Lakevail thrummed with life.

  Even the very air seemed to vibrate—thick with excitement, dusted in pollen, and warm with the mingling scents of roasted meats, sweet frybreads, mulled cider, and wildflowers. Laughter crackled through the streets like a pleasant static, voices overlapping in a vibrant chorus of old friends reunited, curious strangers swapping stories, and children shrieking in joy as they darted between legs and tables like rabbits in spring.

  It wasn’t just noise. It was life—rippling, organic.

  The coming full moon heralded more than just another lunar turn. For the valleyfolk, it marked an almost sacred milestone: five young men, all born within weeks of one another and now freshly eighteen, were to undergo their long-awaited rite of passage. With the Nexus blooming in their bodies like a second soul, this would be the night when their Aither skills would finally manifest. A transition from boyhood into men. Why this happens in time with the lunar cycle is unknown.

  Elmore had seen it many times before over the last decade—but never like this.

  What had once started as a surprise and grew into a humble tradition—a gathering of friends, kin, and neighbors around a bonfire with beer and songs—had become something far greater. Something he hadn’t quite planned.

  And, truth be told, it was Ash’s fault.

  Not that he minded.

  His wife had always been a spark in the cold. With her voice like velvet and her gaze that made men and women alike stop mid-sentence, Ash had the kind of presence that lingered in a room long after she’d left it. But it was her Silver Tongue and Matriarch skills that had turned that charm into gravity. She’d taken to sharing daily stories and photos online—snapshots of village life, glimpses into the early chaos of dungeon excursions, interviews with local artisans, and thoughtful musings about life in a place where magic and survival danced hand-in-hand.

  It was raw, honest, and personal. And it went viral.

  What began as a trickle of curious watchers turned into a tidal wave of followers. Influencers reposted her updates. Journalists begged for interviews. Cityfolk from across the fractured remnants of post-Aither America were now arriving daily, hungry for something real. Something human.

  And so what had once been a backwoods ceremony had transformed into a cultural phenomenon. With tourists coming and going like the tide arriving in giant waves on every full moon. My influence alone hundreds of CopyCat festivals were happening in thrones and cities All over America and further beyond in some cases.

  By the morning of the festival, tens of thousands had arrived. They came in cars, vans, motorcycles, trucks, and even on foot, forming makeshift camps outside the valley walls in the now clean remains of the charleston battle field, thousands of tents and RVs were parked and Birch Hill had every hotel filled to the brim no matter how many they built to accommodate Lakevails growing popularity.

  Among those arriving are statues and War memorials covering the fields on the mountain top telling the two wars that have happened so far on a small scale in comparison to the wars of old but no less deadly. And no less honored.

  Elmore stood watching everything unfold. Vendors’ stalls had bloomed like mushrooms overnight, their bright canopies flapping in the spring breeze. Handmade jewelry from mundane gems and metal found in the mines, charms carved to look as close to the Aither static as eyes can see, smoked meat skewers of both terrestrial and dungeon beast, hand-bound books made from mushroom paper, leatherwork for decoration or battle, and basic medicine made from dungeon goods outright stripping the need for pharmaceuticals. All these were exchanged with wide-eyed enthusiasm. Old men and women played even older instruments from banjos and violins to guitars and spoons. Alongside these normal instruments were some newer ones unique to the individual skill being used to play it.

  Even now, after all these years, Elmore marveled at what they'd become.

  He moved through the crowd with a quiet surety, his presence unmistakable despite his simple dress: worn leather boots, a clean but weathered shirt, and his signature weapons hanging from his hip and back. People greeted him with nods, smiles, and sometimes hushed awe. He shook hands. He hugged. He offered a word of encouragement here, a bit of advice there.

  But always, his eyes drifted back toward the heart of the celebration.

  There, standing together like young stags on the verge of a forest trail, were the five soon-to-be men. Each one dressed in his finest Sunday clothes. They were nervous, wide-eyed, excited, And proud.

  Their families surrounded them—mothers dabbing at eyes with handkerchiefs, fathers clapping them on the shoulder, siblings tugging at sleeves and asking when they’d start to glow

  This was originally meant to just be a normal ceremony.

  As the first chords of the opening hymn began—a blend of Appalachian folk and new Aither tonalities that resonated like wind through a canyon—Elmore’s eyes scanned the crowd until they found her.

  Ash stood near the edge of the square, not at the front, not on a pedestal, but among the people. Her blond hair was braided with mithril thread. A handmade shawl woven with glyphs of family and hope hung around her shoulders, and on her face, that knowing smile she reserved just for him. Their eyes met across the crowd.

  And in that instant, the weight of it all settled over him—not as a burden, but as a kind of solemn joy.

