Dunreth.

  A modest town nestled along the banks of a wide river, Dunreth thrived as a bustling hub of trade, built around its vital port. Low wooden and red-bricked houses stood sturdy against the coastal winds, while the steady flow of travelers and merchants filled its narrow roads. Wisps of smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the scent of roasting meat and burning wood. Along the waterfront, fishermen hauled in their catches as traders bartered over goods from distant lands.

  In the heart of the settlement, villagers finished the last of their evening tasks—women hauling water in clay jugs, men leading donkeys laden with sacks of grain, and children kicking up dust as they ran barefoot, their laughter threading through the salty evening air.

  Just off the main path, at the village’s entrance, stood a lively tavern. Its wooden sign, The Roaming Boar, creaked in the breeze, lantern light spilling from the windows. The low hum of voices and the clinking of mugs drifted into the twilight.

  Xur exhaled, pulling the reins. "Dunreth," he muttered, casting a glance at Arion. "I know the innkeeper. Let’s hope he’s here today." He dismounted with practiced ease.

  Arion nodded, tugging his hood lower over his face. Dunreth was a place of travelers—merchants, traders, and even Aetherian soldiers passing through. They couldn’t afford the wrong kind of attention.

  Inside, the tavern was dim, thick with the mingling scents of spiced meat, stale ale, and burning oil lamps. Laughter punctuated the quiet murmur of conversation, the clatter of plates and mugs filling the gaps. Dust-covered men drank to forget the day’s burdens, while others ate with single-minded hunger.

  Waitresses weaved between tables, balancing trays with practiced grace. Their eyes flicked toward the two cloaked figures, lingering only a moment before moving on.

  Arion took it all in. Dunreth was nothing like Aetheria. Here, the people lived as they pleased—no temple laws, no sacred rituals, no Royal restrictions. Ale flowed as freely as water, and no one sought divine favor before indulging in their vices.

  Xur approached the counter. "Is Ronan here?"

  The innkeeper, a burly man with graying hair, glanced up from wiping a mug. "Just left. His wife sent for him." He eyed them both, a slow grin spreading across his face. "I’m his brother. What can I do for you, lads?"

  Arion turned to Xur, waiting for him to speak, but Xur hesitated, weighing whether to trust him.

  The innkeeper chuckled. "Oh, come on now. I know Temple folk when I see them. No need to be shy—no one judges here."

  Arion and Xur exchanged a wary look.

  "Here," the innkeeper said, reaching for a bottle. "First drinks on the house." He poured two glasses, sliding them across the counter with an easy wink. "Won’t tell a soul. Go on, helps with the stress."

  Arion opened his mouth to refuse, but before he could, Xur picked up the glass and downed it in one go.

  Arion shot him a look.

  Xur shrugged. "What?"

  Arion exhaled, turning his attention back to the innkeeper. "Since you already know who we are," he said, his voice edged with urgency, "have you seen any other Temple folk passing through?"

  "Passing through?" The innkeeper let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "They live here now—been about six months."

  The words hit Arion like a punch to the chest. His breath caught, and for the first time in what felt like forever, a weight began to lift.

  Alive! They were alive.

  "Where?" His voice came out urgent, almost demanding. "Guide us to them."

  The innkeeper wiped his hands on a rag, glancing between Arion and Xur. "The elders of Dunreth let them stay in a shed near the old windmill on the far side of the village. It ain't much, but it’s shelter."

  Arion barely heard the rest. He turned sharply, already heading for the door.

  "Arion!" Xur called after him.

  But he was already outside, striding toward his horse. His fingers trembled as he gripped the reins, swinging himself into the saddle. The grey stallion shifted under him, sensing his urgency.

  Xur sighed, mounting his Re’em. "At least slow down!"

  Arion didn’t. He kicked his horse forward, galloping through the village streets, the cool night air whipping against his face.

  His heart pounded with every hoofbeat.

  Six months.

  Who had survived? How had they endured? Would they hate him for leaving?

  The village blurred past him—startled merchants, flickering lanterns, the scent of charred meat and burning wood thick in the air. He barely noticed.

