Humble Beginnings

The 3rd day of the 12th month of the year 5629 was a dark day. From the second the day started at midnight to the second, the midnight after, when the day concluded there was not a ray of sunshine, around the entire world. Mana went into disarray. No spell or magic technique of any kind was cast that day. Countless beings, creatures and beasts panicked. The chaos was ineffable. Mayhem without equal. Common citizens weren't panicking. They could not perceive the terror of not being able to control- not being surrounded by the energy that accompanied one one's entire life. It was the tiered that panicked. Mages, warriors, bowmen, craftsmen, and even the artists panicked. You would be surprised how many professions found a way to effectively utilize the energy that fills this and other worlds, yours included.

And during that darkest of times, in the capital of the five Realms of the Council, Fayford, a child was born. The child was the son of a frightened Archmage and a distraught Healing Saintess. They, too, suffered from the disarray. But another event unsettled them. The very clear but befuddling fact that Zyros, their son, did not seem to be affected. And that, in their eyes, could only mean one thing: He was not mana-sensitive as all mana-sensitive beings were affected. But how could that be? How could the child of two mana-geniuses of their time, of their entire race's history, not be mana-sensitive? And they were right. It could not be. Zyros was mana-sensitive. And had they been able to perceive the flow of mana more accurately, they would have observed how the mana in a tiny area around Zyros was in absolutely calm and a minute trickle of it was constantly absorbed by him. But alas, humans are not as inherently in tune with the mystical energies as they sometimes think themselves. This phenomenon that would have been easily noticed by elves, greater vampires, or any other highly magical creature, went unnoticed.

Twelve hours after Zyros's birth, mana calmed down and little Zyros was introduced to the world, or more precisely to the royal healer. Archmages and Healing Saints were titles only bestowed unto beings at least at Tier 15 and those individuals were more than strong enough to call upon the Royal Healer, a Tier 17, senior even to the mother of the child. Not to mention that Gira Myrandur's speciality lay in combat healing on the battlefield, preferring a quick way to heal over thorough analysis. That is not to say that she is an incapable healer, just that she never concerned herself with learning about postnatal check-ups. As such, they relied on the old healer to see if they're child was really alright. They had already been disappointed by their son's apparently lacking magic talent, so they were currently praying that Zyros didn't have any further deficiencies. It might sound harsh, but magic was truly essential in this chaotic and dangerous world. Some sort of mental defect would only serve to make Zyros's life more difficult.

Knowing this, it should be reasonable that they were absolutely devestated to find out that Zyros was absolutely and utterly mute. Not a sound would escape his mouth. They hadn't noticed so far in their joy and subsequent grief during and following his birth. Not to mention that magic eliminated the need for a newborn to cry after birth to clear their respiratory system. The midwife simply cast a spell and all is well. Admittedly, most babies still cried a lot but they had just subconsciously assumed that he was fine and just a bit calm and silent. It turns out, he wasn't necessarily calm but he sure was silent. Gira cried. Falkos didn't. He hadn't cried since two centuries ago when he had broken his arm playing in the garden on his tenth birthday.

However, both were hardened veterans. They accepted it and moved on. Or rather: moved in. They made themselves a home in the ancestral Myrandur Manor built and passed on to Gira with her father's passing a few decades ago. The couple never lived in it since they rarely ever spent time in the capital and if they did, they usually did so in the Mage's Guild so there really was no opportunity or necessity to make use of the mansion.

This little family with their newly born son lived there for two and a half years until the incident. By now, things were finally bettering themselves for the Myrandur bloodline. But, as subtly pointed out already, an incident occurred that put an end to all this happiness.

On one fateful night roughly two and a half years after Zyros's birth, Myrandur Manor went up in flames. "The paths of destiny shifted as the Archmage Falkos and the Healing Saintess Gira, the heroes of the southern conquests, perished in a fire so fierce that even a hundred water mages weren't enough to curb the flames of destruction that lit up the night sky." An excerpt from a respected history book a few decades later describing the fall of two powerhouses of the human race. The public didn't know who did it, but everyone knew that it happened. The shocking news travelled even to the neighbouring empires: The five realms of humanity lost two of their heroes.

