The days of mourning had passed.

  The Ashelum tribe thrived, their traditions strengthening with each generation. They honored their ancestors, etched their history onto stone and wood, and preserved the unity that Ashel and Lunara had once dreamed of.

  But in the darkened forests beyond their lands, resentment festered.

  The scattered remnants of Orasis watched from the shadows, their gazes filled with bitterness.

  They had no home. No shared tongue. No past to hold onto.

  Their voices, once proud, were now fragmented—each group speaking in words the others could not understand. Their unity had been shattered the day the heavens struck Orasis down.

  Yet, through the confusion and frustration, one feeling burned strongest of all—jealousy.

  They saw the Ashelum, still speaking the language of their ancestors, still living together, still understanding each other.

  Why were they not punished as we were?

  Why do they get to remain as one people, while we were cursed to be divided?

  And as these thoughts took root, a shadow moved among them.

  A figure draped in darkness, its presence unseen yet felt.

  It whispered to the lost.

  It promised them something they had all longed for—vengeance.

  In a hidden part of the forest, several groups had gathered. Though their words were different, their emotions were the same. Anger. Bitterness. A desire for justice—or what they perceived as justice.

  A man stepped forward, his expression hardened by years of suffering. He had once been a proud leader in Orasis, but now he was nothing more than a man without a home.

  "They abandoned us," he spat, his voice filled with venom. "They watched as we suffered, and yet they did nothing."

  Murmurs of agreement spread through the crowd.

  Another man, his face half-covered in shadows, clenched his fists. "We were supposed to be one people! But they are still together, while we are scattered like leaves in the wind."

  A woman with piercing eyes narrowed them in thought. "What can we do? We don't even speak the same words anymore."

  A hush fell over them.

  And then—the voice spoke.

  "You do not need words to share a cause."

  They all turned sharply, searching for the source.

  The air felt colder. The shadows seemed to move unnaturally, as if they had a will of their own.

  A lone figure stood at the edge of the gathering, cloaked in darkness. Their face was hidden beneath a hood, and their form was blurred, as though they did not fully belong to this world.

  They raised a hand, and an eerie stillness settled over the gathering.

  "The Ashelum have kept what was stolen from you."

  Their voice was smooth, almost hypnotic.

  "They live as if the heavens never touched them. They speak as they always have. They thrive while you suffer."

  A murmur of anger rippled through the group.

  The figure took a step forward, their presence growing heavier.

  "But I can give you what was taken."

  Silence.

  The woman from earlier frowned. "Who are you?"

  The figure chuckled. "A friend. A guide for those who have been abandoned."

  The leader of the group narrowed his eyes. "And what is it you offer?"

  The figure's hood tilted slightly, as if they were smiling.

  "The power to reclaim your birthright."

  Far from the whispers of rebellion, the Ashelum tribe continued to prosper.

  Miran, Edros, and Althea stood atop a hill, gazing at the land before them.

  The tribe had grown. Families flourished. Their scriptures were carved into stone, preserving the history of their people.

  But an unease lingered in the air.

  Althea furrowed her brows. "Have you noticed it?"

  Edros nodded. "The forests feel... restless."

  Miran exhaled, gripping the hilt of his staff. "Something is coming."

  None of them knew what it was.

  But soon, the heavens would send them a warning.

  And the storm that would change their world forever would begin.

  The whispers did not fade.

  They grew.

  The scattered remnants of Orasis, lost and divided by their new tongues, had found something more powerful than language—hatred.

  Their suffering had not ended with the fall of their great city. Instead, it had festered. And now, a voice in the darkness had given them something they had longed for—a promise.

  A reason to take back what they had lost.

  At the center of this gathering stood a man—their leader, the last ruler of Orasis.

  He raised his hands, his voice echoing through the night. Though none of them spoke the same words, they all understood.

  "The Ashelum have stolen what should have been ours!" he shouted.

  The crowd erupted in agreement.

  "They are blessed while we suffer! They hold the favor of the heavens while we are abandoned!" His eyes burned with fury. "But we are not forsaken. We will rise again, stronger than before!"