  The windmill loomed ahead, its battered wooden blades creaking softly in the breeze. Beside it stood a small, weathered shed, barely holding itself together. Patched wood, a sagging roof, smoke faintly curling from a small fire outside.

  His chest tightened.

  ***

  As soon as he reached the clearing, he yanked the reins. His horse reared before skidding to a halt. Arion leapt off, boots hitting the dirt hard.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Arion rushed for the door. Just as he reached for the handle, it flew open. A shadow moved—fast. A wooden staff swung for his head. He barely ducked before something else crashed into his legs, tackling him to the ground.

  Xur was off the Re’em in an instant, his sword flashing in the dim light. "Let him go!" His voice rang with steel.

  The figure in the doorway, a broad-shouldered man raised his staff defensively. "Leave us be! We have nothing for you!"

  Arion lay frozen on the ground. That voice.

  "Kaelen," Arion breathed.

  A pause. The weight on his legs shifted.

  "How do you know me, show yourself," Kaelen demanded.

  Arion sat up and pushed back his hood; breath heavy. "It’s me. Arion."

  A gasp. Then, a small cry, "Arion!" followed by a blur of movement, and suddenly, a small figure barreled into him, it was Kony.

  Arion smiled at Kony “Kony it’s me!”

  Kony’s breath hitched as though he couldn’t trust his own eyes. “Arion?” he whispered again, softer this time—as if speaking the name might shatter the vision before him. Then he threw himself forward, wrapping tiny arms around Arion’s chest. His little face pressed into Arion’s tunic, shaking with muffled sobs.

  Kaelen staggered back; eyes wide. His breath hitched, and for a moment, he just stared, as if afraid this was some cruel illusion.

  "You’re alive," he whispered with his voice breaking.

  Arion nodded, unable to speak past the tightness in his throat.

  Kaelen took a shaky step forward before grabbing Arion's arm, hauling him to his feet and then pulling him into a crushing embrace.

  It wasn’t just a greeting. It was everything. It was relief and hope.

  Arion clenched his jaw, gripping Kaelen just as fiercely, as if letting go would mean losing him again. Behind them, Xur exhaled, sheathing his sword.

  "I’m sorry I wasn’t there," Arion whispered.

  Kaelen met his gaze, exhaustion darkening his features, yet his voice was steady. "I’m glad for everything that happened the way it did," he said. "Otherwise, none of us would have made it."

  Arion clenched his jaw. The guilt still burned.

  "They were too many," Kaelen continued grimly. "The temple never stood a chance. They took them by surprise." Kaelen looked down as he continued, "We waited for you for a few hours, when you and Elara didn't return we went back to the temple to get Rezar but, nothing remained there."

  Arion’s fingers curled into fists. "How many survived?"

  Kaelen didn’t answer. Instead, he gestured toward the shed.

  Arion stepped inside, Xur and Kony at his heels.

  The air was thick with the scent of damp wood and burning herbs. Beds—if they could be called that—lined the floor, nothing more than rags and thin mats. Elders lay upon them, bodies frail, eyes dulled by hunger and exhaustion.

  Among them, the last remnants of the Custodians. Men. Women. Children. The youngest barely ten. They sat in clusters, whispering in low voices, their faces pale with hunger and something far worse—hopelessness.

  A murmur spread as a few young men and women recognized Arion. Some brightened. Others stared, as if afraid to believe he was real.

  Then, a voice broke through the hush.

  "Some joined that bastard king..." A boy, no older than sixteen, rose to his feet, his fists clenched. His voice trembled with rage. "Our own kin abandoned us… like cowards."

  The words ignited something. Murmurs turned to bitter grumbling.

  Xur stepped forward, his presence like a storm rolling in. When he spoke, his voice was steel.

  "Many of you may not know me. And those who do may not know my truth. I am Xur." He let the name settle over them.

  Gasps rippled through the room.

  "Is that really you Xur?" an elder murmured in surprise as he sat up. “You w-were one of the Mutineers!” the old man said with spite in his tone. “And we’re to believe you’ve returned to help us?”