  He was proud of all that had been accomplished.

  Not just surviving. Not just rebuilding. But becoming.

  A place where people no longer scraped by day-to-day, but planned years ahead. A place where children learned not just arithmetic and history but all the uses found for Aither. A place where tradition and innovation walked hand in hand.

  And now, with thousands bearing witness, five more would take the first step into this new world—not as orphans of a societal collapse, but as sons of something whole.

  As the festival swelled with song and the five approached the podium to await their awakening, Elmore placed a hand over his chest, feeling the old heartbeat inside him settle. Strong. Certain.

  No matter what came next—be it storm or shadow, hope or hardship—they would meet it together.

  As a people. As a family.

  As a future forged, one life at a time.

  Earlier that morning, Elmore sat at the edge of the kitchen table, nursing a mug of cold coffee as sunlight filtered in through the lace curtains Ash had a friend make years ago. The scent of frying onions and eggs from breakfast wafted out through the open window, mingling with the sharp tang of dew-damp grass and wildflowers. His eyes were on Edward, who stood by the door, lacing up his boots with a quiet focus that reminded Elmore of himself at that age—though his own youth had been far less peaceful or kind.

  The boy—no, the young man now—tightened the leather cords, adjusted the small pouch on his belt that housed his wood Cube, and swung a compact, handmade pack over his shoulders. His shoulders were broader now, strong from work and training, and his limbs had lengthened with the same stubborn resolve he’d always shown in everything from chores to training duels with local boys. Elmore took in the sight with the same silent pride he always felt, but today it clung heavier than usual to his chest.

  Edward was fifteen now. The last years of childhood had slipped away like smoke, and though he still had the fire of youth in his eyes, there was something new under it—composure. A steadiness. A growing awareness of the world, and his place in it.

  “It’s Saturday,” Edward said, reaching for the bowl of fruit on the counter. He plucked a darkening yellow and brown pawpaw and gave it a spin in his palm before looking back at his father with a smile. “That means PT and project time. I'm trying my hand at forgework again this week.”

  Elmore chuckled, setting down his mug. “Good Can’t swing a sword if you don’t understand how it’s made. Forge’ll teach you patience too.”

  Edward grinned. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll keep my mouth shut and my ears open. See you at the ceremony tonight. Don’t work too hard today, pops.”

  Elmore stood, walking over and giving the boy a light swat on the back of the shoulder. “Have a good one, kiddo. And remember—precision over power. It’s what wins fights. Anyone can swing hard; it takes a craftsman to place a blow that matters.”

  “Got it,” Edward said with a laugh, slipping out the door and down the dirt road now lined with blackberry bushes and sun-warmed tree tops overhead. He moved with the confident gait of someone who belonged exactly where they were.

  Elmore stood in the doorway for a long moment after, watching the shape of his son shrink down the trail, pawpaw in hand, his silhouette bright against the sunlit valley beyond. A quiet sigh escaped him—not one of weariness, but of peace.

  Edward was becoming everything Elmore had hoped he’d be. Strong, kind, smart. A child of this new world, born under the pulse of the Aither and raised in a place carved out by will, blood, and dreams.

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  He finished the last bite of his bacon and eggs, brushing the crumbs from his hands before turning toward the back door. There was work to do. Land to govern. Opinions to shape. And later tonight, there’d be what was meant to be a firelit gathering

  Elmore leaned back on his public throne, a polished but simple wooden seat elevated on a high stone dais at the head of the Hall of Beginnings. Though his private throne in the bone grove was where he ruled and reflected, this was where he led. The Hall—once a modest community center with plain stone and wood supports—had been reborn into something awe-inspiring. It now resembled an oversized aircraft hangar crossed with the hall of a forgotten king: towering walls of hewn stone lined with gleaming mithril struts that caught the light like rivers of moonlight. Each wall was a living mural, carved deep with the chronicles of their lives—the Swine Lord’s fall, the forging of the first mithril tools, the building of the aqueduct, and the long night siege of Ashfield Pass from a monster hord.

  Above, suspended like clouds of glass, massive turquoise chandeliers shimmered with alchemical fire—pearlescent and shifting in hue, like the light of magic itself. The flames burned clean and bright, a gift of some alchemical recipe copied from the Continental Dungeon of the Ancients. They lit the hall not with shadowless gloom, but with vibrancy, casting living colors across the sea of faces below.

