The spirit realm was quieter than usual. No wind. Just the soft shimmer of floating will-o'-wisps drifting like sleeping fireflies between the trees.
Leon lay on his back, sweat cooling against the mossy earth after another round of training. His breaths were steady now, his gaze fixed on the sky above–a sky that pulsed with shifting hues of indigo, silver, violet, as if painted by memory and magic.
For a long time, he said nothing.
His chest rose and fell, and his fingers gripped a blade of strange blue grass beside him. He closed his eyes.
His thoughts flickered–not of battle but of things simpler. His mother's voice. His father's hand resting on his shoulder. The warmth of a village fire. Laughter. Lost faces. He exhaled…and slowly, sleep pulled him into its fold.
It began again.
The dream.
But this time, it felt different. There was no fear clawing at his throat. No suffocating heat from flames. Only…silence.
Leon turned his head.
From the mist, a cloaked figure emerged. Tall. Still. Shrouded in darkness like a forgotten truth. His face remained hidden beneath a shadowed hood, but the air around him twisted with something ancient.
Leon rose to his feet.
He didn't step back. But unease crept behind his calm.
He didn't speak at first. Neither did the Cloaked Man.
The mist between them tensed, as if holding its breath.
"You," Leon whispered.
"I've felt you before…"
The Cloaked Man said nothing.
Leon stepped forward.
"Who are you?"
Still no answer.
"Say something," Leon demanded.
"I'm done pretending you're not real."
A long pause.
Then the Cloaked Man spoke, his voice soft and low–like the wind brushing over old stone.
"Not all truths are spoken aloud."
Leon frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"It means not all questions need answers."
"Not yet."
Leon's jaw tensed.
"Then why are you here? What do you want from me?"
"Want?"
"I only watch."
Leon felt the hairs on his neck rise.
"Watch what?"
"...You."
A chill traced his spine–not from fear, but from the weight behind that single word.
"You've been watching me this whole time?"
"Since before you could understand what it meant to be seen"
"And long after others have stopped looking."
Leon's breath caught.
"Why?"
The Cloaked Man tilted his head–just slightly.
"Because even the stars don't know what you'll become."
Leon's chest rose, slowly.
"Then what am I?"
No answer.
"Say it."
"That is not mine to tell."
The mist began to thicken again, curling around the Cloaked Man's form like smoke drawing back into flame.
Leon stepped forward.
"Wait–what are you hiding from me?"
But the figure was already fading.
"I do not hide," came the last whisper,
"I simply remain unseen."
Then he was gone.
No footsteps.
No sound.
Only mist–and the heaviness of being noticed.
Leon jolted awake, breath steady but cold.
He lay on the stone floor of the spirit glade, light from the glowing crystals above dancing faintly across his face.
His back ached.
But that wasn't just a dream.
That presence–it was real.
A voice broke through the stillness.
"Leon?"
He turned his head.
Miya stepped closer. Concern flickering in her spirit-touched eyes.
"You alright?" she asked.
Leon forced a small smile.
"The same dream…my village...the fire.."
A lie.
But simpler than the truth.
Miya paused for a moment, then said,
"Come. There's something I need to show you."
Leon rose, following her steps across the spirit realm's glowing grove. But something rooted in the dream–haunted by the Cloaked Man's words, his silence, his gaze.
His thoughts wandered like smoke as he walked.
"He watches me…but he waits too"
"For what?"
"Even I don't know yet"
Somewhere between silence and forgotten stars…the wind howled through the peaks of Etherreach like a memory trying to speak. Mist curled around the towing spires carved of the sanctuary, its steps carved into the mountain centuries ago by hands no longer remembered. At the heart of the old temple, the brazier of spirit flame flickered gently–its glow pale blue, barely enough to chase the shadows.
Elder Zephyr stood in the hollow silence of the chamber, his hands clasped behind his back, silver hair stirring in the chill. His eyes, ancient, knowing–were fixed on the stone path outside, where the girl was approaching.
A soft knock echoed.
"Enter," his voice carried, smooth as mountain fog.
The door opened, and a young girl stepped in. Her cloak was travel-worn, the edge damp from the mist. She looked no older than 10 years. Her dark hair was tied messily, beautiful hazel eyes, and her boots still bore the dust of the lower trails.
She bowed stiffly.
"You summoned me, Elder."
Zephyr turned slowly. His gaze rested on her, unreadable.
"Elene," he said, not warmly, but not coldly either, just with the strange weight of a man who sees past the present.
"Have I ever lied to you?"
She blinked.
"No."
"Then trust me now," Zephyr said, stepping forward, his robe moving against the floor.
"What I ask of you is not easy. But it is necessary."
He nodded once.
She straightened, suddenly alert.
"A mission?"
He nodded once.
"You are to find someone," he said.
"A boy. A child of prophecy."
Elene frowned.
"The one everyone believes is dead?"
"Yes. Which makes it all the more urgent that he is not."
"Why me? Her voice was sharp, almost accusing. I'm not even–she stopped herself."
"You're not even Spirit Clan," he finished for her.
"That is what they made you believe."
Her breath caught.
Zephyr continued, voice low:
"Your father was a friend. A brother in all but blood. And he paid for his ideals with exile."
"You never speak of him."
"I speak now, because the winds are changing. And you must ride them."
He walked past her to the brazier, staring into the flame.
"I took you in, not just to protect you, but to prepare you. The world will need clarity...and someone willing to walk in places others fear."
Elene crossed her arms.
"But I'm not ready. I haven't even completed–"
Zephyr turned sharply, eyes glowing faintly with spirit light.
"No one is ever ready for prophecy. Not even the boy you seek."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, she asked,
"Where do I start?"
Zephyr reached into his robe and pulled out a folded map, sealed with a rune. He handed it to her.
"Follow the trail where the veil between realms runs thin. Look for signs. You'll feel him before you see him."
"And if I find him?" she asked.
"Watch him. Learn who he is. What he is. And when the time is right…bring him to me."
Elene looked down at the map, then back at him.
"Do I tell him who I am?"
Zephyr smiled faintly.
"Do you know who you are?"
She opened her mouth, but no words came.
He placed a hand on her shoulder…. gentle, but firm.
"Go. The mountain will whisper your name when it's time for the world to hear it."
And with that, Elene turned, the map tucked close to her chest, and stepped out into the mist once more–into the unknown, where prophecy waited.