  Xur’s gaze fell down, “I know you wouldn’t believe me, but I was banished from Aetheria on false charges, but I never stopped serving the Aether."

  Arion looked at the confused looks everyone had, he could see the doubt in their eyes.

  “You’re right to question master elder,” Arion finally spoke, “You may only know what the temple told you and not know the whole truth about Xur.”

  Arion slowly walked ahead as he looked at everyone in the eyes as he continued, “But you know me, I was born in the Temple, I grew up with you all. I am the son of Overseer Omid Faris. I vouch for Xur. I trust him. And if you all trust me, you will have to trust him.”

  The young custodians nodded at Arion. The elder slid back into his bed with a resigned look on his face.

  Xur spoke again as his gaze swept over them, sharp and unyielding. "Six months have passed since the sacking of the Temple. And now, we have reason to believe that the God who grants us Aether has spoken." His voice rose. "It is time we fight back. It’s time we take back what was stolen."

  But he was met with absolute silence for a moment.

  "Look at us!" a man spat, his voice breaking with desperation.

  "How do you expect us to fight without our magic?" another cried, his hands trembling.

  A wave of voices rose, crashing against each other like a storm at sea. Frustration, sorrow, and fear spilling from every throat.

  Arion stood still in the center of it all.

  He let their grief wash over him; the hollow eyes, the hunched shoulders, the way even the children sat clutching each other for warmth.

  Then—Shhhhnk. Steel rang through the shed like a clarion call.

  The voices died at once.

  Arion held Aegis aloft, the blade’s greensand runes flaring to life. Aether’s glow pulsed along its length, thrumming like a heartbeat. The light spilled across the walls, chasing back the shadows, flickering over faces lined with despair.

  Gasps rippled through the crowd.

  Slowly, he let his robe fall away.

  The glow of his gauntlet lit the room in waves, Aether coursing through its engravings with steady, unstoppable force.

  Kaelen staggered back, his staff lowering. "How… how is this possible?"

  Arion’s voice was quiet at first, yet it seemed to fill the space.

  "We may be broken. Beaten. But hear me…" he stepped forward, his gaze sweeping the room, "God never abandoned us."

  From the doorway, Kony’s small voice cut through the silence.

  "That’s… that’s a Re’em!" Kony’s face in shock as he pointed at the creature everyone mistook for a simple horse.

  All eyes turned to the window.

  Outside, the Re’em stood like a vision of the divine. Its ethereal body shimmered, liquid starlight dancing across its form. Aether surged through it, crackling in the air, sending waves of power into the ground itself.

  The sight held them all in awed silence.

  Arion turned back to the room, his voice rising, not shouting but carrying a strength that seemed to shake the very walls.

  "They slaughtered our brothers. Our fathers. Our mothers and our sisters. They burned our home to ash. He took our sacred Aether. The red king thinks he buried us."

  His eyes blazed like coals. "But the fool does not realize,"

  He lifted Aegis higher, its glowing runes flaring like a beacon.

  "Seeds buried in the ground do not die."

  His voice deepened, resonant, unshakable.

  "They rise."

  Arion’s steps were slow but sure as he moved through the crowd, locking eyes with every soul.

  "We are all that remains of the Temple. But we are enough."

  He raised his gauntleted fist.

  "Tell me, brothers and sisters—will we cower in the shadows of what we once were?"

  The glow from Aegis burned brighter.

  "Or will we rise from the ashes and fight! Fight to honor our sworn duty, even if it means death?"

  The silence that followed was different now. It was taut and alive.

  Kaelen inhaled sharply, knuckles white around his staff.

  Then the eldest scholar, frail but unbowed, pushed himself from his bed. His voice was cracked and soft, but it carried.

  "I will fight, for the Aether!"

  The words hung in the air like a spark in dry grass.

  Another voice joined, stronger this time.

  "For the Aether!"

  A third.

  A fourth.

  Soon the cry became a roar, filling the shed, shaking loose the dust from its beams.

  "For the Aether! For the Aether!"

  Outside, the Re’em reared up, its glowing body cutting through the night like a bolt of lightning.

  The storm had come with an intent, to burn the world clean.

  ***