  A murmur of anticipation rippled through the crowd.

  Then—a shadow moved.

  A hooded figure stepped forward, their presence sending chills through the air. The darkness around them was unnatural, shifting like a living thing.

  "The heavens did not take your voices," the figure spoke, their tone smooth like silk. "They only took your unity."

  Silence fell.

  The leader clenched his fists. "Then return it to us."

  The figure lifted their hand, revealing a swirling black mist—cold, suffocating. It coiled through the air, reaching toward the people like a serpent searching for prey.

  "This is the gift of the Forgotten," the figure whispered.

  A hush spread through the crowd.

  One by one, they knelt before the figure.

  One by one, they chose the path of darkness.

  Far from the corrupted gathering, in the heart of the Ashelum, Miran, Edros, and Althea sat around the sacred fire. The elders of the tribe had gathered, their faces filled with unease.

  Something was wrong.

  "The wind is heavy tonight," Althea murmured.

  Miran nodded. "The air feels... watchful."

  Before Edros could respond, a sudden gust of wind rushed through the gathering, snuffing out the fire in an instant. Gasps filled the air as darkness swallowed the clearing.

  Then—a glow.

  A soft, golden light shimmered before them. From the light, a figure emerged.

  A man, dressed in flowing white garments.

  A man they all recognized.

  Miran's breath caught in his throat.

  "Oras...?"

  The people stared in shock. Some fell to their knees, others whispered prayers, unable to believe what they were seeing.

  Oras smiled faintly. "It's been a long time, my brothers, my sisters."

  Tears welled in Althea's eyes. "But... how?"

  "I was saved," Oras said softly. "I was given a second chance."

  He stepped forward, looking at them—truly looking at them. They had grown old in the time he had been gone, while he stood before them as young as the day he had disappeared.

  "I was lost, just as you were," he admitted, his voice thick with emotion. "I allowed my pride to lead me to ruin. When Orasis fell, I believed I had nothing left. I was ready to... throw it all away."

  His gaze lowered, his hands trembling.

  "But before I could, they came for me."

  Miran swallowed. "Who?"

  Oras's lips trembled. "Father and Mother."

  A hushed silence fell upon them.

  Edros clenched his fists. "They took you back to the garden, didn't they?"

  Oras nodded. "They saved me... and the Architect granted me mercy. He allowed me to stay with them, to be reborn in the place we once called home."

  A sad smile crossed his face. "And I would have stayed there forever. But then—I heard your prayers."

  The people gasped.

  "You called to the heavens," Oras continued. "You begged for guidance. And so, the Architect sent me."

  His expression grew dark.

  "To warn you."

  The warmth in the air suddenly faded.

  A shiver ran through the gathered Ashelum as Oras's golden light flickered.

  "There is a presence in this world that does not belong. The lost... our scattered brothers and sisters... they are no longer alone."

  Althea's face paled. "What do you mean?"

  Oras closed his eyes. "They have turned to the Forgotten."

  Gasps of horror spread through the crowd. Some of the elders took a step back, fear evident in their eyes.

  "The Forgotten?" Miran whispered. "The ones who defied the heavens?"

  Oras nodded grimly. "They have returned... and they have found a new people to corrupt."

  Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

  Miran's hands curled into fists. "Then we must stop them."

  Oras met his brother's gaze, his expression unreadable.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  "You will have no choice," he said. "For they will come for you."

  The fire suddenly roared back to life, its golden flames reaching toward the sky.

  The people gasped as Oras's form began to fade, his presence slipping away like mist in the wind.

  But before he vanished completely, he gave them one final warning.

  "Prepare yourselves. The first fight is coming."

  And then, he was gone.

  The fire crackled in the silence, its warmth unable to chase away the fear that had settled deep in their hearts.

  For the first time since the days of Ashel and Lunara—darkness had found its way into their world.

  Two years.

  For two years, the world held its breath.

