I continued to lightly tapping my fingers along the armrest of my throne, my thoughts swirling as I considered the best way to approach this. He was just a child, after all, and I couldn't say I had much experience with children. They were unpredictable—wild creatures, really. But that was precisely why this moment had to be handled with care. The world he would inherit would demand much of him, and his first lesson must be taught well.
"Yasin. Come here."
The words hung in the air for a moment, their weight lingering as the silence stretched. He took a breath, pausing to process my command. Then, with a hesitant yet determined movement, he stood and began his approach. His white robes swayed gracefully around his ankles, a stark contrast to the ragged, scavenged clothing of those surviving in this broken, apocalyptic world. Here, in the ruins of civilization, people had learned to make use of every scrap of cloth, every torn piece of fabric—whatever they could salvage. Yet Yasin, in this moment, looked entirely different. His attire was pristine, almost regal.
A gleaming white jacket sat atop a soft undershirt, the golden sash at his waist shimmering like a beacon. His pants were equally white, matching the aura of purity he now exuded. A large headpiece adorned his brow—an intricate design featuring a feather that curled elegantly, its tip brushing the air like a delicate touch, and a polished gem that sparkled in the dim light. His brown sandals, simple but refined, carried him with purpose toward me.
The shift in his attire was striking, a transformation that stood in stark contrast to the clothes of the scavengers—those who were simply surviving. No, Yasin was meant for something more. Something greater. This new look wasn't just for show. It was a step toward the role I had planned for him, one that would shape his destiny.
I watched intently as he closed the distance between us, his movements measured, his eyes focused ahead. When he reached the halfway point between us, I raised my hand, pointing to the space before me. A surge of magic coursed through me, and I shot a beam of energy down to the floor, watching as the very fabric of the air trembled. The stone beneath him shifted, and before Yasin could take another step, a fire pit materialized before him.
It was a thing of beauty, a marvel of craftsmanship. The edges were lined with pristine white stones, their surfaces gleaming as though they were bathed in the light of distant stars. Inside the pit, neatly cut pieces of wood lay arranged with precision, as though prepared for some grand ceremony. I had no intention of creating just a simple fireplace for him. This was more than that.
With a snap of my fingers, the space behind Yasin shimmered, and another throne—almost identical to mine—materialized. It was larger, imposing, and yet perfectly fitting for him. It loomed behind him like an extension of his potential, the seat of power I intended for him to claim.
"Have a seat," I commanded, my voice smooth and authoritative, yet carrying a weight of expectation.
Yasin hesitated for only a moment, before stepping forward and settling into the throne I had conjured for him. His posture straightened, his expression filled with a mixture of uncertainty and curiosity.
This was just the beginning.
Yasin sat slowly into the throne, his movements deliberate, as though the weight of the seat was heavier than it appeared. His small frame seemed lost in the grandeur of the chair, its high back towering over him. He looked around at the fire pit that now lay before him, the pristine white stones glowing in the dimness of the chamber. The scent of freshly conjured magic lingered in the air, tingling like a faint breeze. He was still processing everything, his eyes wide with wonder and confusion.
I watched him for a moment before raising my hand again, weaving a subtle thread of power. A tiny flicker of flame sprouted in the center of the fire pit, its orange hue dancing delicately in the air. Slowly, with the grace of a serpent, the fire began to spread across the arranged logs, licking each piece of wood with warmth. The crackling sound of the fire's spread was a soft hum, but in the silence of the room, it felt almost deafening.
I looked at Yasin, his young face illuminated by the flickering light. "What do you think of your world, Yasin?" My voice was soft but carried an edge, testing. It was a simple question, but I already knew the answer. He was just a child, after all, still unaware of the vastness around him.
He blinked, his gaze flicking between the flames and me, trying to make sense of what I was asking. His small hands, clasped in his lap, shifted slightly. Then, he spoke, his voice unsure, like a breeze that hadn't found its direction. "The world?" He said the word as if it was foreign to him, a concept he had never been asked to consider.
I couldn't help but laugh—a sound that was more amused than cruel, but with a note of dark amusement all the same. "Ah, the world. It's everything around you, Yasin. The land, the sky, the people... it's the very fabric of existence. What you see, what you touch, what you cannot see." I waved my hand dismissively, as though the answer should have been obvious.
His brow furrowed slightly, confusion flickering across his face. He didn't understand, and that was fine. A child couldn't grasp the weight of such a concept in an instant, nor was it fair to expect him to.
I leaned back in my throne, watching him closely. He would learn. That much was certain. But for now, I had another lesson to teach him.
I raised my hand again, but this time, I twisted the air itself. The smoke rising from the fire seemed to shift, curling into tendrils of black mist that twisted and twined together. Slowly, with a fluid motion, I shaped the smoke into a figure—darker than shadows, yet clear in its form. The smoke swirled, coiling like a living entity, and gradually, it took shape.
The figure that emerged from the smoke was eerie, a twisted reflection of something once human. Its skin was eroded and ravaged, disfigured and falling away in places, leaving behind grotesque patches of bone and sinew. Its skull, too, had been crushed, deformed as though it had been smashed beneath the weight of an ancient curse. The creature seemed to exist somewhere between the living and the dead, a perverse mockery of life.
