DreamRider1
Wᴀʀᴍ ᴇᴍʙᴇʀs ɪɴ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴏꜰ sʜᴀᴅᴏᴡs.
Vaerith Solastra – The Silver Phantom
The air in the Sylvarian sparring ring was still, save for the whisper of wings and the steady hum of magic beneath the floating platforms. Sunlight fractured through the crystalline domes overhead, casting shifting patterns across the dueling space—a beauty lost on those locked in combat.
Vaerith moved like a shadow cast in moonlight—fluid, silent, inevitable. His opponent, another Aetherborn noble, circled warily, sweat beading along his brow. Fool. He was already losing.
A flick of Vaerith’s wrist, and his Aetherblade materialized, silver light rippling along its sleek edge. The other fae mirrored him, conjuring his own weapon—a slender rapier, glowing faint blue. A duel of equals, in theory.
In reality, there were no equals here.
His opponent struck first—predictable. A textbook lunge, meant to test defenses, not to kill. Vaerith sidestepped, effortless, like a breeze slipping between tree branches. He didn’t even bother to parry. The other fae adjusted, wings flaring as he attempted a follow-up strike, a diagonal slash aimed for Vaerith’s exposed ribs. Better. But still too slow.
Vaerith turned his blade and met the attack at the last possible moment. Not with force, but precision. A sharp twist, and his opponent’s weapon flew from his grasp, clattering against the stone floor. The duel should have ended there.
It didn’t.
His opponent scrambled backward, hands raised to conjure another weapon—too late. Vaerith was already moving. His wings snapped open, a blur of silver and violet as he surged forward. One smooth step, a shift of his grip, and the hilt of his Aetherblade slammed into the fae’s gut. The noble gasped, doubling over, his balance faltering.
Vaerith didn’t stop.
He swept his opponent’s legs out from under him, sending him crashing onto his back. A flicker of movement, and the tip of Vaerith’s blade hovered inches from his throat. No mercy. No hesitation. Just cold, calculated victory.
For a moment, silence. The faint, uneven rhythm of his opponent’s breath. The silver glow of Vaerith’s blade reflecting in wide, stunned eyes.
Then, Vaerith smiled.
Not kind. Not cruel. Something in between, unreadable, as if he found the entire thing amusing.
“You telegraph your attacks.” His voice was smooth, untouched by exertion. “A blade is not an extension of your arm. It is an extension of your will. A thought, carried forward.”
His opponent swallowed hard, wings trembling against the stone. “You—”
Vaerith leaned in slightly, just enough to press the blade closer. His opponent stilled.
“Fight like that against a real enemy,” Vaerith murmured, his voice low, almost conspiratorial, “and you’ll be dead before you ever draw breath to speak.”
Then, as if bored of the entire exchange, he withdrew his blade in one seamless motion. The fight was over. The lesson was given. And, as always, Vaerith had already moved on.
The applause that followed was polite, measured. The nobles watching from the elevated balconies of the Sylvarian dueling hall were too refined to openly gawk, but their whispers were unmistakable. Vaerith had won. Again. And not a single one of them looked surprised.
Vaerith flicked his wrist, and his Aetherblade dissipated into shimmering mist, vanishing as if it had never existed. He stepped back, offering his fallen opponent the barest incline of his head—acknowledgment, nothing more. Then, without another glance, he turned on his heel. The duel had been a distraction. The true game was about to begin.
“Lord Solastra,” a voice called from the grand archway at the edge of the hall. Regent Eryndor Velthas, one of the oldest of their kind.
Vaerith halted mid-stride, his expression betraying nothing. He had expected this. The weight of too many stares, the tension in the air thick as woven silk. He had felt it before the duel even began.
He pivoted smoothly and offered a bow—graceful, practiced, but just shallow enough to border on insolence.
“Regent Velthas,” Vaerith said, voice even. “To what do I owe the honor?”
The elder fae’s golden eyes flickered with restrained irritation at his lack of formality, but the Regent merely gestured for him to follow. No explanation. No pleasantries. Just an unspoken demand.
Interesting.
Vaerith fell into step beside him, the murmuring of the gathered nobles fading behind them.
---
The Gathering of the High Council
They led him to the Celestial Chamber, an open-air council hall perched on one of Sylvaria’s highest floating isles. Crystalline spires stretched toward the sky, refracting the afternoon sun into brilliant arcs of color, but the gathering within was anything but beautiful.
Five of the highest-ranking nobles stood before him, each adorned in flowing robes embroidered with Aether sigils. Their expressions were grim, their usual regal confidence marred by something rare—concern.
Magic was dying, and they knew it.
Vaerith clasped his hands behind his back, his silver gaze sweeping the room. He did not bow this time. Let them come to him.
Regent Velthas stepped forward. “We will forgo unnecessary formalities, Lord Solastra. You are aware of the deterioration of magic. It has grown worse.”
A flicker of something dangerous danced behind Vaerith’s gaze, but his tone remained smooth. “So I’ve noticed.”
Velthas inhaled sharply, clearly irritated by his lack of urgency. Another noble—a woman with midnight wings and sapphire-tipped fingers, Lady Seraphine Myrris—took over.
“The Heart of Aether has been found,” she said. “We confirmed its location within Varkath’s Argent Bastion.”
Now, that was interesting.
Vaerith tilted his head slightly, eyes sharp with calculation. The relic that pulsed with the last echoes of magic’s power—the artifact that could restore balance, or unravel it completely—was in the hands of a tyrant.
And the nobles of Sylvaria were terrified.
“Then retrieve it,” Vaerith said smoothly. “Or are we to pretend that the great Aetherborn, guardians of magic, suddenly fear a mere mortal empire?”
Velthas’s jaw tightened, but Lady Myrris only exhaled, as if she had expected his arrogance. “The Empire is fortified, their forces growing stronger while ours weaken. The relic is being experimented on. If we do not act swiftly, we will lose our chance. Varkath will claim its power for war.”
A pause. A shift in the air.
Then, the Regent spoke the true reason for this meeting.
“We require someone to lead an expedition into enemy territory, retrieve the Heart of Aether, and ensure its use to restore the balance of magic.” Velthas’s golden eyes met Vaerith’s. “We require you.”
The request was a formality. It wasn’t a question.
Vaerith felt something cold and familiar coil in his chest.
So this was the move they had decided upon. Put a dagger in his hands, send him into the den of lions, and hope he returns victorious.
Smart.
Foolish, but smart.
A lesser man would have hesitated. A lesser man might have weighed his options. Vaerith simply smiled. Not warmth. Not kindness. Something sharper. Something knowing.
“You are asking me to commit treason,” he mused, folding his arms. “To infiltrate the most dangerous kingdom in Veyndralis, steal from a ruler who executes spies on sight, and bring back an artifact so powerful it could tear reality apart if misused.”
A long silence. The nobles said nothing.
Then, Vaerith’s smile deepened, slow and deliberate. Like a blade sliding back into its sheath, waiting to strike again.
“Well,” he said, turning on his heel, “how could I refuse?”
---
The Gathering of the Relic Seekers
By nightfall, the summons had been sent.
Across Veyndralis, whispered messages passed through couriers, carried by enchanted birds, slipped into the hands of the desperate and the bold. The ones who would change the fate of magic.
