The crowd gathered like a constellation around the Pearl Podium, its smooth surface gleaming beneath the cascading starlight. As the play recounted Anu's final defiance and the shimmering silhouettes of Above Alls arced across the stage in metaphysical illusion, laughter, gasps, and tears threaded through the audience.
But away from the center, beneath the reaching arch of a crystal-birch tree, a boy sat quietly.
He was no more than fourteen in appearance, yet something in the line of his posture—the silence he carried—hinted at a presence older than memory. His long, beautiful dark hair framed a face carved with sharp but soft symmetry, the kind that arrested the eye without demanding it. There was no ornament to him—his clothes were simple, slightly worn, humble by the standards of Selun'Thael.
But his eyes.
Even amid all the wonders of the town, it was his eyes that unsettled the few who dared meet them. Like twin nebulae veiled behind soot, they held the depth of ages, a knowledge or dream pressed down into the soul and folded a thousandfold. They did not shimmer with youthful curiosity—but with restraint. As if he had seen far more than he ever wished to remember.
Beside him, half-lounging and whispering with barely suppressed excitement, was Imius, a lanky boy with a blade-shaped smile and a robe too fine for his own good.
"They always change this part," Imius murmured. "Every cycle, they change how Anu screamed. Once, they had him curse the heavens and bite into the sun! Now he kneels in silence before being obliterated. What do you think?"
The mysterious boy said nothing at first. His gaze remained on the stage where Anu, rendered in flame and silver cloth, raised a shimmering spear toward the sky in defiance.
Imius nudged him.
"Come on, that part always makes you smile. Don't you think he was... right, in a way? I mean, resisting them—Above Alls, the so-called Sovereigns? Isn't that a kind of greatness?"
Finally, the boy spoke.
His voice was soft, distant, but struck like wind through glass.
"Or it was just sorrow... seeking shape."
Imius blinked. "Sorrow? That's... a weird take."
But he didn't press further. He never did. Somehow, every time the boy spoke, even the excitable Imius felt the need to pause. As if something unspeakably ancient stirred behind those words.
Around them, the crowd exploded in cheers as the play's Anu screamed the final verse:
"I refuse your fate! I am not your tale! Let me fall into nothing—free!"
From the sky of the performance, crafted lights shaped like stars collapsed inward, simulating the implosion of an entire realm. A great sonic illusion echoed across the podium, reverberating into the hearts of the young ones watching.
Some clapped. Others cried.
A girl whispered, "I wish I could've met him… even if he destroyed everything."
An elder boy nearby shook his head, "That's just myth, don't be foolish. No one defies the heavens and wins. That's why it's a play."
Still, something passed through the audience—a wave of emotion, awe, fear, longing. Myths have a way of speaking louder than truths.
And all the while, the boy beneath the crystal-birch watched… silently.
Not as one amazed.
Not as one confused.
But as if he had seen this tale before—long, long ago—and forgotten it until this very moment.
A wind stirred gently across the town. One of the Dream Threads—invisible to all—fluttered faintly behind his shoulder.