  The Forgotten worked in the shadows, twisting the lost into something inhuman. They preyed on the broken, those who had once called Orasis home, whispering promises of vengeance and power. Some accepted willingly. Others resisted—until they were remade.

  What emerged was no longer entirely human. Their voices became one, a single chorus of hatred. Their bodies, though still flesh, moved as if bound by unseen strings, guided by a will not their own.

  And in the heart of it all, their leader stood, his face shrouded by the dark mist that had consumed his people.

  The time of waiting was over.

  The first fight would soon begin.

  The Ashelun did not sit idle.

  They knew the battle would come, and though the word "war" did not yet exist in their tongues, they understood its meaning.

  For two years, they prepared.

  They carved spears from the strongest wood, shaping them with care. They crafted shields, binding them with woven fibers, their surfaces etched with the sigils of their ancestors. They wove armor, light yet strong, fashioned from the earth itself.

  But not all agreed.

  Some among the Ashelun feared that taking up arms would only invite greater destruction. Others believed that words, not weapons, could mend the divide. Miran, Edros, and Althea stood at the center of these discussions, torn between the need to defend their people and the desire to preserve the peace their father and mother had once upheld.

  Then, on the eve of decision, the fire spoke.

  As the flames crackled in the heart of the gathering, a figure emerged from within them.

  The golden light of the fire parted, revealing Oras.

  Gasps filled the air as the people fell to their knees in reverence. Miran, Edros, and Althea stepped forward, their hearts pounding at the sight of their brother.

  Oras's gaze was solemn.

  "I do not come with warnings this time," he said. "I come with a gift."

  From within the fire, three objects rose.

  Rings.

  Each was simple in shape, but the power they radiated was undeniable. They gleamed with an unnatural glow, pulsing as if alive.

  "These are not mere ornaments," Oras said. "They are bound to the Architect's will, forged by his hands before the foundation of the world. Each ring carries a gift—but it is not a power to be used lightly."

  Miran reached out hesitantly, his fingers brushing against the first ring. A surge of energy rushed through him, like the breath of the heavens itself.

  "What do they do?" Althea asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Oras smiled faintly. "That... is for you to discover."

  The rings hovered before them, waiting to be claimed.

  Edros exhaled, then stepped forward, taking the second. Althea, after a moment's hesitation, took the third.

  The moment their fingers closed around the rings, the fire roared higher, casting long shadows across the land.

  Oras's form began to fade, his voice carried by the wind.

  "Protect our people. Hold fast to the light. The fight will come... and you must be ready."

  Then, he was gone.

  The fire dimmed, but the warmth of his presence remained.

  Miran, Edros, and Althea looked down at their hands, feeling the weight of the rings against their skin.

  They did not yet know what powers lay within them.

  But soon—they would.

  And soon—the battle would begin.

  The night was eerily still.

  Not even the wind stirred.

  Miran stood atop the wooden walls of the Ashelun settlement, gripping his spear tightly. His eyes scanned the dense forest beyond, a growing unease settling in his chest. The fires within the tribe burned low, casting flickering shadows over the sharpened wooden barriers that protected them.

  Then—the silence shattered.

  A deafening howl ripped through the air, followed by the thunderous charge of many feet.

  The Forgotten had come.

  Dark figures emerged from the trees, their twisted forms moving with unnatural speed. Their eyes glowed with a sickly light, their voices a chorus of inhuman growls. They were no longer the brothers and sisters they had once known—they had become something else.

  Miran gritted his teeth.

  "They're here!" he shouted. "To arms! Defend the tribe!"

  The warning bell rang.

  The gates were sealed.

  And for the first time in history—a battle began.

  The Forgotten swarmed the outer walls, clawing and striking at the wooden defenses.

  Spears rained down from above, piercing their ranks, but still they came—relentless, unfazed by pain.

  Miran, Edros, and Althea stood at the front, their rings glimmering in the dim firelight. Power coursed through them, yet its full potential remained unknown.

  A Forgotten broke through, leaping over the barricade—only to be met by Edros, who raised his hand.

  A surge of energy erupted.

