding woods and rivers for sustenance.

  Myralis is ruled by four large families, each holding sway over different aspects of village life. The Vael’Tareth Clan, still revered for the power of the Celestine Vein, holds dominion over the eastern portion of the land, guarding the deep secrets of cultivation. Their influence here is more spiritual than political, but the mark of their bloodline is undeniable.

  The other three families—Dralis, Jorael, and Veltir—also have their territories: the Dralis family controls the fishing rights along the nearby river, the Joraels tend the fertile plots of farmland that feed the village, and the Veltirs, though few in number, hold the role of healers and mystics, often sought for their wisdom.

  ————

  The sun cast long fingers of light between the crooked rooftops of Myralis, but they didn’t reach the alley.

  There, in the cold shadow of stone and rotwood, a man cowered—mud on his clothes, blood on his chin, trembling in the dirt. He was middle-aged, his hands calloused from years of honest work. A citizen. One of the foragers. One of the seedless.

  Before him stood a boy.

  Four years old. Barefoot. Cloaked in pride far greater than his age should allow.

  Raen Vael’Tareth.

  His pale hair was unbound, swaying as if it moved to a rhythm only the aether could hear. His eyes, glowing with the faint blue hue of the Celestine Vein, held no sympathy. No warmth. Just cold, appraising judgment—as if the man before him were not human, but a bug he hadn’t yet decided to crush.

  “Get up,” Raen said, voice clipped. “Or do your knees enjoy the filth?”

  The man whimpered, wiping his face. “I-I don’t want trouble, young lord. I’ve done nothing—”

  “You exist,” Raen cut in, stepping closer. “Without a Seed. Without purpose. You breathe the same air as those who’ve earned it.”

  Behind him, three boys—his self-appointed followers—watched in silence. They didn’t jeer. They didn’t need to. Raen’s presence filled the space like smoke—suffocating, inevitable.

  The man tried to stand, but faltered. “Please, I have a daughter—”

  Raen's gaze sharpened. He raised a single finger, and the faint outline of his Aetherform shimmered behind him—a translucent echo of his potential, far too strong for a child. The very mist recoiled from it.

  “You should thank the council that I don’t make an example of you,” he said coldly. “If weakness goes unpunished, it spreads.”

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  He stepped forward and pressed two fingers against the man’s forehead—not with power, but with disdain—then wiped them off on his own tunic, as if disgusted by the contact.

  “Crawl away,” Raen ordered, turning his back. “Or be erased by someone less merciful.”

  The man didn’t speak. He simply crawled. Slowly. Shaking.

  The man had barely crawled out of sight, his blood still warm on the stone, when the shadows behind the alley stirred.

  A ripple moved through the dark—and then a figure emerged. Cloaked in black, hood drawn low, his presence silenced even the wind.

  Raen didn’t turn. He felt the presence and spoke first.

  “Uncle. Why are you here?”

  The figure stepped into view, boots echoing softly. He looked down at the smear of blood on the cobbles, then at Raen with unreadable eyes beneath the hood.

  “Wasting your breath on seedless filth?” the man asked, voice dry, disdain dripping from every syllable. “You shame your bloodline.”

  Raen finally turned. His eyes glowed faintly in the half-light—cold, unblinking.

  “I wasn’t wasting it,” he said, voice sharpened like a dagger. “They must be taught. Beaten. Shamed. They forget their place far too easily.”

  His tone held no anger. Just certainty.

  “They are lesser,” Raen continued, stepping past the bloodstain. “Born without Aether. Born to kneel. They till our fields, clean our shit, carry our dead—and still they look us in the eyes.”

  The cloaked man chuckled darkly. “You sound like your father already.”

  Raen didn’t smile. “The world doesn’t need more mercy. It needs reminders.”

  The man’s voice lowered. “The seedless breed like rats. Most forget their place the moment we let them breathe freely. That man you spared? His wife is likely whoring herself for grain. His daughter will be on her knees by sixteen—raped in the barracks or sold to brothel pits, and she’ll thank them for the warmth. That’s all they’re good for.”

  Raen didn’t blink. “Then I should’ve marked her early.”

  His uncle studied him. Proud. Silent for a moment.

