Within a few hours, Eamon arrived at Arvin's small cottage hidden deep in the Verdelane woods. The sun dipped low behind him, casting amber shafts of light through the dense canopy. Birds trilled above, and the crunch of brittle leaves beneath his boots was the only sound in the still forest.
The journey hadn't been long or difficult, yet Eamon felt a pressure in his chest.
This was his first time leaving Elarith without his grandfather by his side. Though a part of him swelled with pride for completing the trip alone, a hollow ache clung to him—like a silent shadow unwilling to loosen its grip.
At last, he stepped into a small clearing. Arvin's moss-covered wooden hut stood still amidst the silence. Smoke curled gently from the chimney, and the faint aroma of drying herbs floated in the air. Eamon exhaled slowly and knocked on the door.
Back in Elarith, shortly after Eamon's departure, a man bolted down the dusty path to Aegon's home. His name was Derek. His breath came in gasps, panic in his eyes, and he clutched a child in his arms—a pale, feverish boy, no older than six.
"Master Aegon! Please… save him!" Derek's voice cracked with desperation.
Aegon had just stepped in from the fields. He rushed to the door, eyes falling on the boy.
"What happened?" he asked, examining the child's sickly form.
"It's Elric, my son," Derek stammered. "I took him to the cult at Drakenshade. They claimed to heal the sick. Promised miracles. But look at him now!"
Aegon carefully laid the boy on a nearby cot. His expression hardened as he hovered a hand above the child's chest, whispering words ancient and powerful. A brief flicker of blue shimmered around the child's body.
Aegon's face went grim.
"Dark sorcery," he muttered. "His soul's been tainted."
"What?!" Derek gasped.
"Who leads this cult?", questioned Aegon.
"A man called KERN. He came to Drakenshade a month ago. Spoke like a preacher at first. Then the rituals began. People started claiming miracles. Now he's got followers everywhere—even here in Elarith. They worship him."
Aegon's jaw tightened. "A prophet would never bind a child's soul."
He raised his hands again, casting a purifying spell. Runes glowed around his fingers. Sweat gathered on his brow as he chanted. The darkness pushed back, but Aegon pressed harder. Slowly, the black mist withdrew. The child whimpered, then breathed deeply. A hint of color returned to his cheeks.
Derek fell to the ground. "Thank you… thank you!"
Panting, Aegon stood upright. "This isn't over. I'm going to Drakenshade."
By midday, he reached the town—an active place with spires and high stone walls. But beneath its life, Aegon sensed it—something wrong. A spiritual sickness. He walked through the central square, brushing past curious stares. Kern's encampment stood beside the old cathedral, once sacred, now draped in black flags with red symbols.
He approached the guards. "Step aside," he commanded, voice laced with subtle power. The guards staggered away instinctively.
Inside the main tent, Kern lounged on a velvet throne, surrounded by wide-eyed devotees. His face was pale, his eyes unnaturally dark.
"Kern," Aegon said.
Kern turned, smirking. Kern somehow remembered Aegon from when he served in the royal army.
"Ah, Aldoria's great war-mage. What brings you here?"
Aegon said nothing. He crossed the space, seized Kern by his robes, and lifted him off the floor.
"You desecrate the souls of children," Aegon growled. "End this now, or I'll tear down everything you've built."
Kern's men charged. Aegon dropped Kern, raised an arm, and unleashed a shockwave that blasted the guards across the tent. A fire burned in Aegon's gaze.
Kern coughed, kneeling. "I—I didn't mean harm. I thought I was healing them… I didn't know the spells would go wrong. Please, Aegon. I'll stop. I swear."
Aegon looked into his eyes. Lies. But Aegon was weary.
"This is your one warning," he said, and left.
When Aegon returned home, he collapsed onto his bed. He felt the drain of age more than ever. The magic he once wielded with ease now left him exhausted. Deep inside, he knew what Arvin had told him months ago: an incurable sickness, not magical but mortal—cancer.
He'd kept it from Eamon. That was why he'd sent the boy to Arvin—so he could gather the herbs that might delay the illness. Eamon thought it was just a simple errand. Arvin had promised not to tell him the truth. But the burden of hiding it from his grandson weighed heavy on Aegon's soul.
As twilight deepened, a knock echoed at the door. Then another. And another—faster, more urgent.
Aegon, slow and aching, rose from his chair by the hearth. His joints throbbed, breath shallow. But the knocking stirred unease in his bones.
He opened the door.
Outside, villagers stood clustered—faces tight with fear. Mothers clutched fevered children. Fathers stared with clenched jaws. Desperation thickened the air like thunderclouds.
"They said you're the only one who can help," one woman whispered, stepping forward. "Our children… like Derek's boy… they went to Kern. Now they're sick."
Aegon's heart sank at the name of his former student—Kern, the wayward mage. But there was no time for anger.
"Bring them inside," he said, calm but firm.
He turned his home into a makeshift sanctuary. Cleared space, summoned spare cots, lit candles with a wave. Healing spells flowed from his lips. Silver runes danced in the air. But each enchantment sapped his strength. His hands shook pouring water. His body trembled as pain clawed at him.
Still, he pressed on.
Children lay in rows, fragile and quiet. Aegon labored over them, magic flaring from his palms. Rage burned in him—not just at Kern, but at his own failing flesh. But the children mattered more.
Then, while kneeling beside a frail boy, whispering a healing charm—
Pain. Sudden, brutal, in his back. He was stabbed
Aegon gasped. He twisted, confused.
The child he had been helping stood staring, eyes blank, dagger dripping red.
"No…"
Another child stepped forward. Another stab.
Aegon fell to his knees, blood spilling. He looked around. The children—soulless, moving like puppets.
Their parents stood in the doorway, watching silently.
"Kern said you were using children for sacrifices," a voice murmured. "He claimed you wanted to turn them into demons."
"Kern…" Aegon whispered, horror blooming.
He had been deceived. He reached for the doorframe, blood pouring from his wounds. His eyes met the villagers'—people he had fought to protect.
"I… only wanted to protect…"
But his words faded. His eyes dimmed. And in that silent, bleeding moment—betrayed not by foes, but by innocence twisted—Aegon fell.
The children dropped their weapons and cried. The spell was broken. The villagers whispered among themselves. They left with their children.
Near midnight, Eamon returned. He'd come back early, uneasy and worried.
He saw villagers fleeing from the edge of town—where his house was. A knot formed in his chest. He ran.
He reached the house. He stepped inside. And what he saw crushed him.
His grandfather lay in blood.
"No... Grandpa..."
Eamon fell beside him, shaking him, calling his name. But there was only silence. Tears streaked his cheeks. Grief, fury, disbelief surged through him like a storm.
He screamed; voice torn by pain—
"Grandpa…
Grandpaaaa…
GRANDPAAAAAAAAAA..."