The sun had long dipped below the horizon, but Zerathis remained wide awake.
The dream clung to him like a damp mist, heavy, inescapable, and far too vivid. He had seen himself not as the boy trained in scripture and sword, but as Azradris, the Heavenly Demon. His dream-self commanded armies, silenced elders with a look, and ruled sects that once warred with each other. The memory or illusion was soaked in an unsettling clarity.
And the name... Azradris.
It echoed in his head like the toll of a divine bell, resonating with something far deeper than he could understand.
Unrest in Silence
The days that followed blurred together. While others meditated for inner peace, Zerathis found only disquiet.
Each night, he wandered deeper into the temple, as though guided by instinct. His body moved on its own like his feet remembered a path that his mind could not.
On the seventh night, something pulled him beyond the known archives of the sanctum. Past layers of forbidden scriptures, ancient blueprints of sect alliances, and long-abandoned heretical texts. Until he reached a section that had no documented map.
A hidden stairway, revealed behind a misaligned shelf.
Cobwebs laced its corners. Dust choked the air, and yet, something hummed in welcome as he stepped into the darkness.
The Forbidden Seal
At the bottom stood a great iron door, engraved with nine sigils that shimmered faintly. Unlike divine seals meant to ward off intruders, these didn't resist his approach. They trembled ...like they recognized him.
His fingertips brushed the central symbol, shaped like a coiled dragon.
The reaction was immediate.
A searing pulse ripped through his veins, causing his knees to buckle. His chest burned with unseen markings. The sigils flared ; then vanished.
The door creaked open.
Inside was a singular chamber. Dust fell like snow. At its center sat a pedestal clutching a dark relic : an obsidian claw grasping a violet orb, humming with unfathomable power.
He stepped forward, hand trembling.
The moment his skin touched the orb
The world vanished. He didn't scream, He couldn't.
Power which neither celestial, nor demonic, but something untamed and elemental flooded into his body. His bones shook. His breath caught. His heart thundered like a war drum. Markings of ancient script spiraled up his arms in a glowing cascade. The ground cracked beneath his feet.
And then—
Blackness.
No sound.
No air.
Just cold, endless dark.
At the Edge of Dawn , a soft breeze stirred the dust, Zerathis gasped, coughing violently as his body stirred awake. He was lying at the base of the iron door, now firmly shut. The sigils glowed faintly again, but this time with a subdued energy almost… protective. He clutched his chest. The symbol that had flared the night before was gone.
His robe was scorched at the sleeves.
The violet orb .. gone.
In its place was a scroll, resting atop a small stone slab that hadn't been there before. He reached for it with shaking hands and unfurled it.
> "He who bears the whisper of all elements walks with the echo of dragons.
Fate does not bind him, for he is its challenger. Seek the Eye of the Abyss."<
The words weren't in any language he knew yet they resonated, translating themselves in his mind.
And then came the whispers, not voices ,not hallucinations. Whispers from the world itself. The soft hush of stone. The breath of air. The flicker of unseen flames. The groan of rooted earth. The subtle pulse of water underfoot.
The elements were speaking to him.
Unseen by Zerathis, from the shadowed edge of the corridor, Elder Kaelrin stood still, staff in hand, a deep furrow on his brow. The gem in his staff throbbed faintly.
"That aura… not celestial, not demonic… this child…" He had only ever felt something similar once long ago, in the presence of the Heavenly Demon, He narrowed his eyes.
"Could it be… rebirth?"
He clenched his jaw. "No... not yet. I must observe."
He vanished back into the shadows.
Following the echoes
Zerathis made his way back to the living quarters, the scroll hidden in his sleeve. Though the temple was waking to the sounds of chants and bells, he felt no part of this routine anymore. Something within him had shifted. Gears long rusted had begun to turn. Even the priests who passed him paused a little longer, their gazes uncertain. His aura had changed—though none could explain how.
And among it all, he could still hear the whispers.
Faint murmurs in the wind. Echoes in the fire. Rhythms in the ground.
Later that evening, a traveling emissary from the southern branch of the Church arrived—an elder in his mid-years, dressed in ceremonial robes. His presence caused ripples among the clergy, but none knew why he had truly come. As he passed Zerathis in the corridor, he halted mid-step.
The boy's presence…
The aura…
It was impossible.
"That energy… it cannot be… a child?"
He said nothing more. But that night, the emissary met secretly with Elder Kaelrin.
"I felt something today," he whispered, voice wary. "Something that should not exist in this realm."
Kaelrin simply nodded, gaze unreadable.
That night, Zerathis returned to the door. The scroll still burned in his hand.
But the whispers… they were growing louder.
He wasn't just being called.
He was being watched.
Not by gods.
Not by men.
But by something ancient—something buried beneath the stone and time of the world.
He stepped back, staring at the iron door.
"…Who am I?"
And in response, the wind whispered back:
"Azradris...!!!"