  The Hall was overflowing. Inside, shoulder to shoulder, sat hundreds—families, craftsmen, guards, students. Outside, thousands more pressed against the open gates and wide windows, hoping to catch even a glimpse of the ceremony. From the bakeries and butcher stands along the street came the heady smell of roasted meats glazed in mountain honey, sweet potato pies, and butter-drenched loaves of einkorn bread. The smell of the evening’s celebration danced with the buzz of conversation, laughter, and the intermittent bursts of Aither light only visible to those attuned to such things.

  Children weaved between adults with reckless joy, playing like they can cast magic like flickers of light from their fingertips with sparklers, practicing minor illusions that were in reality just imagination games or rolling glowing marbles of different colors in element fights. Sparks crackled, soft motes of flame hovered over crowds, and illusions of animals darted over the stone floor like ghosts. All around them, the excitement simmered like a pot near boil.

  From his high perch, Elmore’s gaze wandered the crowd until it found Edward.

  There, off to the side near the rising edge of the hall, stood his son—taller now, filling out, but still with that adolescent awkwardness. He was surrounded by a group of teens, nervously adjusting the strap of his pack, one thumb hooked in the pouch that held his wood Cube. He was talking to a girl with dark curls and a shy, darting smile. Elmore caught the slight tilt of Edward’s head, the way he laughed too fast, the way he looked away and then quickly back—trying hard not to seem too interested.

  Ash, seated beside him in a throne of her own—carved from solid oak, inset with silvered filigree and touched faintly by some sparkling skill—leaned closer. She didn’t speak, but her smirk was enough. Elmore responded with a subtle chuckle, one corner of his mouth lifting.

  “She’s cute,” Ash whispered, barely audible.

  “He gets it honest,” Elmore muttered, not taking his eyes off the scene.

  Ash rolled her eyes, smiling.

  At the front of the crowd, seated on a row of low benches, were five young men—all eighteen this month, each with a fresh-cut tunic and eyes that burned with anticipation. Their postures were straight-backed, rigid with nervous pride, and they glanced from Elmore to each other in barely restrained bursts of joy. These were the new initiates. The new generation of Men.

  As the hour approached, Elmore slowly rose from his throne.

  The motion alone was enough. A wave of silence rippled through the vast Hall of Beginnings, pulling hush from a thousand mouths and sending stillness down the column of watchers spilling out into the lamp-lit square beyond. The turquoise chandeliers flickered above him, casting shifting waves of color across the stone like water dancing on a cave wall. Only the steady crackle of alchemical fire and the trill of evening cicadas filled the quiet now.

  He let it linger. Let the moment stretch like sinew drawn taut. Let the weight of the gathered eyes and the anticipation in the air settle on every shoulder. When he finally spoke, his voice rang out with the clarity of a hammer on steel.

  “Good evening.”

  The word echoed, simple and heavy. His baritone cut through the hush like a bowline across calm waters.

  “Tonight, we gather to honor not just the lives of these five young men,” he said, pausing long enough for his words to sink in, “but the future they represent. In them, we see hope. In them, we see strength. In them, we see the spirit of our people.”

  He gestured to the five young men seated at the fore. Each one straightened reflexively, chins lifting, eyes wide beneath the burden of attention.

  “They were born in these mountains before Aither. Raised here under our care. They’ve fished our rivers, run our trails, weathered our winters. They’ve bled in the same snow, sweated under the same summer sun. And now, they stand ready to join the rest of us—not just as kin and neighbors, but as full men of this land. As subjects of LakeVail. As wielders of Aither.”

  A cheer rose—brief, raw, electric—before quieting again as Elmore raised a single hand.

  “Our world has changed.”

  The words were slower now, more grounded. As flashes of cameras and the hum of news vans chatting away outside traveled through.

  “We’ve built something here. Not just homes, or roads, or trade—but trust. Law. Safety. Identity. We are not what we were before the Awakening. But let no one mistake this: that change brings danger. It brings temptation. Power without purpose is as dangerous as any beast we’ve slain.”

  He descended the stone dais with a measured step, his boots thudding loudly against the great flagstones of the floor under his shear bulk as he approached the five. They sat straight-backed, barely breathing, and Elmore looked into each face in turn.

  “You will receive two skills today,” he said, voice quiet now but no less commanding. “What you do with them is yours to decide. But know this—skills may be born from your nature, but the man you become will be shaped by your choices.”

  He laid a weathered hand on the shoulder of the first. The boy—Callen, son of the valley’s blacksmith—met his gaze with a wide-eyed mix of fear and pride.

  “Stand tall,” Elmore said. “Your strength is not just in your hands. It’s in your heart.”

  Callen nodded stiffly, jaw clenched, eyes glimmering.

  To the second, he said, “Wisdom hides in silence. Learn when to speak—and when not to.”

  To the third: “Courage is not the absence of fear. It is walking forward anyway.”

