The first rays of dawn painted the eastern sky in hues of soft rose and pale gold as Caelum slipped out of the Aetherveil Academy.
He carried nothing but the worn satchel that had accompanied him since his arrival, and the letter clutched tightly in his hand. He moved with a quiet purpose, his footsteps barely disturbing the dew-kissed grass.
The usual symphony of the Academy waking up – the distant clang of the blacksmith's hammer, the murmur of early morning classes, the chirping of birds in the ancient trees – felt distant, muted.
He was no longer a part of this world, not truly. His path now led elsewhere, towards the source of the nightmare that had shattered his fragile peace.
He walked for hours, following the subtle pull in the air that seemed to emanate from the north. He didn't need a map; the land itself whispered its secrets to him, the subtle shifts in the terrain, the distant resonance of settlements, the ancient pathways worn smooth by centuries of travel.
He moved with an uncanny speed, his blindness no impediment, his senses painting a vivid picture of the world around him.
By midday, the towering silhouette of Zephyscall began to pierce the horizon.
The deity city floated amidst the clouds, a breathtaking spectacle of gleaming white spires and cascading waterfalls, held aloft by ancient magic and the unwavering faith of its inhabitants.
It was a symbol of divine power, a testament to the authority that had orchestrated the destruction of his past.
As he drew closer, the air around him thickened with a palpable energy, the collective faith of the city's inhabitants creating a powerful, almost tangible force field.
He could feel the constant thrum of divine magic, the intricate network of wards and enchantments that protected the city and its celestial rulers.
He paused at the base of the floating city, gazing upwards at its ethereal beauty. There was no visible entrance, no earthly path leading to its lofty heights.
For any other mortal, Zephyscall would be an impenetrable fortress. But Caelum was no ordinary mortal.
He closed his eyes behind the charm bandage, focusing inward. He reached for the echoes of the ancient whispers that had stirred within him after the deity's unraveling, the forgotten resonances of a time before the current gods held sway.
He felt a subtle shift within the fabric of the world around him, a momentary weakening in the intricate weave of divine protection.
With a silent step, he began to ascend. He didn't fly, didn't levitate through magical means. Instead, it was as if the very air around him yielded, parting to allow his passage.
He moved through the invisible barriers as easily as a phantom through walls, the divine wards meant to repel intruders simply failing to register his presence.
It was as if he existed in a space between the layers of reality, untouched by the laws that governed the mortal and the divine.
The ascent was surreal.
He passed through shimmering layers of energy, felt the faint tingling of ancient enchantments brushing against his skin, but none could touch him. The city of the gods, the pinnacle of divine power, was open to him.
He moved through the pristine streets of Zephyscall, his quiet presence an anomaly in the bustling city.
The inhabitants, their faces serene with unwavering faith, moved around him, oblivious to the blind youth who walked among them like a ghost.
The air hummed with hymns and the chanting of prayers, a constant affirmation of their devotion.
He paid them no mind, his senses focused on a single point – the towering central spire, the heart of the city's power, the seat of the High Bishop. He could feel the strongest concentration of divine energy emanating from that point, a beacon in the ethereal landscape.
His journey through the city was a silent procession. He moved with an unnerving certainty, his unseen gaze fixed on his destination. He passed through ornate temples, their interiors filled with glowing idols and devout worshippers. He walked through grand plazas where celestial processions were underway, the air thick with incense and the resonant tones of sacred music. Yet, no one saw him, no one noticed the quiet figure who carried the weight of a thousand years and the burning embers of a forgotten injustice.
As he approached the central spire, the energy around him intensified, a palpable pressure that even his unique senses struggled to ignore. He could feel the immense power concentrated within, the weight of centuries of divine authority.
He paused at the base of the spire, its gleaming white surface stretching impossibly high into the clouds.
There was no discernible entrance, only smooth, unblemished stone. But Caelum didn't need a door.
He reached out a hand, his fingers brushing against the cool surface. He closed his eyes, focusing on the discordant echo of the Zephyscall decree that still resonated within him. He felt for the subtle flaws in the city's divine architecture, the ancient vulnerabilities hidden beneath layers of faith and power.
And then, he simply stepped forward. The solid stone yielded before him, not with a crash or a tremor, but with a silent parting, like water flowing around an unseen obstacle.
He moved into the heart of the spire, leaving the pristine facade untouched, his silent descent into the seat of divine power beginning. The letter to Reya remained clutched in his hand, a fragile link to the world he was now leaving behind, a testament to the fleeting touch of love in the face of overwhelming sorrow and the inexorable pull of vengeance.
The time for peace was over. The time to remember, and then to act, had finally arrived. And the gods of Zephyscall were about to learn the true cost of forgotten memories.