One second Falkos was researching a new branch of magic and Gira was reading a very good novel, the next floods of hellfire devoured their very soul leaving nothing. But the two of them are not the focus of this tale of mine, so let's disregard them for now. Our protagonist, Zyros, miraculously outlived his two much more powerful parents due to a pendant that Gira had draped around his neck a year ago that shone with the essence of life, a healing saint's power. It formed a protective barrier around him like a bubble. At the same time, the energy unexpectedly resonated with a large number of runes intricately carved into his cradle's wood - spatial runes. You might assume that his father carved these runes but that would be incorrect. It was Falkos's master that had carved these runes. And he did not carve them to protect Zyros but to protect Falkos, centuries ago when the renowned Archmage was simply a little child left on a mage's doorstep. Falkos had kept this cradle all this time, the protection carved into it never having been activated. When his child was born, he used it for Zyros and never agreed to let him have another place to sleep even when the child grew since he knew that the longer Zyros slept in the cradle, the longer he would not have to worry about his son's safety during the night. Interestingly, his last thought before the hellfire burned his entire being to ash was the intense hope that the runes still worked as intended.

Alas, magic is a fickle thing and, in truth, the runes only fulfilled part of their purpose. While they still teleported the child within the cradle to safety, its destination was somewhat random. The original plan was that this cradle would teleport baby Falkos – or in this case Zyros – to his master's side at the first sign of danger. It was a masterpiece of enchantment but without proper maintenance, all enchantments, no matter their grade, change and become unpredictable. I have seen powerful, enchanted weapons that were left alone for a millennium absorbing some special essence and come out of it, having become sentient and capable of slaying immortals – by themselves. At other times divine artefacts degraded so much that even the weakest of mortals could barely use them to pick his nose. I know of only two people who understand magic sufficiently enough to predict those changes. I am not one of them. And neither was Falkos.

Accordingly, it was understandable that Falkos had no idea that the artefact, he had viewed as the ultimate failsafe, differed from how he remembered it. Especially, since he understood close to none of the runes used to enchant the cradle. In reality, while the cradle was originally littered with spatial runes, over the years some morphed into spacetime runes to predict danger and fulfil their purpose more perfectly, while others had the gall to evolve into fate runes to always be able to teleport to the location that benefit its user's strings of fate the most, therefore fulfilling the directive of teleporting to safety with quite a bit of overkill. Now, I do not want to be misconstrued. The runes were not entirely conscious. They did not actively choose to morph. It was the lingering intent of the craftsman that caused this grand change in small steps whenever the treasure accumulated enough energy from the surroundings to evolve one of its runes. The result being a completely different kind of teleportation to safety than Falkos had imagined. Through the power of spacetime, or really just time, the cradle activated even before the attack but needed time to make the jump. In a way, it was a fluke. Had the craftsman's intent wavered ever so slightly or had been a tiny bit more turbid, the cradle would have turned useless, or worse, ex- or imploded. Fortunately, that was not the case.

Zyros would have nearly burned to ash but was protected by the shield of life until the cradle was fully activated. The cradle on the other hand was not protected, severely compromising its integrity. With a small flash of light, the cradle tore through space and travelled across the planet in an instant. Or at least as far as its upgraded navigation system guided by fate told it to go. It disappeared in Fayford, capital of Lyria where Zyros was born, and entered the relatively nearby woods, the Ancient Spirit Forest, a location where magic was strong and the frightening rumours surrounding it even stronger.

The Ancient Spirit Forest was a location rich with environmental mana. It existed on the periphery of the first realm of humanity, Lyria. Deep in the woods, there was a large clearing, overgrown with grass. There stood an old man. He looked undoubtedly like a very old man but at the same time, he looked too perfect. He stood tall, not crooked. He was muscular, not haggard. His long, pointy ears were straight, not drooping. He had vibrant white hair instead of faded white hair. His purple eyes were clearly filled with energy. Now, you might conclude that he wasn't old, only looking the part. But he was. And he had been for a very long time. Existence held little to no secrets before him. And, as you might expect, he was bored. He had lived almost every possible life, tried everything. He had even lived some 500,000 years as a woman. He had died. He had been killed. He had committed suicide. But death never seemed to stick. It's a family issue. In fact, back then, Death was very glad to kick him out the door when he turned ten. There was no way, he'd accept him back. So, bored out of his mind, the man accepted his brother's advice and planned to take in a new disciple. After centuries of preparing, he found himself in this clearing at this point in time, waiting.

With a flash, a small, slightly burned and battered cradle crashed in front of his feet. A tiny smile formed on the man's face as he waved his hand, restoring the cradle to pristine conditions. The babe within was in a state of soundless wailing. The old man slowly approached. He reached out towards Zyros who was terrified by the sudden and rough journey through space. The old man carefully lifted the child into his arms and stroked its head reassuringly, slowly calming the infant. Nature fell silent for a moment as if to listen when he spoke for the first time:

"There, there, little one."

The Master turned around and left the clearing, entering even further into the forest. The disregarded cradle disintegrated to dust.