The Radom orphanage yard shimmered under a late morning sun, two weeks since the Radon Woods nearly broke them. Children darted through tangled thorns, their laughter sharp and clear, wearing linen tunics bought with House Corina’s gold, clean, not patched, a rarity that made them feel like kings for a day. The air carried the lingering scent of roast lamb and honeyed bread, a feast that still warmed their bones and bellies.

  Nerion stood alone, five and wiry, his splinted arms stiff under the minty burn of Moonpetal Salve. His brown hair, matted with sweat, stuck to his brow, but his eyes, clear and blazing, held the same fire that had stared down Kael’s blade.

  Though the complex fractures in his arms were mostly mended, a lingering ache and weakness confirmed the depth of the initial injury. The salve, bought with Manke’s gold and Julieta's parting gift, had worked wonders, but full strength was weeks away. Mikael had avoided the Templo’s Priest, wary of Brotherhood spies lurking in its halls, better slow healing than drawing their gaze to Nerion’s glowing Acupoints.

  One evening, as the sun dipped low and painted the yard in golden hues, Mikael gathered Nerion, Elisha, and Myra in the orphanage attic. The space smelled of dust and old straw, its slanted beams creaking under the weight of secrets, faint cobwebs swaying in the draft from a cracked window.

  Nerion sat cross-legged on a worn blanket, his splints chafing with every shift. Elisha leaned against a beam, his lion-like hair catching the fading light, while Myra crossed her arms, her Centurion’s stance a silent wall of protection.

  "You are healed, runt," Mikael began, his voice devoid of its usual drunken jocularity, rough as gravel scraped raw. "But you were reckless. Stupidly so. You had secured Lady Julieta. You had the escape route. Yet you chose to engage two assassins using a weapon you couldn't control. You were lucky to survive."

  Nerion lowered his head; the reprimand stung more than his arms. "I know, Father. I'm sorry. I won't disobey again."

  Mikael fixed him with a fierce gaze, the attic’s dim light casting harsh shadows on his scarred face. "You should have run. You risked your life and the mission. What if Kael had survived the explosion intact? What if the Cloud Serpent had decided to claim you? You must learn, child, that courage without wisdom is suicide."

  "But I won't lose my family," Nerion muttered, his voice small but stubborn. "Worked out, didn’t it? Julieta’s safe, and I’m still here!" The memory of Rhys’s fist and Arbak’s azure coils tightened his chest, but he shoved it down. Scared or not, I won.

  "And that, pipsqueak, is the only reason your punishment is not worse," Myra said, her reproach sharp, though her eyes betrayed her relief. The tension eased slightly. They all knew Nerion’s defiance came from love, but they couldn't let the risk stand. "Everything worked out because I arrived with a prayer, and because the Wood’s Overlord decided to respect the ancient pact," Mikael ended.

  Nerion accepted his family’s words. He knew they were telling him this for his own good. The group fell quiet for a moment, the attic’s creaks filling the silence, dust motes dancing in the beam of fading light. Mikael leaned back against a stack of old crates, his breath heavy with the strain of the day’s bluff, his meridians still aching from the flare.

  Mikael shifted, his tattered cloak rustling as he drew a fist-sized shard from its folds, its surface swirling with cosmic flecks that pulsed like trapped stars. The attic seemed to hold its breath, the shard’s faint glow painting Nerion’s splinted arms in ethereal light. “This,” Mikael said, voice low as a storm’s rumble, “is the gift the Serpent left for you, Nerion. The Millennium Stone Vein—what the ancients called the Fruit of the Mountain God.”

  Nerion’s eyes widened, the shard’s warmth tingling through his fingers as he stared, mesmerised. Elisha leaned closer, his lion-like hair haloed in the dim light, while Myra’s fingers twitched, as if resisting the urge to snatch the treasure away. “What does it do, Father?” Elisha asked, voice tight with curiosity and caution.

  Mikael turned the shard, its light dancing across the attic’s dusty beams. “A treasure I never saw in my prime. Forged in the heart of mountains over thousands of years, it holds the power to shift fates. With the right craft, it yields Millennial Stone Milk—a prize that could make Legends kneel.” He paused, the shard’s glow catching the scars on his face, each line a story of battles lost. “One drop can push a high-rank Warrior past a decade’s bottleneck. Diluted, it might lift a Saint to new heights, the chance to become a Legend. It’s a spark for wars, and I told the Cloud Serpent its name to save you, runt, though it cost Ansara a chance at power.”

  Elisha and Myra looked at each other, worry evident in their eyes… They knew about Mikael’s injuries. They also understood what this sort of treasure meant for a country. The possibility of a new Legend, or the strengthening of an existing one. Its importance to Ansara was insurmountable. But… Mikael told the Cloud Serpent the truth of the Vein.

  Nerion’s heart thudded, Arbak’s azure coils flashing in his mind. “I won’t tell, Father. I swear.” His voice cracked, the shard’s weight heavy in his small hands as Mikael tossed it to him. The trust was a milestone, a spark of pride flaring in his chest.