  The air cracked as the Forgotten was blasted back, its body colliding with the others behind it.

  Edros stared at his hand in shock. "That wasn't me... it was the ring."

  Miran wasted no time. He gripped his own ring, focusing on the warmth pulsing within it.

  At his call, the earth beneath the Forgotten shifted.

  Roots burst forth, twisting like serpents, binding their foes in place.

  Althea raised her own hand, and from her fingertips—fire ignited.

  The battlefield was no longer just wood and steel. It had become something new.

  Magic had awakened.

  The people of Ashelun, seeing their leaders wield such power, felt something stir within themselves.

  Mana.

  It was not just the rings—it was within them.

  They had always lived in harmony with the world, but now... they could command it.

  Spears were no longer their only weapons. Some among them found that by focusing their will, they could conjure small bursts of energy—rudimentary, but effective.

  And for the first time, the Forgotten faltered.

  They had expected an easy slaughter.

  They had not expected this.

  By the time the sun rose, the first battle was over.

  The Forgotten retreated into the forests, leaving behind only the echoes of their defeat.

  But Miran, Edros, and Althea knew—this was only the beginning.

  They looked down at their rings, then at their people.

  Magic had changed everything.

  Cities would rise. Nations would form. And soon—the world itself would never be the same.

  The fires still burned from the night before.

  Miran stood at the edge of the battlefield, his spear planted firmly in the earth. The first battle had ended, but victory left no room for celebration. This was only the beginning.

  The Forgotten had retreated, but they had not been defeated.

  Edros and Althea stood beside him, both staring at the rings on their fingers.

  The rings had changed everything.

  Ashelun warriors gathered in the center of the settlement, murmuring amongst themselves. Some had witnessed the powers their leaders had wielded—roots rising from the earth, fire igniting in the air, unseen forces striking down enemies.

  Yet none could explain it.

  One of the warriors, a young man named Vael, approached.

  "Miran," he said hesitantly. "What was that power you used? It was... beyond anything we have seen."

  Miran exchanged a glance with Edros and Althea.

  "We don't fully understand it either," Edros admitted, flexing his fingers. "But it wasn't just the rings. When we fought, I felt something—something within me."

  Althea nodded. "As if the world itself was answering our call."

  Miran looked down at his own hands.

  The rings were a gift from Oras.

  And yet, they knew so little about them.

  They needed answers.

  And so, away from the others, Miran, Edros, and Althea gathered in the great clearing, the heart of their settlement. They focused, trying to recall what they had felt in battle.

  Edros clenched his fist, focusing his mind.

  A faint gust of wind swirled around him.

  Althea raised her hand, and from her fingertips, a small flame flickered to life.

  Miran took a deep breath, placing his palm against the earth.

  The ground trembled.

  The three of them shared a look—this was no accident.

  This power... this 'mana'... it was something new, something that had always existed, yet had never been touched before.

  And they weren't the only ones who felt it.

  Word spread through the tribe.

  Some came forward, claiming they had felt something stir within them as well. It was faint, barely noticeable, but it was there.

  The Ashelun had discovered magic.

  And the world would never be the same.

  Meanwhile, in the dark depths of the forests, the Forgotten gathered.

  Their leader, a figure shrouded in shadow, gritted his teeth in fury.

  "How?" he growled, his claws digging into the bark of a withered tree. "How did we lose?"

  The Forgotten had always been stronger. They had always overwhelmed their enemies with sheer numbers and brutality.

  Yet somehow, the Ashelun had resisted.

  They did not know about the rings. They did not know about the power that had awakened within their enemies.

  But they knew one thing—they would not make the same mistake again.

  The battle had passed, but the Ashelun could not forget the power they had witnessed.

  Miran, Edros, and Althea stood at the heart of their settlement, surrounded by the warriors who had fought beside them.

  A question burned in everyone's mind.

  What was that power?

  "I felt something," Edros said, breaking the silence. "Something moving inside me when I called upon the wind."

  Althea nodded. "It was as if my own breath gave birth to fire."

