The air was quiet in the village of Lirael, a peaceful place resting at the outer borders of Voltarra, the Kingdom of Lightning. Morning sunlight filtered through drifting mist, and the breeze carried stories only the wind could hear.
Inside a chamber carved of smooth marble and polished oak, a baby stirred in his crib.
His eyes opened—vivid green, clear as sky. They didn't hold the confusion of a newborn, but the stillness of something older. Something eternal.
His name was Caelen Resonir, the firstborn son of House Resonir, nobles gifted with sound magic. To his parents, he was a blessing. A miracle. A future prodigy. To the world, he was just another child.
But within that infant frame lived the soul of the Wind God.
So this is rebirth... how pitiful.
His thoughts were sharp, his will unbroken. But his body—helpless. He cried when hungry. He stumbled in dreams. He could not speak, walk, or even summon a breeze on command. He had no mana core. Not yet.
In this world, mana cores formed when children turned five. That was when their affinity revealed itself. When the kings began to pay attention.
And in this new age, wind was cursed.
After Zephyros's death, the Six Elemental Kings erased every trace of his reign. They rewrote history, calling him a traitor, a tyrant who tried to suffocate the world. His successors were hunted. Wind itself was outlawed.
Any child born with the wind attribute was to be executed.
Even in silence, Zephyros could feel it—his element was hated, feared, erased. But the wind never forgot him. It swirled gently around him as he slept. It stirred when he cried. And though he could not command it yet, it waited patiently. As did something else... a hum beneath the air. Sound.
His mother, Elizabeth, often sang to him with frequencies that soothed the soul. His father, Dareth, held him with pride, unaware that their child carried a dual gift—Wind and Sound. Something the world had never seen.
Caelen listened to the world before he could speak to it. He listened to the lies told by scholars and nobles. Books filled with false tales. Songs that painted the Six Kings as saviors.
He listened. But he remembered the truth.
And far from Lirael, beyond the Valley of Aetherlyn, an old woman spoke of that truth. Her voice cracked with age, yet her words carried weight. In the snow-laced mountains of Serathorn, she whispered stories to the wind.
"They killed him," she would say, sitting beneath ancient pines. "But wind cannot die. He trained here, once. And the sky remembers."
The wind carried her voice, but it never reached Caelen's ears. Still, something deep inside him stirred each time the breeze blew in from the north.
I haven't forgotten, he thought as he stared from his crib. I'll reclaim what was mine.
Each night, his dreams were the same. Thunder. Steel. Betrayal.
Each morning, he awoke with fire in his heart.
The world did not know it yet—but Zephyros had returned.
And the throne was still empty.
Across the kingdoms, prodigious children were being born—heirs of noble houses blessed with terrifying elemental power. The people called them the Generation of Miracles. Blood, gravity, ice, magma, shadow, dreams... and more.
In this new age, rivals would rise like stars.
But only one was destined to rule the skies again.