  Myra’s braid swung as she leaned forward, her voice sharp. “You’d better not, runt. One whisper, and Rhodar and even some powers in Ansara will burn Radom to ash.” Her eyes softened, betraying the fear beneath her frontier-hard shell.

  Elisha nodded, his usual calm fraying. “Pops, couldn’t you use this treasure to heal yourself?”. Myra looked at Mikael, hope in her eyes. Nerion, who didn’t know about Mikael’s injuries, also looked at his father expectantly.

  Mikael raised a hand, silencing them. “Enough. The Fruit’s power is too raw to use whole; it’d burst your veins. I’ll extract the Milk.” He set the shard on a small forge tucked in the attic’s corner, its coals glowing faintly. With practised movements, his fingers traced arcane sigils, learned in a life Nerion could only imagine. The air grew heavy, the forge’s heat stinging Nerion’s skin as luminous white drops, seven in all, dripped into a vial, each gleaming like molten moonlight.

  “Seven drops,” Mikael said, holding the vial aloft, its light casting long shadows. “I lost a third of its essence. Damn my rusty skills, but it’s enough. These are worth more than Radom itself. If anyone were to learn we have them, we’re gone before dawn. This stays between us.”

  Nerion clutched the shard, its warmth pulsing like a heartbeat. “Can the Stone Milk heal you, Father?” he asked, voice small, Elisha’s earlier words echoing in his mind.

  Mikael’s laugh was rough, tinged with old pain. “With twenty drops, maybe I’d be the Dragon General again. But these seven? One will stabilize my meridians permanently, keep the rot from spreading. That’s enough for now.” He met Nerion’s gaze, softer now. “The rest are for you kids. One drop, diluted, will strengthen the other orphans’ foundations. One for Myra, to push her toward Legate. One for Elisha, to solidify his Praetorian rank. And one for you, runt, to mend those arms and restore your Qi and Mana. Remember. Don’t ever use them undiluted. None of you is able to withstand its might; you will only make yourself explode.”

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  Elisha’s eyes lit up, his stoicism cracking. “Father, that’s… incredible. You’ll be safe.”

  Myra nodded, her jaw tight but eyes wide with gratitude. “We’ll make it count.”

  Nerion’s throat tightened. “Take more, Father. I only need one.” He held out the vial, his splinted arms trembling.

  Mikael pushed it back gently. “One’s enough for me, runt. Seven more, then twelve, might heal me fully, but there’s no guarantee. You keep the other two. Use one to heal, and hold the rest for when you’re ready.” He chuckled, a rare warmth breaking through. “Didn’t expect a treasure like this to fall into your hands.”

  Nerion nodded, swearing silently to save those drops for Mikael, no matter what.

  The attic was steeped in silence, the night’s hush broken only by the faint hoot of an owl beyond Radom’s walls. Elisha and Myra had been dismissed, their footsteps fading down the creaking stairs, leaving Mikael and Nerion alone. The Saint knelt before the boy, his scarred bulk a shadowed mountain in the dim light, yet his eyes held a flicker of something softer, something Nerion had rarely seen. Mikael’s gaze lingered on the five-year-old, and for a moment, he saw Lirian’s fire in those blazing eyes, a ghost from a past etched in blood and loss.

  Mikael reached into his tattered cloak, drawing out a thin cord of strange, dark metal, cool and unyielding. From it hung a small, irregular stone, its surface dull and unremarkable, like a pebble plucked from a forgotten path.

  Yet as Nerion’s eyes locked onto it, a deep ache surged in his chest, unbidden, as if the stone had reached into his soul. He’d never seen it before, but it felt like the weight of his entire life, every sleepless night, every unspoken question, pulsed within its jagged edges. The stone’s warmth whispered against his palm, steady as a heartbeat, as if holding secrets he couldn’t yet hear.

  Tears pricked his eyes, spilling over without reason, and his breath hitched as thoughts flooded his mind: This is mine. This is me. The feeling vanished as quickly as it came, leaving him trembling, wondering if he’d imagined it.

  “Father, what is this?” Nerion whispered, voice cracking, his splinted arms stiff as he reached instinctively toward the stone.

  Mikael’s expression flickered, surprise, then something deeper, a memory of miracles he couldn’t fully grasp. Nerion had been a newborn when he’d appeared in the Radon Woods, wrapped in a tattered blanket, surrounded by a circle of arcane sigils Mikael couldn’t decipher, even with his vast experience. He’d later scoured ancient texts in the Templo’s depths, finding only a whisper of the RAKHNA-AEON spell, a ritual lost to time, tied to AEON’s balance, somehow linked to Nerion’s miraculous arrival.

  Perhaps some fragment of that magic lingered in Nerion, etched into his subconscious, stirring now at the stone’s touch. Mikael pushed the thought aside, focusing on the boy before him.

  Nerion’s tears fell freely, his small frame trembling as he dared to ask the question that had burned in his heart for years. “Father Mikael… do you know who my parents were? Was I abandoned?” His voice broke, raw and desperate. “Don’t misunderstand, I love you, Elisha, Myra, all of you. You’re my family. But I need to know.”