  Miran clenched his fist. "And the earth answered my will."

  The warriors whispered among themselves. Some had seen it happen, but others had felt something within them as well—a faint stirring, as if something had awakened.

  But what was it?

  One of the elders, an old man named Saelen, stepped forward. His hair was white as snow, and his eyes had seen more seasons than most.

  "It is something that was always there," he murmured. "Something within us... within the world itself. We have simply never touched it before."

  The crowd fell silent.

  Miran, arms crossed, frowned. "Then how do we understand it? How do we make sense of something we cannot see?"

  Saelen stroked his beard, deep in thought. "Perhaps it is like the wind. You cannot see it, but you can feel it. You cannot hold it, but you can use it."

  A younger warrior, Vael, tilted his head. "Then what do we call it?"

  The question hung in the air.

  For a moment, no one spoke.

  Then, Althea whispered a word.

  "Mana."

  Miran and Edros turned to her.

  Althea met their gaze. "It is something flowing through us, through the world. Like the rivers, like the air. But it is neither water nor wind. It is something else. Mana."

  Saelen nodded slowly. "Mana... yes. That is a good name."

  And thus, the word was born.

  The Ashelun did not yet know how to control it, but they understood one thing—Mana was a force that could be harnessed.

  Miran tested his strength, lifting his hand to the earth. He focused, recalling the sensation he had felt before.

  The ground trembled beneath him.

  Edros reached out, and a gust of wind circled his palm.

  Althea took a deep breath, and a flicker of flame danced at her fingertips.

  The warriors watching them murmured in awe.

  "If this Mana flows within us all," Vael asked, "then can anyone use it?"

  That was the question no one could yet answer.

  Far from the Ashelun, deep within the shadows of the forest, the Forgotten gathered.

  Their leader sat upon a twisted throne of bone and bark, his fingers curling against the armrests.

  "The Ashelun have resisted us," he growled. "They fight like never before. This is no longer a mere struggle for land—this is something more."

  A scout knelt before him. "The Ashelun grow stronger, my lord. They wield forces we do not understand."

  The leader's eyes darkened.

  "Then we will break them before they grow beyond our reach."

  The days following the battle were filled with whispers.

  The Ashelun had seen something beyond their understanding—Miran calling the earth to rise, Edros bending the wind to his will, and Althea summoning fire with a mere breath.

  It was terrifying. It was incredible.

  But above all, it was unknown.

  In the center of the settlement, Miran, Edros, and Althea stood before the tribe. The three rings gleamed faintly on their fingers, radiating a power that had only just awakened.

  Miran clenched his fist. "This... Mana, it is real. It flows within us and through these rings given by Oras. It is a gift—but one we do not yet understand."

  A murmur spread through the gathered Ashelun. Some gazed at the three with awe. Others with fear.

  "We saw what you did in the battle," a warrior spoke. "You shattered the enemy's lines, burned the sky, and sent the winds howling. But... should we be wielding such power?"

  Edros frowned. "Why should we fear it? The Forgotten will not stop. We must be ready."

  "But is it natural?" another voice called.

  Althea turned to the one who spoke—a man named Varan, one of the oldest warriors in the tribe. His arms were scarred from past battles, his voice heavy with doubt.

  "This is not strength we gained through our hands or our weapons," Varan said. "It is something beyond us, something unnatural. If we continue down this path, will we not become something else entirely?"

  A silence followed his words.

  Miran looked over the gathered people, seeing the uncertainty in their eyes. He understood.

  Power like this—it was never meant for mortals.

  And yet... it was in their hands now.

  "We will not use it carelessly," Miran said firmly. "We will learn. We will understand. And if this power proves dangerous, we will find a way to control it. But we cannot turn away from it now."

  His words hung in the air. Some nodded in agreement. Others remained silent, their unease not yet settled.

  Far beyond the Ashelun's lands, in the deep shadows of the ancient forest, the Forgotten gathered.

  Their leader sat upon his throne of bone and bark, his fingers tapping against the armrest.

