Theron Draven remained seated upon his throne, fingers tapping in a slow, impatient rhythm against the armrest. He said nothing. He didn’t need to. The curl of his lip and the hard set of his eyes conveyed more than words ever could.
“Adviser Kharis could not delay them any longer,” Akeem added quietly.
The farmers stood rigid at the foot of the throne, shifting uneasily beneath Theron’s gaze. Akeem turned toward them, his new golden cape settling across his broad shoulders—an unspoken announcement of his rise among the elite Kingsguard.
“And where is our wise adviser now?” Theron asked at last, his voice smooth, but edged with disdain.
“A message arrived,” Akeem replied. “He went to retrieve it.”
Court manners were not Akeem’s strength, but Theron noted the pride with which he wore his new rank. He dismissed it just as quickly.
“Very well,” Theron said, leaning forward slightly. “Speak, Elder of the Farmers’ Guild. What burden weighs so heavily upon your fields that it demands my time?”
The elder stepped forward and bowed deeply. “Your Majesty, we are grateful for this audience. We know you bear many concerns, but the harvest has failed us. After the season’s end, there will barely be enough to feed our families—let alone afford seed and fertilizer for the next planting.”
Theron’s expression darkened, but the elder pressed on. His voice trembled as he fell to his knees.
“We beg you, Your Majesty. Grant us a measure of Aether’s flow. Just enough to see us through. Without it… many will starve before the next season.”
Silence fell over the throne room.
Then Theron laughed—once, sharp and humorless.
“You simpletons,” he said, the word sour on his tongue. “Do you imagine I commissioned the Vyranium Mer to torment my own people?”
He rose from his throne, descending a single step, his presence suddenly heavier.
“That machine is not cruelty,” he continued. “It is salvation. Prosperity beyond your narrow understanding. When it stands complete, your harvests will swell tenfold. Farmers will thrive as they never have in the history of Aetheria.”
Hope flickered in the elder’s eyes.
“But,” Theron went on, his tone hardening, “you lack patience. You doubt my vision because you cannot see beyond the present moment. These hardships you suffer now—” he gestured dismissively “—are nothing more than growing pains.”
The elder opened his mouth to speak again.
Theron raised a single hand.
“Enough.”
He turned slightly. “Escort them out.”
Akeem stepped forward, but before he could act, the great doors of the throne room burst open.
Advisor Kharis entered in hurried strides, his usual composure fractured. His thin fingers clenched the folds of his robe, his jaw tight with unspoken urgency. He barely noticed the farmers passing him as he crossed the chamber.
Theron’s eyes narrowed as he sat back on his golden throne watching the adviser approach him briskly. Kharis always carried himself with calm, but today he seemed shaken. Kharis stopped before the throne and bowed deeply. “Your Majesty,” he said, his voice steady but tense. “A messenger from Kerios arrived not long ago. He carried a scroll, addressed to you.”
Theron barely glanced at him. “And?”
“It bears King Adir’s seal.” Kharis replied.
“I have no interest.” Theron waved a dismissive hand.
Kharis hesitated. He took a breath, his brows furrowing. “Your Majesty... I must insist. This is not something to ignore.”
The weight in his tone made Theron pause. Urgency. Not fear, but something close to it.
Akeem shifted beside him, silent as ever, but Theron caught the slight tilt of his head, he was listening closely.
Theron exhaled sharply through his nose. “Fine.” He leaned back. “Read it.”
Kharis broke the wax seal with careful fingers, unrolling the parchment. His voice carried across the vast chamber as he began:
To His Majesty, King Theron Draven of Aetheria,
It is with great patience and restraint that I write to you, though I find myself troubled by your kingdom’s recent actions. For generations, Aetheria and Kerios have upheld a bond of mutual respect, bound by sacred treaties and trade pacts that have long ensured prosperity for both our peoples. Yet, without warning or explanation, that trust has been severed.
My envoys have been turned away at your gates. My letters remain unanswered. The resources upon which my kingdom relies, resources promised by your forebears, no longer reach our ports. These are not the actions of a friend, nor of a ruler who values peace.
Moreover, I am troubled by the fate of my niece, your half-sister, Princess Elara. Whispers reach my ears that she has been confined within your palace walls, barred from the world she was once free to walk. This is a matter of both personal and political concern, and I would need clarity on the cause.
