The Original Realm

The last rays of the sun dipped beneath the horizon, leaving the sky a bruised blend of orange, purple, and deepening blue. Luke pulled himself to his feet, muscles aching and mind still clouded with the sharp sting of Sylveria's strike. He staggered, holding his side as the memory of her voice replayed in his head, cold and uncompromising.

"Justice cannot be selective. Exceptions create cracks in the foundation of order, and through those cracks, cruelty and selfishness creep."

He looked down at his dirt-smeared hands, now scraped and blistered from his fall. The taste of failure was bitter, an unrelenting reminder of his weakness. Eleanor's defiant smile flashed before his eyes. She didn't even try to fight it, he thought. The weight of his impotency pressed down on him. If he couldn't even protect the girl he'd chased through the city, what hope did he have to stand against Solen or The Hands of Fate?

The air of the slums seemed denser now, more suffocating. Shadows clung to the crooked buildings like the memories of a life long forgotten. Murmurs and whispers drifted up from the alleyways, the voice of the desperate, the broken. Yet it was Luke who felt shattered. He'd promised he would return for Eleanor, but that promise tasted hollow on his tongue. Don't make promises you can't keep, he reminded himself, eyes stinging with a mix of exhaustion and frustration.

With one final look over his shoulder at the derelict courtyard, Luke began the long walk back to the city. The streets were quieter now, the noise of merchants and bustling shoppers replaced by the distant sounds of laughter and the hushed murmurs of nightfall. People brushed past him, giving him cursory glances, but no one stopped to ask why a young man looked as if he had been trampled by a beast.

He had to prepare. He had to grow stronger—physically and mentally—if he wanted to bring Eleanor back and face the terror that was Solemn. His thoughts flared with a mix of determination and dread as he passed through the city gates and into the walled safety of Sylvera's main streets. The city was a bright contrast to the bleakness of the slums, but it didn't soothe him. The setting sun cast long shadows, and Luke realized just how much time he'd wasted. He was nowhere near strong enough to change anything.

His eyes fell to the ground, tracing the worn path beneath his feet, each stone a silent witness to his failure. He thought of his first few days in Aethereon, how he had to rely on his meager survival skills to keep himself alive. He remembered the forest's whispers, the crunch of leaves, and the calls of distant birds. It was time to return to that familiar place, where he could be alone and rebuild his strength. He needed the wilderness to prepare himself, to reclaim his sense of purpose and power.

By the time Luke slipped into the shadowy edge of the forest that skirted the outskirts of Sylvera, the moon had risen, casting a pale light over the foliage. The trees stood tall, gnarled and silent, their branches swaying as if in greeting. Luke exhaled a long breath and settled into the underbrush, his exhaustion pressing down on him like a weight. His clothes were torn, his body sore, but there was an ember of resolve deep within him. He'd survived four nights in the wilderness before; he could do it again.

He scavenged what he could, pulling together fallen branches and leaves to build a temporary shelter. It was crude, hastily constructed, but it would do. The nights were cold, and the air was alive with the cries of night creatures. The hum of nature became his companion, the rustle of leaves a comforting presence.

The next morning, he woke with the pale light of dawn streaming through the forest canopy, turning the world to gold. He stood and stretched, feeling the stiffness in his limbs, a reminder of the toll this journey would take. Today, he would begin training—both his body and his control over Advent, that strange, pulsing power that had saved him and left him so vulnerable at once.

Luke's eyes found the small clearing ahead, where small creatures flitted about. His heart quickened as he spotted a peculiar sight: a rabbit with three eyes, its fur mottled and patchy, darting between the roots of an ancient oak. The creature's movements were quick and unpredictable, testing Luke's reflexes.

He crouched low, his breath steadying as he focused on the bunny. The Advent power thrummed under his skin, a constant, electric current waiting to be unleashed. Control, he reminded himself. Don't let it spill over. You'll alert it, and you'll fail.

The rabbit paused, its center eye swiveling in his direction, then darted away, skittering through the leaves. Luke sprang into action, his legs propelling him forward, but he was too slow. The bunny vanished into the undergrowth, leaving behind only the memory of its startled gaze.

