Legacy of Aeon

Chapter 2 - TA 748 Late Spring (Cont.)

Not wanting to worry my mother, I made my way towards the coast. The familiar silhouette of a cave loomed ahead—a hidden sanctuary that had been my secret hideout since childhood. Memories of quiet afternoons spent reading, the relentless crash of waves outside, and the unmistakable scent of saltwater began to fill my mind.

I'd heard my father had kept his books within these very walls when he was in Rhun. Now, as I stood at the entrance, even all these years later I just couldn't shake the feeling that I was stepping into a part of his past, a study that had once belonged to my father himself. You'd think this would lead to something magical, right? But as I ventured inside, I found myself surrounded by the remnants of dusty textbooks and crumpled journals piled haphazardly on a rickety desk. Honestly? It was a bit boring.

Yet, at the very end of the cave, a locked door stirred my curiosity as it always had. I'd mostly given up on ever opening it, yet a part of me persisted, plagued by the idea of what truths might lie behind it.

Despite the learning curve that came with rending reality using ancient magics, I had managed to glean a few simple spells from scattered notebooks that filled the cave. Magic had always flowed through me so effortlessly, each word always at the tip of my tongue. But even simple spells were precarious. It was like solving a complex equation without any real formula—just a chaotic jumble of thoughts that could at any moment cause mental collapse. Looking back, I realized I had been using magic entirely wrong. But it would be a while until I understood it.

Magic is an overlapping web of complex information layered upon itself, compressing until it detonates like a bomb, the resulting bomb rending even reality itself. This explosion of raw information and magic would normally be directed outward and channeled into a spell. But the way I was approaching things led to an unfocused explosion, weakening the spell's effects as much of the damage ended up being redirected to me instead. Though I'm rambling at this point.

I stepped into the cave, the scent of saltwater filling my nostrils. Skimming through a few dusty old books scattered around, I hoped to find something—anything—that could help with my injuries. though it was like searching for a needle in a haystack, or health coverage in Rhun. After a few minutes of flipping through notes, I had realized this was a bust. No magical healing or secret remedies in sight. I decided to stop and nurse my wounds the old-fashioned way. I had stepped towards the door, almost hoping it would open on its own. But let's be honest—life was rarely that convenient.

I changed my bandages and disinfected my cuts. before resting against the cold steel door, bloodied and beaten. I had begun to think...about everything.  Why, of all places, did I have to be born into the one place that loathed my very existence? Would my life have unfolded differently had I been born somewhere else—somewhere where my passion wouldn't have been met with scorn and hatred?

If only I had been brought up in a place that embraced difference, and nurtured talent. Rather than being trapped in a kingdom that saw my abilities as a threat, where I had to conceal the very essence of who I was to survive. Every day a reminder that I was on borrowed time...a reminder that no matter what I contributed I'd be hunted and put down like an animal for no reason aside than the fact that I'm different.

I pounded on the door with a fury that I had never before experienced. My fists were sore, blood trickling down my knuckles. With each strike, I scorned the church and its hollow practices, a place that claimed to offer salvation yet turned a blind eye to the suffering around it.

I scorned the kingdom for its complacency, for allowing such injustice to fester like a wound that never heals. And how could I not scorn my father, that distant figure who had abandoned me, leaving my mother and I to navigate this harsh world alone? He had brought me into this existence, and then vanished, leaving us to live like shadows in a realm that would have executed her for so much as sheltering me.

The door stood before me, a barrier that felt by all means indestructible, and yet I continued to beat it, hoping that somehow, someone might hear my cries and understand the depth of my despair.

The door's hinges, worn and rusted from years of neglect and the grasp of humidity, began to falter under the weight of my desperation. I pounded my fists against it, my frustration mounting with each futile strike. Bloodied knuckles and a pounding heart accompanied my relentless effort, eventually, fatigue washed over me. With a final, breathless gasp, I collapsed against the door, my strength spent.

In that moment, as if willed by the gods themselves, the rusty hinges and bolt finally snapped. The sound of metal against metal rang through the air and with an earth-shattering crash, it fell. I fell forward into a dark room no larger than my own bedroom. Inside this room was a box and some dusty books, somehow untouched by rot.

Inside the box, I found a saber—presumably the very one my father had wielded in his younger days. The blade was simple yet elegant, a single edge that gleamed brilliantly in the light. Its short, m-shaped cross guard, crafted from a brass material that was just polished enough to catch the light, spoke of a time when attention to detail mattered. The handle was wrapped neatly in leather, worn but sturdy, while a polished brass pommel adorned the end, reflecting a glimmer of light that danced across its surface.

I couldn't help but admire the weapon. It seemed to have been stored with great care, there wasn't a trace of rust to mar its beauty. It felt like a relic from an age long forgotten, whispering stories of valor and perseverance. My curiosity grew with each passing moment—what stories had this saber seen? What battles had it been part of? Thoughts flowed through my mind at breakneck speeds. 

Nestled beside the box, were three journals neatly arranged on a shelf above. My heart raced. Perhaps they held the secrets of arcane mastery, perhaps they'll reveal some sort of ancient conspiracy.

I opened the first tome, the words dancing across the pages, written in the melodic script of the Ae'el'dir. It wasn't surprising, considering my father's lineage; he was one of them. My familiarity with the language came only from studying his old notes, but it was enough to understand most of what was written inside.

Hours passed by in what felt like an instant, the world around me accelerating as if a bored god was playing with the clock. Each page revealing more about my father and the life he lived—until I reached the final chapter of the last book...they were cookbooks.

A swell of disappointment washed over me. My mind scrambled: recipes instead of revelations, culinary instead of arcana. 

"No, it had to be some kind of code," I rationalized, a spark of determination igniting within me. With a fervent resolve, I decided to immerse myself in these books. I would study them carefully, unravel their mysteries, and understand their secrets! The thought filled me with excitement, as if I were on the brink of uncovering a hidden world just waiting to be explored. And before I knew it a week had passed. I began training with my father's saber, carefully looking over his notes hoping to find anything of value.

But first, a good night's sleep. I began to head home. basking in the warmth of the sun, a gentle breeze flowed through my hair, I took a deep breath; the cool air filling my lungs, I was blissfully unaware that a storm was brewing on the horizon—one that would soon be set in motion by my own recklessness. Beneath this serenity, the seeds of chaos had already been sown, waiting for the perfect moment to unfurl.

[END OF CHAPTER]