If there is a grievance, let it be spoken. If there is a misunderstanding, let it be corrected. The bonds of diplomacy remain open to you, should you choose to honor them.
I ask that you restore what has been withheld; the trade that was agreed upon and the goodwill that has been cast into doubt. Let Princess Elara travel to Kerios, if only as a gesture of continued friendship. If there is truth to the rumors that Aetheria turns inward and forsakes its allies, then disprove them.
But know this, Your Majesty, silence is an answer of its own. If none is given, I shall be left to interpret it as the death of our peace. And I will act accordingly.
May wisdom guide your response.
King Adir of Kerios
Kharis lowered the parchment. Silence stretched through the throne room.
Theron’s fingers curled into the armrests of the throne, the tension in his hands a reflection of the storm quietly churning within him. His jaw clenched, and his eyes remained fixed ahead, as though trying to pierce through the very air in front of him. Silence thickened the space between him and Kharis. “He dares to threaten the King of the Capital of the World?” Theron’s voice was low, yet each syllable carried the weight of an impending tempest, filled with a raw, seething fury.
“He stands no chance,” Theron continued, his eyes narrowing, cold fire flickering in his gaze. “Kerios never has, and they never will.” His words came out like iron. He leaned back in his chair, “Go away, Kharis. I have more important matters at hand.” His dismissal was a heavy blow, each syllable a refusal to entertain the thought of peace with Keriosi King.
Kharis, though, was not so easily dismissed. His gaze was wide, mouth open as he tried to grasp the gravity of the situation. “Bu-But, Your Majesty…” he ventured, but his words faltered at the edges, unable to pierce the thickness of Theron’s disdain. “If we don’t hold peace talks now, it will be seen as an escalation. And that will lead to war with Kerios.”
Theron’s eyes flicked to him, and a cruel laugh escaped his lips—a dark, mocking sound that filled the space with an unsettling air. “Adir and his useless sand army stand no chance against Aetherian might,” he said, each word dripping with confidence and scorn. “Their threats are nothing but posturing. Bluffing because they need our exports. You’re falling for it, Kharis.”
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Kharis opened his mouth to argue, but the weight of Theron’s stare cut him short. The older man’s shoulders slumped in frustration, his hands wringing together as he searched for another way to approach the matter.
“Your Majesty, the Temple is ash. The Custodians are gone. You know what that means... We must act diplomatically, for the sake of the Kingdom.” His voice trembled with the urgency of the situation, but Theron simply smirked, the edges of his lips curling in disdain.
“Aetheria never needed the Temple's magic to crush Kerios.” Theron spat, "Their magic couldn't even save themselves." Theron’s pride was so palpable it practically filled the room, suffocating all reason with its smug certainty.
He stood up slowly, as though every movement was meant to underline his disinterest in the conversation. His posture was regal, dismissive, and as he began to leave, Kharis’ voice called out to him one last time, a final plea to reconsider. “And what if this is not just a bluff, what if Kerios does attack?” Kharis’ voice was strained, filled with the kind of desperation that only comes when one can see the fall of a kingdom before their eyes.
Theron turned back just slightly, his gaze cold, calculating. “Then the army of Aetherian warriors will be more than enough to defeat them,” he said, his voice like the stroke of a blade, "And I'll gladly take the Sand King's head and hang it atop the charred temple tower." His final words cut through the air as he walked away, leaving nothing but silence in his wake.
Kharis stood there, defeated, as Theron’s footsteps echoed in the distance. His shoulders slumped, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air, unanswered. And as the throne room doors closed behind Theron, Kharis could only look down at the floor, his mind racing with the horrifying realization that the King’s blind arrogance might very well be their undoing.
***
“How? How is this possible without Aether?” Arion's fingers hovered in the air, feeling for the familiar pulse of Aether, a faint stir of wind began to swirl in his palm, a light current teasing his fingertips.
Xur, sitting cross-legged beside him, gazed into the fire where the roasting meat crackled. The orange glow illuminated his face, casting sharp shadows that only emphasized the calmness of his demeanor. He didn’t seem disturbed by Arion’s confusion.