Frustration welled up in him. His hands clenched into fists, dirt crumbling beneath his fingers. "You need to get better," he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "Or you'll never be able to protect anyone."

Three days passed in a haze of repetition. Luke tracked the three-eyed rabbit, learning its habits, anticipating its sudden movements. Each attempt to catch it ended in failure, the creature's instincts too sharp, its speed too great. He could feel the subtle drain of Advent each time he called upon it, a reminder that control was just as vital as strength. If he let his emotions get the better of him, his power would spill and betray him.

The days bled into one another. His fingers became calloused, his muscles more defined. Hunger gnawed at him, but he pressed on, a grim resolve replacing the despair that had gripped him on that first night. His mind replayed Eleanor's words, the sparkle in her eyes as she'd joked about her pursuit through the city, but it was Sylveria's cold, unyielding presence that fueled his determination.

The fourth day dawned, and Luke's limbs were heavy with fatigue. He'd learned to move like the shadows, silent and patient, slipping through the forest with the grace of an animal. The three-eyed rabbit appeared again, its gaze flicking in his direction. This time, Luke moved faster, his body powered by Advent but controlled by sheer will. His movements were fluid, and as he reached out, his fingers closed around the creature, the pulse of power surging as he held it tight.

Victory surged through him, a triumphant burst that made him feel alive for the first time in days. He let the rabbit go, watching it dart off into the underbrush, but his heart thrummed with the rush of success. He'd done it—he'd caught it without losing control.

But training was far from over. He needed to test his strength, to push himself past his limits. He found an odd-looking deer with antlers that twisted like spirals, its fur speckled with white patches. Luke swallowed hard, the reality of the fight settling in his chest. This would be different; this would be brutal.

He approached, heart thumping as the deer noticed him. It lowered its head, eyes sharp and knowing. Luke launched himself forward, Advent surging through him, burning and raw. The deer charged, its hooves pounding the earth like thunder. They collided in a clash of limbs and muscle. Luke was sent sprawling backward, his vision blurred with pain as he hit the ground. 

He lay there, staring at the canopy above, chest heaving. Is this all I am? he thought bitterly. Someone who can't even fight a deer? How can I hope to stand against Solen, let alone save Eleanor?

He stood after a moment, bruised and battered. He needed to try again. The forest blurred past him as he attacked, thrusting, blocking, taking blow after blow until the world seemed to blur into pain. Each failed attempt chipped away at him, the doubt sinking deep, suffocating him like the night air.

Days passed in this relentless cycle of pain and determination. His vision grew clearer with each fight, his strikes more precise. But he never stopped doubting himself, never stopped questioning whether he was strong enough. The world was a cruel place, and even the smallest failure could mean death. Yet, on the eighth day, he finally succeeded. The deer, weary and beaten, lowered its head in defeat, and Luke stood before it, chest heaving and raw.

A rush of triumph and relief surged through him. He'd done it—he'd won. The creature met his gaze, eyes filled with a strange, wordless understanding. The forest seemed to hum with life, and Luke knew, for the first time since his arrival in Aethereon, he had power. Real power.

A week had passed since Eleanor's arrest. Luke stepped out of the forest, clothes torn and his body covered in bruises and scratches. He looked different—stronger, more capable. The city greeted him with its usual noise, but it no longer felt intimidating. He had survived, and now, he had a purpose.

He returned to the slums, where the rickety buildings and the familiar scent of decay awaited him. The community looked at him with wary eyes, but they noticed the difference. There was something in his stance, the way his eyes caught the light, that spoke of the fire within him. 

He approached the same clearing where Eleanor had once stood. The same shadows flickered, but this time, he was ready. He stood tall, the weight of his promise settling on his shoulders like armor.

"I'm ready," he said, voice steady. "I'm ready to fulfill my promise."

The crowd shifted, whispers of hope mingling with disbelief. For the first time, Luke felt it—a spark that told him that this time, he was not going to falter.

Not this time.