The figure hovered in front of Yasin, and its hollow eyes locked onto his, staring at him with an unsettling, unblinking gaze. It was a vision of terror and decay, of things long forgotten and left to rot. The scene surrounding it was even more haunting—this creature, with its disfigured body, stood in a barren desert, surrounded by an oasis that had long turned to dust. What had once been life-giving water now sat stagnant and poisoned, the remains of life scattered across the cracked earth.
"Do you see this, Yasin?" I asked softly, my voice just a whisper above the crackling fire. "This is a glimpse of the world as it truly is. It is not pretty, and it is not kind. But it is real. And you will need to understand it if you are to lead it."
Yasin's eyes were wide, his lips parted in a silent gasp. He didn't speak, only stared at the monstrous figure and the scene it portrayed. The air grew heavy, thick with the oppressive atmosphere of the vision. The figure in the smoke twitched slightly, as though it were aware of our presence, its skeletal hands reaching toward the child in the throne.
I could see the unease building in Yasin's eyes, and yet, I said nothing. His fear, his uncertainty—these were necessary emotions. They would shape him. If he was to rule, to manage what would come in my absence, then he needed to know the darkness, to understand it fully.
"Now, do you understand?" I asked, my voice soft but laced with power. The figure twisted in the smoke, turning its head as though to look at Yasin in judgment. "The world is not a kind place, Yasin. But it can be controlled. And you, like me, will learn to bend it to your will. That is your task."
I let the vision linger for a moment longer before snapping my fingers, causing the smoke to dissipate. The figure vanished, leaving only the fire's warmth behind.
I sat back, studying Yasin's face. He hadn't yet fully grasped the depth of what I had shown him, but he would. I c ould see the seed of something in him—a curiosity, a thirst for understanding. It was a beginning. And that was all that mattered.
The fire in the pit flickered softly, its flames still dancing lazily across the logs, but the smoke and the haunting figure I had conjured had already dissipated. The oppressive atmosphere I had woven with it lingered in the air, but with a snap of my fingers, I extinguished the flames completely. The pit went dark, the warmth evaporating as quickly as it had appeared, leaving only the faint scent of charred wood.
Yasin watched in silence, his wide eyes still tracing the traces of smoke, still lost in the remnants of the eerie figure I had summoned. For a moment, the chamber was quiet again, save for the soft rustling of his garments as he shifted uneasily in the throne.
I leaned forward, resting my chin on my hand, watching him closely. His expression was one of confusion, uncertainty—and something else too, something akin to fear. It was good. Fear kept the mind sharp, aware. But now, it was time for him to learn another lesson.
"Yasin," I said, my voice as calm as the still air in the room. "Light the fire again."
I didn't give him much more of an explanation. The words were simple, direct. He needed to learn that power, once extinguished, could always be reignited. That the world didn't simply take form on its own; it needed to be molded, reshaped. And it was his responsibility to learn how to do that.
Okay, I'm bullshitting. But it sounded good.
I looked toward Yasin. He hesitated, his small hands twitching slightly, unsure of what to do. I could see the wheels turning in his mind, trying to make sense of the task. Then, with a deep breath, he stood from the throne and stepped toward the fire pit, his hands trembling ever so slightly.
He knelt before the pit, studying the now-cold wood, the white stones surrounding it, and the ashes left behind by the previous flame. There was no magic to it—not yet, anyway. He was a child, still learning. But I had no doubt he could manage this task.
Though I had shown him how to use his powers during the feast, this was his first real test.
I raised an eyebrow as he placed his palms over the cold stone, closing his eyes in concentration. He wasn't sure how to go about it—his gift, still young and unrefined, flickered just beneath the surface.
With a slow exhale, I stretched out my hand once more, extending the tiniest of threads of power to him. Not enough to do it for him, but enough to nudge him in the right direction. It was a gentle prod, nothing more than a whisper, and I watched carefully.
A flicker of light sparked to life between his hands—weak at first, barely a shimmer against the darkness within the pit. He grimaced, frustration etching into his face as the tiny flame blinked out before he could shape it. His hands trembled as he tried again.
I could sense his struggle, his unease. He was reaching, pulling at the magic within him, but it was raw, not yet honed.
"You can do it," I said, the words almost a murmur, but they carried weight, like the faintest push of a mountain breeze. "You're the one who controls this, Yasin. Not the world. Not the flames. Not even me. Do it."
Yasin's small chest heaved with his deep breath, his eyes narrowing in focus. He raised his hands once more. This time, the flame responded. A tiny, flickering light pulsed to life in his palms, slowly growing brighter as he fed more of his will into it. It was fragile, but it was there. The fire was alive again.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he moved his hands toward the pit, and the flame shot forward, spreading across the wood. The pit flared to life once more, the flames roaring back into existence, filling the chamber with light and heat. The warmth returned, and the crackling sounds echoed through the air as the fire began to burn.
"Well done, Yasin," I said, leaning back in my throne once more. The fire danced before us, now burning fiercely, the air thick with the scent of wood and warmth.
I gave a soft chuckle, watching him for a moment longer. "This," I continued, "is the first step. A ruler must always have control over the flames of hope. You must learn to wield it—to keep it alive, to snuff it out when necessary, and to use it to shape the world around you. The power is yours. Never forget that."
Yasin remained kneeling before the pit, his chest still rising and falling with the effort. His young face was flushed with concentration, but beneath it, I could see the glimmer of realization settling in his eyes. It was a beginning. But there was more to learn. And much more to teach him.