"It’s not without Aether," Xur said, his voice steady but firm. "It’s still the Aether’s flow, just not in the way you’re used to."
“I don’t understand…” Arion muttered, his voice low, perplexed.
Xur shifted his weight slightly, adjusting the deer meat on the roasting stick as he spoke, “The flow of Aether isn’t always the same. Custodians like us are limited, our bond depends on range and faith. But Re’ems aren’t bound like that. Their connection is constant."
Arion was silent for a moment, the revelation settling in like a weight on his chest. “And… if they bond with someone… they can pass that flow to others? No matter the distance?” His voice was softer now, curiosity mixed with awe.
“Yes, but only when the bonded Custodian is within the Re’em’s vicinity.” Xur replied.
Xur picked up a piece of meat and staked it on a wooden stick as he continued, “Often people confuse Custodians as the sole guardians of the Aether, when the truth is, Aether has always been guarded by Four Re’ems among different realms as its guardians and protectors.” Xur confirmed, the flame dancing in his eyes as he shifted the meat on the stick. “They have been here ever since the Aether has.”
“Since the beginning…” Arion concluded.
Xur nodded, eyes distant as he spoke, lost in his own thoughts. "Precisely. We Custodians use this gift from the divine, to protect it with our lives. But when men fail... Re’ems take over. They carry the Aether’s will when we falter."
“So those weren’t just bedtime stories as most of us thought,” Arion said as he stared into the fire, processing what Xur had said.
Xur’s voice broke through his thoughts. "You think I didn’t want to return to the temple after my banishment," Xur said, his tone shifting, almost wistful. "I wanted to, I was aimless without the temple… Until one day, when I met her." Xur’s gaze fixed at the magical creature sleeping in the shed infront of them, “Seeing her in flesh, it gave me hope there was a plan for me and so I stayed here until,”
Xur's gaze turned inward as he spoke, his voice low and steady. "Until one night the Re’em came to me with urgency. We rode all the way to Aetheria, as fast as we could, the night the temple fell.”
Arion’s breath caught in his chest. His heart pounded against his ribs as he listened intently.
I saw the Temple burning in the distance as I neared... but it was too late. By dawn, all that was left was ash, ruin, death. Xur’s voice softened, almost mournful.
"But then... she pointed her horn toward you. One lone man, clinging to life, being dragged by a soldier from a pile of dead bodies." He paused, his gaze meeting Arion’s. “That’s when I knew. She wanted me to save you... Which I did.”
Arion’s heart thudded in his chest. The pieces were falling into place, but the weight of Xur’s words felt like a heavy stone lodged deep within him. Arion looked at him, his voice soft but filled with uncertainty, "Do you… Do you think the Re’em saved me for a reason?"
Xur paused for a moment before picking up a stick, venison impaled on its end. The meat was cooked now, and he handed it to Arion with a steady gesture. "Seems like it," he replied, nodding toward the Re’em, still asleep under the dim light. “Usually, she barely stays for too long.”
Arion took the meat and ate, the warmth of the venison filling the air between them. Xur followed suit, the crackling fire casting long shadows across their faces.
“If one has to bond with Aether… I don’t understand how this sorcerer had access to its flow,” Arion said after a beat, his brow furrowing. “The night I was trying to help Elara escape from the palace, I saw him with Theron, showing him some sort of a metal box.”
Xur raised an eye-brow, “Hmph.. A metal box?” Xur’s face lightened with a realization, “That would explain how the boy King severed Aether’s flow from the kingdom.”
“What do you mean?” Arion asked with a puzzled face.
“The metal must be Vyranium, A rare metal found in Kemet, it has the properties that can contain Aether’s flow.” Xur concluded. “Ofcourse Baalberith would have it.”
Arion straightened as he lowered the stick, “Who is this Baalberith?”
Xur hesitated, his gaze drifting to the fire, as if searching for the right words.
“I had a feeling they’d keep it a secret from the younger students.”
Arion leaned forward. “What secret?”
“Before he became Baalberith, he was a Custodian. His name was Azunya. Same batch as Omid and me.”
Arion’s breath caught. “Tell me more.”
The fire cracked softly between them, shadows dancing across Xur’s face.