  "They are growing stronger," one of his generals reported. "The last battle should have crushed them, yet they still stand."

  "And they wield something new," another added. "Something we do not understand."

  The leader's eyes darkened.

  "Then we will not give them the time to master it."

  He stood, his presence sending a chill through the gathered warriors.

  "Ashelun must fall before they become more than a mere nuisance. We strike before they are ready. This time, we leave nothing behind."

  The Ashelun did not waste time.

  Miran, Edros, and Althea gathered those who showed interest in the power now known as Mana. Though none could wield it like the three who bore the rings, they wished to understand it—to record its existence and pass on their knowledge.

  They took to carving symbols into stone, marking down every test, every failure, and every success.

  "This power... it must be preserved," Althea said, running her hand along a newly etched script. "If we do not understand it, we cannot control it."

  "Nor can we protect ourselves from it," Edros added.

  The tribe agreed. And so, the first teachings of Mana were born.

  But peace did not last.

  From the shadows, the Forgotten watched. They saw the Ashelun adapting, growing. And they did not wait.

  The second assault came like a storm.

  Fire rained from the sky—torches flung over the wooden barricades. Screams filled the night as warriors scrambled to defend their home.

  "Shields up! Protect the elders!" Miran roared, raising his spear.

  The enemy was more relentless this time. Faster. Stronger. More merciless.

  The Ashelun fought with all they had. Their spears clashed against the crude weapons of the Forgotten. But this time, Miran, Edros, and Althea fought with their rings—earth rising, wind cutting, fire blazing.

  And the Forgotten... finally saw.

  "This power... it is beyond them," one of the Forgotten leaders snarled as he dodged a wave of flame. "They have been given something unnatural."

  "Then we will not waste our strength here," another growled. "Let them have their victory today. We will return stronger."

  Just as quickly as they had come, the Forgotten began to retreat, vanishing into the night.

  The Ashelun did not pursue.

  They were victorious—but they knew this was not the end.

  The fires were put out. The wounded were tended to. And the dead were mourned.

  Miran, Edros, and Althea stood at the heart of the village, the rings still glowing faintly on their fingers.

  "They will come back," Miran said.

  Edros nodded. "Stronger than before."

  Althea clenched her fists. "Then we must be ready."

  And so, the Ashelun turned their attention to what lay ahead. They had survived the first war in their history.

  But it would not be the last.

  The night was filled with warmth.

  The Ashelun gathered in the heart of their village, voices raised in song. The air smelled of roasted meat and freshly squeezed apple juice. Children laughed, elders spoke of old tales, and warriors rested after their hard-fought victory.

  Miran, Edros, and Althea sat together, drinking from wooden cups, exhaustion settling into their bones. Though they had grown old, their spirits remained strong. They had fought, they had survived, and now, they would prepare for what lay ahead.

  But for now, they would celebrate.

  As Miran took a sip from his cup, a voice spoke beside him.

  "It's nice to see you, brothers and sisters, smile again."

  The voice was soft, yet familiar—so familiar that it sent a shiver down Miran's spine.

  He turned, as did Edros and Althea.

  A young boy stood beside them, smiling. His golden-brown hair caught the glow of the fire, his eyes warm, yet filled with something deeper—something ancient.

  Edros tilted his head. "Young boy, come eat. You must be hungry."

  The boy chuckled. "No need, Brother Edros."

  Edros furrowed his brows. "Call me Elder, young man."

  The boy's smile grew. "Why? Because I look young and you can't recognize me?"

  Miran narrowed his eyes, studying the boy's face. There was something unsettlingly familiar about him. The shape of his nose, the curve of his lips, the way he stood with quiet confidence...

  Then, it struck him.

  Edros's hands trembled. Althea gasped.

  Miran's voice barely came out. "No... It can't be..."

  The boy took a step forward, his voice gentle.

  "Look at me... Guess who I am?"

  The fire crackled. The celebration around them continued, but in that moment, the three elders felt as though the world had gone silent.

  Because the face before them... was one they had not seen in centuries.

  It was Oras.