The night wind whispered through the trees, brushing gently against the yard of the Jonnester household like a breath from the wilderness, carrying secrets untold. Nelvan walked the narrow path leading up to his home after returning from Halder Valley. His body ached with exhaustion, yet it was a weariness he'd grown used to—borne not from obligation, as his family had never asked him to tend the livestock, but from the quiet need to do something... anything. His life moved slowly, almost unchanged since the day he first understood the world.
He was the son of an ordinary family and a father rumored to be of elven descent—though the world often looked down upon him, for no magical abilities had been passed down, save for his eyes, which gleamed as red as rubies, like the last glimmer of twilight refusing to fade.
Nelvan had returned late, long after the sky had burned into a canvas of amber and crimson, even after the birds had flown back to their nests. Fortunately, the village hadn't yet fallen silent after the stirrings in Furmist.
He made his way toward the mailbox fastened near the front gate, hoping perhaps his cousin, Logan, had replied to the item Nelvan had sent a week ago.
Instead, what he found was a strange envelope lying inside. The paper was so dark it seemed to absorb the very light around it—a void in the night. At its center, a wax seal of deep violet shimmered faintly, bearing a mysterious emblem: a golden shield etched with the figure of a dragon, stylized wind beneath it, and a star-like light at the center that seemed to pulse faintly.
His throat tightened. He had never seen such a symbol before. Stranger still, he felt a faint thrum from within the envelope—like a heartbeat. He nearly put it back, but curiosity overtook fear.
With care, he broke the seal. A subtle scent—like burning cinnamon mingled with stormy air—escaped the envelope. Inside was a neatly folded parchment, yellowed as though aged by time, yet warm and fresh to the touch.
At first, the surface was blank. Then, slowly, silver ink began to flow across it from the center outward, shaping words as though alive. Nelvan stared at the letters, transfixed. Even under the shadow of night, they shone clear and bright:
[Nelvan Aetherion,
Within you flows a rare bloodline, and though the world may turn a blind eye to your potential, we do not.
You are hereby invited to join the ECLOTHERA Academy.
There, your fate will be carved, and the truth of your lineage revealed.
Time will not wait. The gate opens but once.
On the seventh day, under the highest moon, come to the old tree in Halder Valley.]
Nelvan read the message over and over, trying to grasp its meaning. His hands trembled. Above him, the crescent moon cast light upon the parchment, making it glow faintly. A breeze swept from the left, carrying with it a soft whisper that seemed to call his name.
He hadn't blinked since reading the words. Nelvan stared at the letter again. A hundred questions flooded his mind: Who sent this? Why?
He reread the letter, and the message remained unchanged. His full name was inscribed clearly, like a rune from a magic book he had once read.
The more he tried to understand it, the less sense it made—how could someone, or something, know his name and bloodline? Especially when he himself knew so little. He had never even heard of 'Eclothera' before.
And yet, what surprised him most wasn't the contents of the letter. It was the fact that... he wasn't afraid. Only mildly startled.
Instead, something within him stirred. A flicker of light long hidden beneath the fog. A calling. A sense that everything he had known until now had only been the prologue... and that he now stood at the threshold of a new world that had been waiting silently for him.
Above, clouds gathered, turning the sky darker. But in Nelvan's heart, for the first time, a light had kindled—a hope.
And he knew—whatever awaited him in Halder Valley, he would go. He must. To chase the answer now burning in his chest.
He recalled something. Tonight was the third night of the month of Luara. That meant the seventh night would fall on the ninth day.
Nelvan would need courage. He didn't have much time. And worse—he didn't even know where Halder Valley truly was.
***
Rain fell lightly over the village of Nliyff, cloaking the stone rooftops and golden wheat fields in a silver mist that slowly crept over the land. Thunder rumbled in the distance, flashing briefly through the gap in a window left slightly ajar. In his room, Nelvan lay on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling—its dull, uneven surface softly illuminated by the weary flicker of a nearby oil lamp.
The house had grown quiet after dinner, after his mother, as she often did, told stories from when Nelvan was a child—especially tales from when he was five. He had heard them countless times. She always said life had been difficult, even more so after she married Ezrell Jonnester—a man from of other nation. That woman loves ezrell more than the banter of hamoursh's own people.
Though new laws had long since been established, lingering prejudice still clung to the world like a stubborn shadow. Elfair were no longer confined to borderlands; they had earned the right to walk wherever they pleased in Magire Kivanal. The Elfair nations honored this freedom. But for the Hamoursh people, the thought of one of their own entering Elfair without strict permissions and procedures was still considered a grave transgression.
Traders from beyond the borders were required to pass routine inspections at checkpoints throughout Larnia Forest before arriving at Eisternd—the first city past the trees. That was how Ezrell had come to Cadleon. Work had brought him there. Nelvan knew little about his father's life in Eisternd or why he had chosen to marry Zarina. What mattered was that, no matter the reasons, it was still forbidden by many. And Nelvan never blamed his parents. He couldn't. He had never chosen where to be born.
A sudden downpour broke his trance as stray drops of rain splattered through the open window, dotting his forehead with cold. Blinking, he rose and moved to the window, staring out into the waterlogged courtyard below.
Tonight will not be the same.
The thought bloomed uninvited in his mind.
The small flame of the oil lamp wavered as a chill gust slipped through the crack. He quickly shut and latched the window, sealing out the wind. Outside, the storm continued to drum against the roof in a relentless rhythm, like a heartbeat from the heavens.
As he turned his back to the night, his gaze—unintentionally—fell upon the parchment lying on the desk near the flickering lamp. Its sunset-hued surface gleamed gently in the light, as though holding onto warmth not its own.
"Eclothera?" He murmured aloud, barely aware of the word leaving his lips.
***