  Myra, lingering near the attic’s edge despite Mikael’s dismissal, couldn’t bear to leave Nerion alone in his pain. She rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him, her braid swinging. Elisha paused at the door, turned back, his lion-like hair catching the faint moonlight, his Praetorian’s calm fraying as Nerion’s words echoed his own buried questions. They were all orphans, and though they buried such questions beneath bravado, Nerion’s words cracked open a wound they all carried.

  Mikael met Nerion’s gaze, his usual gruff jocularity gone, replaced by a tenderness that softened the scars on his face. “You said it right, runt,” he said, voice low and warm. “We’re your family, and this orphanage will always be your home, no matter where you go. But you deserve some answers. In a few days, you’ll turn six. This is your gift, early.” He held out the stone, its faint warmth pulsing against his calloused palm. “This is the Genesis Stone, all that’s left of what your parents gave you… They died soon after you were born. But know this, they loved you fiercely and entrusted you to me to keep you safe.”

  Nerion’s breath stopped for a moment. His parents, real at last, yet gone. “Mama and Papa… they’re dead,” he choked out, voice trembling as he fought to hold back sobs. “But they loved me.” The truth was a blade, cutting deep. He’d clung to a childish hope they might be alive, waiting somewhere. Now that hope was shattered, leaving only the stone’s faint warmth as he took it from Mikael’s hands, its heat steady against his trembling fingers.

  Myra tightened her embrace, her own eyes glistening, while Elisha stepped closer, his hand resting on Nerion’s shoulder. Nerion let the grief take him, burying his face in Myra’s shoulder as sobs shook his small frame. The attic’s dusty air seemed to hold them all, its creaking beams a silent witness to their shared pain.

  Mikael watched the stone in Nerion’s hands, searching for any flicker of power. For years, he’d studied it, noting its constant warmth, unchanging even in frost or fire. It had been with Nerion that day in the Woods, alongside the blanket, but it showed no use in meditation or cultivation, nothing beyond its faint heat.

  He’d hoped it might react to Nerion, but it remained still, a silent relic. Perhaps it was only a keepsake, a final gift from Lirian and Elara. Or perhaps its secrets waited for Nerion to grow stronger.

  Nerion’s sobs quieted, and he lifted his head, wiping his eyes with a splinted arm. He clung to the stone, its warmth a faint echo of the parents he’d never hold. Their absence was a void, sharp and cold, and in that emptiness, a spark of anger kindled. “How did they die?” he asked, voice steadying despite the tremor.

  Mikael’s voice dropped, sharp as a blade. “We don’t know for sure, runt. But it wasn’t natural. That’s all I’ll say, knowing more will only hurt you now.” He leaned closer, his voice a grave whisper. “Listen well, because I’ll say this once: only with strength can you face what took them. Until you’re ready, don’t speak of it. Not to anyone.”

  Nerion’s fists clenched, the stone’s cord biting into his palm as his body shook, not with grief now, but with a fire he’d never felt before. Hatred flared in his young heart, raw and fierce, aimed at the faceless enemies who’d stolen his parents.

  He’d always wanted strength, to protect the orphanage, to seize his own fate for the right to know of his origin, but now a sharper purpose took root. He would grow strong enough to uncover the truth, to face those who’d robbed him of Lirian and Elara’s love.

  That love, he realised, was a child’s greatest treasure, and its loss fueled a rage against his own weakness.

  But as his eyes lifted, he saw Myra’s worried gaze, Elisha’s steady hand, and Mikael’s quiet strength. Their love, fierce and unwavering, poured into the cracks of his heart. The hatred shifted, melting into something deeper, a burning love for this family, for the orphanage that had cradled him, for the parents who’d ensured he’d find this home. “Thank you,” Nerion whispered, voice thick with emotion.

  Myra flicked his forehead gently, her voice teasing but warm. “You silly runt, thanking us like we’re strangers? We’ll always be here when you need us.”

  Elisha nodded, his rare smile softening his natural stoic’s poise, while Mikael’s lips twitched, a ghost of a grin.

  Years later, Nerion would look back on this moment, wondering what might have become of him without the orphanage’s love.

  Perhaps rage and grief would have consumed him, twisting him into something dark, a force of vengeance that could have burned Aeonia to ash. But Mikael, Elisha, and Myra had anchored him, their love a shield against that fate.

  The Balance of AEON, capricious as it seemed, had spared him for another path, perhaps leaving another to bear such wrath in his place.

  Nerion’s heart steadied, a quiet joy settling in his chest. The stone’s warmth felt like a promise, his spirit lighter despite the pain. He looked at Mikael, his voice soft but firm. “Can I at least know their names?”

  Mikael studied him, then nodded. “Yes, but you must keep them secret, locked in your heart. Not a word to anyone, not for years. Promise me.” When Nerion nodded, his eyes blazing with resolve, Mikael’s voice softened.

  “Your parents’ names were Lirian and Elara.”

  “Lirian and Elara… Lirian and Elara…” Nerion whispered the names, each syllable a vow etched into his soul.

  He clutched the Genesis Stone, its warmth a tether to parents he’d never know.

  One day, he swore, he’d speak their names aloud with pride, not fear. He’d grow strong enough to make them proud, strong enough to carry their names into a world that would tremble at his rise.