The citadel of Caelestis hummed with quiet tension. Word of Ezrael's decision spread through the marble corridors and wind-carved halls like wildfire. The blue-haired heir of the Ashborn bloodline—he who had never descended to the mortal realms—was about to leave.
Ezrael walked through the inner chambers of the palace with a steady, controlled gait. His long robes, the color of twilight, shifted around his frame like living mist. Behind him, two aides hurried to keep pace, arms full of scrolls and garments. He ignored them.
Lord Caldrin trailed at a distance. "If you insist on going, at least bring the windblades and your focus ring. And the escort. All of them."
"No."
Caldrin sighed. "Ezrael—"
"I'm not going to war," he said without looking back. "I'm going to meet someone."
Caldrin's voice turned tight. "You feel something, don't you?"
Ezrael stopped. The breeze that always clung to him stilled. He turned, meeting Caldrin's gaze.
"Yes," he said. "I don't know what it is. But it's enough."
They said goodbye in the Sky Garden—an open terrace where clouds drifted through carved pillars and the air smelled of jasmine. His mother didn't come. She never did for departures. But his younger cousin Neria wept silently and handed him a ribbon from her braid.
"Something to tie you back to the sky," she whispered.
Ezrael gently took her hand and nodded. "Thank you. I'll return."
Moments later, he stood at the edge of the descent platform. The winds howled beneath it—a cyclone woven with spirit magic and ancient aeromancy. It was not meant for common travel. But Ezrael had always walked roads meant for no one.
With a final breath, he stepped forward and vanished into the sky.
The descent through the skies was unlike anything else. Through rings of air and light, Ezrael traveled—not flying, but falling with precision. He passed through cloud-veils that shimmered like memory. Wind pressed against his skin, recognizing him, shielding him.
And then—earth.
He landed on the northern cliffs above Euryale's village.
To a mortal eye, he looked like a dream—his blue hair catching the sunset, his robes fluttering with a rhythm not of this world. He stood alone, watching the ocean stretch before him. Below, the village flickered with warmth—cooking fires, distant voices, children laughing.
He'd never seen life like this.
He descended carefully, cloaking his presence. He didn't want to disrupt them. Not yet.
At the edge of the village, a girl chased butterflies through the long grass. A boy—perhaps eight—ran after her, shouting about flying turtles. Ezrael watched from the shadow of a tree.
Then he saw him.
Euryale stood near the well, holding a bucket in one hand, helping an old man tie it to the pulley. The boy's hair shimmered like riverwater in the light. He moved gently, patiently. He smiled.
Ezrael's breath caught.
It wasn't recognition. But it was something close. Something inevitable.
He stepped back into the trees. Tomorrow. He would introduce himself tomorrow.
Tonight, he would watch the boy who whispered to rivers, and remember that even a storm must learn how to listen.