Chapter 3 - Happy birthday.

Her eyes were red. Filled with water.
Pink messy hair. A reddish nose.
Her lips were stained with red.

“Happy Birthday…”

The words left her throat — yet why?
Why were those words full of sorrow, full of dread?
Her eyes, soaked in it.

Her voice was shaky — for a moment she stood there.

She took a deep breath and smiled awkwardly.
As if those would be her final words.

The air distorted — the air thickened.

He blinked.
“What…?”

His teeth slowly vibrated — eyes heavy, fingers frozen.

She blinked.

A twisted hand held her small head.
It wasn’t normal, its shape was wrong.
Fingers were bent — thin yet swollen, skin decaying around them.

The boy felt his vision become blurry — his world was ending.

Its hand was trying too hard to look human.

Her name left his voice yet nothing was spoken.

“Is this…”

His breath heavy.

Is this a joke?

A single glass drop left the girl's eyes.
The man ran and reached for her…
Yet she was gone, taken from the depths of the unknown.

No hand remained.
No figure.
No girl.
No pink hair.
No twisted hand.
Just…
A cold and lonely wooden room, with him inside.

His stomach lurched. He felt his chest squeeze like it was about to implode.

Silence filled the room.

THUMP.
THUMP.
THUMP.

He could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.

He raised his hand — looking at where she once was.
Fingers trembling.

“I’ll… I’ll—
I’ll save you.”
He spoke with dry eyes.

All colour in the room — gone.
Her — gone just like the rest.

His throat tightened.
He bit into his finger nails — his entire core disturbed.

I feel sick…
I feel sick…
I feel sick…

All warmth in the room — replaced with cold.

His knees — met the wooden floor.

The cold left one final trace, a trace of her lingering scent.
A parting gift for the mourning man.

That day — the canvas drew metal.
The same metal he would draw.

___

It was the year 1549 A.S.

The world was bright with colour, children laughing, the sheer warmth from their voice engulfed the city with whimsy. Women and men’s voices could be heard through the markets as they danced between one another.

They all laughed.
They all wept.
They all smiled.

It didn’t matter if you were in Velronia or from a distant land, everyone shared the same life.
People worked, they argued, they fell in love. They worried about rent and about weather and asked God countless questions yet he never answered back.

The world would move in an eternal loop, even if you wanted it to slow down it didn't.

Beyond the walls a strange tale would be spoken about a forbidden evil that was sealed long ago, yet no one could remember its name, everyone claimed they felt fear yet couldn’t care to remember its name.

Although it didn’t matter as four flames lit the world brighter than any evil could do.

History could forgive, fear and cry about evil yet none would forget the presence and names of the four guardians.

Vivian, ranked first - the half-Elf who always remained calm yet she would silence storms. Her name was considered a prayer among fellow mages. A lady who spoke little yet seen with the highest of regard.

Lucan, ranked second - the Astreion, the strongest among the 4. His strength met no equal to no man, devil or monster. Yet even he admired and respected the grace and beauty of Vivian.

Obellion, ranked third. - The colossal, a god of stone whose blade sensed and executed any shards of evil in any being, human or not. Not even the strongest evils could repent before the blade struck.

Cyran , ranked fourth - the archer whose arrows sang and shined bright. Beloved by everyone, the companion you wish you met in your previous life, present or future.

All together they were the guardians not just of Velronia but of the entire world.

Their ranks weren’t just of strength but of what the world begged for the most

That begging brought peace and warmth everywhere and a smile in all hearts.

Yet… in a world full of colour a speck of gray spilled onto the painting.

***

*Crunch.*

Pebbles gently roll down the tiny hills, passing within the treadwinds as the trees in the distance whistled. Black boots caused footprints from the floor as dust and rocks attached to his shoe.

The aroma of nectar engulfed the path ahead, with dominance yet it was soft.

“Kairo.”

His father’s voice and a gray memory played in the core of his brain.

It was that same voice.
The same warmth.
It smelt safe.
No, it was safe.

How many years had it been...
Since his father told him about the story of the dragon of divinity?