The sweet scent of Sunlilies drifting from the Vane gardens usually brought peace, but today, it smelled like a funeral shroud. A gentle spring breeze stirred the white silk curtains, yet the golden morning sunlight felt cold, as if the sun itself were hesitant to touch the luxurious, silent room.
Standing before a gold-framed mirror carved with dragons was an eight-year-old boy, Elian Vane. He stared at his reflection with a gaze far too old, far too weary for a child. His jet-black hair framed a face as pale as porcelain, accentuating eyes like a starless night—dark, mysterious, and seeming to swallow the soul of anyone who dared to look too long.
"Beautiful..." murmured the maid behind him. But Elian didn't miss the faint tremor in her voice. "Young Master, if you were to wear a dress, no princess could compare to you."
Elian offered a faint, melancholy smile. He knew what she saw: a boy of glass. In Aethelgard, where strength and mana were the only currencies of survival, Elian was a beautiful anomaly—a fragile heir to the Duke of the North who looked more like a sacrificial lamb than a future conqueror.
"Hanna, stop," Elian's voice was soft, like a silver bell, but it carried an edge of warning. He didn't tell her that while everyone in the household adored him, he could feel the World's affection as a heavy, suffocating weight.
Suddenly, the air in the room grew jagged. Elian's instincts, honed by a cracked Mana Core that felt every ripple in the atmosphere, screamed. The wind outside didn't just whisper; it hissed a warning of encroaching shadows.
The door burst open. "Brother Elian!" Elara, his six-year-old adopted sister, barreled in. She hugged him tight, her burgeoning Aura nearly toppling his frail frame.
"Father is home!" she exclaimed, her blue eyes sparking. "He brought a Mana Stone from a Void monster for you!"
Elian's smile faded. His father, Duke Garrick Vane—the "Sword of the North"—loved him, but Elian knew the truth. To the world, Elian was "trash" born into a family of heroes, a broken vessel that couldn't store mana.
But as he let Elara lead him to the main hall, Elian realized the world was wrong. He didn't manipulate mana; he heard it. The mana particles didn't shy away; they danced against his skin, desperate to caress a child loved by the very laws of nature.
They reached the hall, where Duke Garrick stood like a mountain in black armor. He knelt, touching Elian's cheek with a calloused hand. "You look more like your mother every day," he whispered, his eyes clouded with a pain that Elian knew would soon be joined by blood.
He handed Elian a glowing blue crystal. "This might help you live a... normal life."
Normal. The word pierced Elian. But as his fingers brushed the stone, it vibrated with an ominous delight.
"There is more," Garrick's face turned grim. "A prodigy has emerged in the South. Ryker, the Hero of Light."
At the mention of the name, the wind outside roared in sudden, primal anger. Fate itself trembled.
Out of the corner of his eye, Elian saw it—a thin, black shadow creeping behind a pillar. It had no 'sound'. It was alien.
"Father," Elian's voice turned cold. "Behind the pillar..."
The shadow exploded. Faceless assassins materialized from the darkness. The peace of the Vane estate shattered in a heartbeat.
"Protect the children!" Garrick roared, his golden aura erupting like a dying sun.
Elian stood frozen, but he felt no fear. As the gears of tragedy began to turn, the boy of glass looked into the eyes of death and felt the World offering him a weapon.