  “Aetherform, Fifth Stage. At four years old.” He let out a low whistle. “The elders watch you with awe... and fear.”

  “They should,” Raen said. “They’ve grown soft. Letting seedless walk the markets like they matter. Twenty percent of our people, and we let them speak?”

  He spat.

  “They’re not people. They’re livestock.”

  His uncle’s smile was shadowed and cruel. “Good. Hold that hatred close, Raen. It’ll harden your power. Compassion is for fools and corpses.”

  Raen nodded once, emotionless. “They call this place Myralis... the City of Roots.” He scoffed. “Roots rot when fed with weakness.”

  The cloaked man turned toward the street. “Come. The Council has summoned you. They want to see what kind of storm you’re becoming.”

  Raen followed in silence, his small frame cloaked in something far larger than him.

  Behind them, the alley stank of blood, piss, and fear.

  But that was the scent of order in this world.

  —————

  In the vaulted chamber beneath Highroot Hall, six elders of the Vael’Tareth clan sat in a cold circle around a round, obsidian table. The runes carved into its surface pulsed like veins—breathing, ancient, alive. The torches in the corners cast long shadows, flickering as if nervous.

  At the center of the chamber stood Raen.

  Four years old.

  Aetherform Realm, Fifth Stage.

  Unblinking.

  Unsmiling.

  Unnatural.

  Elder Thalor, who had once commanded armies along the Ashen Plateau, steepled his fingers. “Young Raen. You’ve exceeded all our expectations. Your strength, your growth—it is… beyond anything this clan has seen in generations.”

  Raen tilted his head slightly, waiting.

  Elder Vasha, skin wrinkled like dried parchment, leaned forward. “There is an opportunity. A rare one. We have secured you a place at Nytherion Academy.”

  “A school?” Raen’s tone was flat.

  “Not a school,” Elder Maelor cut in, voice gravel-thick. “A crucible. Nytherion lies on the edge of the Whisperfang Wilds, where the trees bleed mist and beasts older than empires roam. Beasts whose realms we cannot measure. It is the frontier.”

  “Only the boldest survive there,” Vasha added. “Only the strongest thrive.”

  Raen's eyes flicked between them. “And you think I need tempering?”

  A beat of silence passed.

  “No,” said Thalor slowly. “We think the world needs time before it sees you fully.”

  Raen narrowed his eyes. “You’re sending me away.”

  Elder Hareth, who had remained silent, finally spoke. “Every year, Nytherion Academy grants ten seats to the Sovereign Arcanum Institute, our continent’s highest power. Those who reach the top at Arcanum shape kingdoms. Rule nations.”

  Another pause. The unspoken truth hung between them like a blade.

  “We wish to see you... rule.”

  Raen’s expression didn’t shift, but his voice dropped to a whisper. “You fear me.”

  The torches flared as if in answer. One elder—Eira, youngest of the council—shifted uncomfortably in her chair but said nothing.

  “Is that what this is?” Raen asked, stepping forward. “A golden path lined in exile?”

  Thalor exhaled, steady and firm. “No, heir. It is the path to your throne. But every storm needs distance before it can be understood.”

  Raen said nothing.

  Then: “I’ll go. But not because you asked.”

  The air in the room thickened. He stepped closer to the table.

  “I’ll go—because the sooner the world knows me, the better.”

  He turned, cloak brushing the blackstone floor, and walked toward the iron doors. The runes under the table flickered in response to his retreat—faster, agitated.

  When the door groaned open, the sound of wind howling beyond the cliffs filled the chamber. Somewhere beyond the sky-touched walls of Myralis, the Whisperfang Wilds waited. A place where light didn’t reach the forest floor. Where things that couldn’t be named carved scars into the land.

  As the doors shut behind him, Elder Maelor finally spoke again.

  “Do you think the academy can contain him?” Maelor asked quietly.

  “No,” Vasha murmured. “But perhaps it can humble him. This world is vast—and no matter how high he climbs, there will always be others higher still. Sooner or later, arrogance me

  ets its match.”

  Outside, the nine moons spun faster in the sky.

  The boy was leaving.

  Whether he would rise… or be devoured by the path ahead, none could say.