In the small town of Emberfall, magic was as common as the air people breathed.
From the humblest task of washing clothes to the grand work of building homes and tending farms, the townsfolk relied on the Aether—the invisible, ever-present lifeblood of magic—to sustain their daily lives.
To most, magic was simply a tool.
But for Schillian, magic was a mystery. It was a dream. It was alive.
Schillian's parents, both humble innkeepers, never understood his fascination.
They only saw magic as dangerous—an unpredictable force that should be left in the hands of trained sorcerers.
To them, the world beyond Emberfall's walls was filled with monsters and corruption, and a peaceful life was far safer than any life filled with ambition.
They thought of their son's gift with a mixture of bewilderment and concern.
But Schillian wasn't like the others.
He didn't see magic as a mere tool. He saw the Aether itself—the shimmering mist that swirled around them. To Schillian, it was a constant presence, just like the sunlight filtering through the trees, or the wind sweeping through the streets.
It wasn't something to use or control; it was something to understand.
But the more Schillian watched, the more he realized that his parents—though kind and caring—had no understanding of the true nature of magic. They couldn't see the Aether the way he could, and they didn't understand the immense potential that lay within him.
While the children of Emberfall played in the streets and practiced simple spells like lighting candles or cleaning clothes, Schillian found himself drawn to the complex and subtle workings of the Aether.
He studied the fire mages at the forge, the healers in the clinic, and the spiritual mages who tended to the dying trees at the edge of town. They were the artists, weaving magic with deft hands, but Schillian felt like a spectator.
A dreamer, lost in a world of wonder, unable to reach out and touch the magic they commanded so easily.
Day after day, he would sneak away from the inn, hiding among the trees or in quiet corners, trying to mimic the gestures he'd seen the mages perform. The simplest motions were an enigma, and though he had no formal training, he couldn't stop himself from attempting to wield the Aether.
He practiced in secret.
A quiet rebellion against the life his parents had planned for him.
One day, Schillian finally had the courage to approach the blacksmith's forge. The blacksmith—Koran—was a gruff man, a master of fire magic who used the Aether to fuel his furnace and create the weapons that protected the town.
"Mr. Blacksmith! Mr. Blacksmith!" Schillian called as he ran up to him.
Koran paused in his work, wiping the sweat from his brow. "What is it, boy?" he grunted, clearly preoccupied.
"How do you make fire?" Schillian asked eagerly. "Teach me!"
Koran raised an eyebrow. "Magic is dangerous. Especially fire magic."
"But I'm ready!" Schillian said with childlike determination. "I want to learn!"
Koran looked at him for a moment. The boy's eyes gleamed with the same curiosity that had once driven him to master fire magic.
Still... fire magic was not for the faint of heart.
"Fine," Koran said reluctantly. "I'll show you. But only once."
With a snap of his fingers, a small flame leapt to life, dancing at the blacksmith's fingertips.
Schillian gasped, his eyes wide. He didn't just see the fire; he saw the Aether, swirling and condensing into a tiny sphere of heat. He could almost feel it, as though the magic were alive in his hands.