“Azunya was one of the fatherless younglings the Temple took in as an infant. Grew up within its walls, under the eye of Grand Overseer Myr. The man took a liking to him—Azunya was bright, curious… almost too curious. Aether bonded with him when he was still a child, as it does with the pure of heart.”
Xur’s eyes narrowed slightly in memory.
“But even then, he was different... While others trained together, studied together, he kept to himself.”
Arion stared into the flames, letting the silence settle.
Xur adjusted a log in the fire before continuing. “As we grew, so did his obsession. The flow of Aether, its nature, its limits—he wanted to know everything. He buried himself in books, temple scrolls, ancient texts, even forbidden sections of the Great Library.”
He shook his head slightly. “Omid and I were the two in our batch who bonded strongest with the Aether. That always seemed to bother him. He never said it aloud, but… you could feel it.”
The fire popped. Arion barely blinked.
“And then… he left,” Xur said.
“Left?” Arion frowned.
“He went to Kemet. He’d heard whispers that the Black Lands held secrets long lost—ancient methods to deepen Aether’s bond. Or maybe,” Xur exhaled, “he just couldn’t accept that Aether had limits.”
Arion stayed quiet. Xur took a moment, tossing another stick into the fire.
“Years later, Grand Overseer Myr fell ill. A new Overseer had to be chosen. It came down to Omid or me. I stepped aside—Omid was wiser. As a mark of trust, Omid had two keys forged—one for himself, one for me. The keys to the inner sanctum, where the Aether has rested for centuries.”
Xur’s face darkened. “Then Azunya returned. But he was changed. A new name. Baalberith. He came bearing tomes, discoveries, theories. And he shared them—with younger custodians, mostly. Eager minds.”
Arion’s brow furrowed.
“He claimed he’d found ways to amplify Aether’s flow. Techniques we had never used—not because we didn’t know of them, but because they were forbidden. Dangerous.” Xur’s voice dipped. “We tried to stop him. Omid and I. But he accused us of jealousy. Of holding the Aether back.”
He looked directly at Arion. “He began using sacrificial blood. Polluted rituals. He tainted the very essence of Aether.”
Arion flinched.
“He gathered followers—six of them. Promised them power. Unbreakable bonds. And then one night… they struck.”
The fire’s light flickered across Xur’s face. His tone grew colder.
“They got the key from my chambers, the one Omid entrusted me with and they tried to breach the sanctum. But Omid stopped them in time.”
Arion’s jaw tightened. “How did they get your key?”
Xur looked away. His answer was slow, reluctant.
“They had help. From… Rezar.”
Arion’s stomach dropped. “Master Rezar?”
Xur nodded. “He was young. Naive. Baalberith preyed on that.”
The silence pressed in. The crackling of the fire the only sound.
“Omid found out the truth,” Xur said. “He knew it was Rezar. But I begged him—Rezar was my only family. I swore to protect him.”
Arion swallowed hard, the realization hitting him like a stone dropped from a great height.
"So, you bore the punishment to give Rezar a second chance at having a future," Arion said, his voice thick with understanding.
Xur nodded grimly. “Alongside Baalberith and five others. I was branded and exiled.”
Arion turned away, his thoughts racing chaotically. He had judged Xur so harshly, condemning him for abandoning Rezar—when all along, Xur had sacrificed everything to keep his brother safe.
The fire dwindled to a low burn, its embers glowing faintly as the weight of the past settled heavily between them. Both of them stayed silent after the revelation for a moment before Arion began.
“So Baalberith used Theron to destroy the temple and kill father… out of vengeance." Arion’s voice was heavy with disappointment. “And now he has the Aether and a king’s protection and we have nothing.”
“Having faith is having hope,” Xur replied softly, his voice steady as he leaned forward, elbows resting on the worn wooden table.
“The Re’em has come. That alone tells us it is time to act.” His eyes were fixed on Arion, filled with a quiet resolve that seemed to call for courage.
Arion met Xur’s gaze, determination blazing in his eyes like a newly kindled fire, a silent plea for immediate action. He felt the urgency coursing through his veins, compelling him to move.
“Come morning, we leave for Dunreth to find the surviving custodians,” Xur declared, his words cutting through the heavy air like a blade.
Arion’s pulse quickened. He nodded, as hope stirred in his chest again after so long, fragile but alive.
***