"Tell me, Aiden — what do you understand about the Awakening?"
"Just what Mother told me. That it's a turning point — when strength and truth finally reveal themselves."
Arinthal nodded, his expression thoughtful. "She told you much... But knowing and facing are never the same."
Aiden's brow furrowed. "I'm not sure what you mean, Father."
His words lingered between them as Arinthal's gaze drifted to the horizon, his shoulders sinking ever so slightly. A long breath slipped from his chest, heavy with thought.
"Do you know my age?" Arinthal asked, his voice tinged with nostalgia and quiet amusement.
Aiden hesitated, uncertain. "Maybe... around a billion years old?"
Arinthal's laughter echoed through the clearing, fine lines etching into his face as his eyes crinkled.
"You think your old man is that ancient?" He chuckled. "I'm only about eighty million."
Aiden's eyes widened. "But how can you be that strong? And how could— Mom is so—"
"Hold your horses, brat," Arinthal cut in. "Want to make your life harder by saying things you shouldn't?"
[Note: In this world, power typically correlates to age and experience — an idea to be expanded in future chapters.]
Arinthal's gaze lingered on Aiden before he asked, "Do you know what will happen during the Awakening?"
Aiden's voice filled with conviction. "During the Awakening, we gain exposure to cosmic fate. And then... we will rise."
Arinthal's gaze sharpened toward the horizon, his voice low and distant. "Yes. You will rise."
Aiden's eyes narrowed slightly, the wheels of thought turning behind his steady calm. "But what does 'rise' mean to you, Father?"
"Hmph." Arinthal's eyes swirled with old memories. "In a time long forgotten — before the Primordial Cosmos War — mortals lived here on this planet, when it was still called Earth."
"They lived in blissful ignorance, unaware of the weight of cosmic fate. Do you understand what mortal means?"
Aiden replied without hesitation, "Mortals lacked exposure to cosmic fate."
Arinthal tilted his head. "Then are you mortal now, Aiden?"
Aiden nodded, unsure.
"You're wrong. Mortals then and mortals now are vastly different."
He continued, "Mortals today possess free fate, untethered from cosmic destiny. But back then, their freedom was an illusion. The architects of reality wove deception into the very fabric of existence."
"In the beginning, when fate did not yet exist, reality was a weave of chaos and the whispers of the Forgotten Gods."
Arinthal's gaze deepened. "From that chaos, a few brave souls rose. The Guardians of the Cosmos. They shattered the false veil, seeking truth."
Aiden's mind stirred, his curiosity sharpening. "What were the Forgotten Gods like?"
Arinthal's face turned somber. "Beings of immense power, born from chaos itself. Their whispers shaped worlds and crafted illusions to trap mortal minds."
Aiden stayed silent, storing the knowledge carefully.
"The Guardians waged a war that spanned eons, unraveling the threads of deceit, revealing the hidden truth. That war became the Primordial Cosmos War."
Aiden, thoughtful as ever, asked quietly, "What happened to the Guardians? Are any of them still alive?"
Arinthal's voice dropped to a soft, reflective tone. "Gods don't die. But the Guardians were mortals. Some fell — their essence scattered across the cosmos. Others, through death, transcended into Elder Ones, becoming guides of reality."
Aiden's voice firmed. "I want to learn more about them."
Arinthal's smile was gentle. "Your path will reveal the truth, Aiden. But first... you must face the trial."
Suddenly, the air trembled. The Ancient Tree's branches quivered, and the wildflowers seemed to lean inward, as though eavesdropping.
"What's happening?" Aiden asked, his senses alert.
Arinthal's gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "The Awakening begins. Your trial is at hand."
"Go prepare, Aiden."
As Aiden departed, Arinthal stood in silence. Without turning, he called, "Brat, have you eavesdropped enough?"
From beneath the shadows of the nearby tree, the darkness rippled like stirred water. The shade stretched, weaving through roots and leaves, the forest shadows pulsing together until they converged at a single point.
As if exhaling, the darkness folded inward — and Lyra stepped forward, her form blooming from the shadows as though they'd simply given her back.
Her eyes sparkled with mischief, though a trace of nervousness lingered. "Baba, you caught me!"
The forest light returned to normal, the disturbance erased. Even Aiden, sharp and trained, hadn't noticed her there.
Arinthal's voice deepened, his gaze firm. "Spying again, are you?"
But the sternness couldn't fully mask the soft curve at the corner of his lips — a father's fondness for his youngest, too strong to suppress.
Lyra's curiosity flickered. "Why don't you tell him the whole truth, Baba?" she asked, her gaze momentarily chasing a drifting butterfly.
"You're not all the same, Lyra," Arinthal said. "Each of you walks a different path. For Aiden... ignorance is a kindness, for now."
Lyra held his gaze, and with a small nod, whispered, "I won't tell him. I promise."
Arinthal's expression softened. "Let's go. They've arrived."
As they walked, Lyra looked up at the Ancient Tree. "Baba, won't Sister Tree be coming to watch?"
Arinthal chuckled. "Why do you call everyone 'sister'? Even our earliest ancestors weren't old enough for that title."
A ripple passed through the clearing. The leaves rustled, animals stirred, and low growls rumbled from the underbrush — a shared protest from the world itself, as if offended on the old tree's behalf.
But none stepped forward. The beasts and plants had long since adapted to him, like an old scar on the earth.
Arinthal let the moment pass, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Tch. Some things never change," he muttered. "You've all hated my tongue since the day I first stepped here."
Looking skyward, he added, "No need to worry. She can see the whole universe from sitting right here."
A pause, and his smile crooked. "Well, rooting here, to be precise."
The plants rustled again, a soft wave of scolding in their own wordless way.
Lyra's lips twitched into a quiet smile, matching his playfulness as they walked.
After a moment, Arinthal glanced at her. "You know... even I was surprised when you said you could see her." His voice softened. "I've wandered this world longer than you've been alive, and I still can't sense her."
He tilted his head slightly. "And? How did she appear to you? I always imagined her as an old spirit — ancient and grumpy."
Lyra looked up, her gray eyes glittering with playful cunning, though she kept her voice steady.
Arinthal caught the flicker of her sly smile and
sighed, half-laughing.
"Hmph. Forget I asked. Your mother would scold me for encouraging that sly little head of yours."