  To the fourth: “Loyalty is a choice. Make it often, and make it true.”

  And to the fifth: “You carry not just your name, but the memory of your people. Be the kind of man your children will thank you for.”

  Then, he turned, walking back toward the dais. The hall was still. Breathless.

  He took his place once more, his silhouette towering against the light of the chandeliers, and raised his arms wide.

  “Let the Awakening begin.”

  There was a deep, sonorous chime. A tolling of unseen bells that rang through the valley like thunder muffled by snow. Then came the glow—five brilliant pulses of light, one after the other, flaring in succession over each young man’s chest as their Nexus bloomed awake for the first time.

  The Hall exploded with cheers. Thunderous, joyous, uncontained.

  Above them, the chandeliers flared brighter, and the symbols etched into the Hall’s walls flickered faintly with matching light, as if Aither itself bore witness to the moment.

  And somewhere deep beneath the land, the Dungeon stirred.

  The air grew thick—dense with something invisible, ancient, and undeniable—as the moon crested the zenith of the night sky. From the great oculus high above the Hall’s center, a shaft of silvery moonlight pierced through the alchemical glow, striking the center of the dais like a spotlight from heaven itself.

  Then came the surge.

  A shiver passed through the gathered crowd, an instinctual response as the Aither around them reacted. A shimmering wind swirled without stirring a single thread of cloth or hair, dancing only on the skin of those attuned. Above the five young men, the very air rippled like heat on stone—then formed into visible veils, soft and translucent domes of purplish light that descended over each initiate.

  The crowd held its breath.

  Each veil pulsed—once, twice—light intensifying like the tension in the room. This was the Nexus, not just awakening, but measuring. Listening. Reading the deep patterns of personality and potential buried in each boy’s Aither.

  A soft chime rang out as the first veil burst like a bubble of fireless light.

  Callen, the smith’s son, stumbled back half a step before standing taller, his voice shaking but proud. “I… I have received [Earthshaper]… and [Aether Forge]!”

  A cheer tore through the crowd like a thunderclap. Men clapped each other on the shoulders; women raised their hands in praise. Callen’s father, a massive man with burn-scarred arms, roared with pride, his eyes bright with tears.

  Next came Caleb, a wiry boy with a sharp jaw and the nervous energy of a coiled spring. His veil popped with a flicker of violet lightning. “I’ve been given [Shadow Walk]… and [Blitzing Bolt]!”

  This time the cheer was mixed with a low murmur—those were skills fit for a scout, an infiltrator, maybe even something more. Useful, yes, but dangerous too. Elmore’s eyes narrowed slightly, not with suspicion, but with interest.

  Jonah was third. Stockier, quieter, with coal-black curls and callused hands. His veil vanished with a sound like shifting gravel, and he exhaled a long breath. “I’ve got [Canary’s Cunning]… and [Breath of the Forgotten].” The second name drew a few raised brows and quiet gasps. It was rare for the Nexus to grant skills with such strange names. Mysterious. Potentially powerful. Or cursed. Or both.

  Gabe was next—red-haired and bright-eyed, a known prankster who’d once painted every door in the valley pink. He bounced on the balls of his feet until the veil dissipated, and he read his skills with a broad grin: “[Fable’s Folly] and [Kinetic Mass]!”

  Laughter followed that one. And not unkind laughter either. “A trickster and a tank,” his mother muttered with a grin.

  Finally came Marcus.

  Burly, barrel-chested, with a laugh that rolled like a boulder down a hill. When his veil shattered, it did so with a sound like a bear’s growl. “I got [Iron Wall] and [Might of the Bear]!” he bellowed.

  His shout was met with a roar from the crowd that could’ve shaken the mountains themselves.

  For a long moment, the Hall was alight with more than just torches and chandeliers. The boys glowed—truly glowed—with the last flickers of Aither, still clinging to them as if reluctant to release its grip.

  Then it faded.

  And in its place stood not boys, but men. Each with their own beginning.

  Elmore rose once more. This time he didn’t need to gesture for silence—the crowd knew it was coming.

  “This is what we fight for!” he cried, his voice cutting clean through the roar. “This is why we strive! Not just for survival. Not just for safety. But so the next generation may stand stronger than the last!”

  The crowd erupted again. This time not in response, but in agreement. It was the kind of roar that rose from the marrow of a people who believed in the ground beneath their feet.

  Edward pushed through the crowd, cheeks flushed and eyes wide with joy, darting up the steps toward Elmore. “Did you see that? Dad! Did you see Marcus’s reaction?!”

  “I saw it,” Elmore said, smiling as he reached down and tousled the boy’s hair.

  Ash reached over as well, her fingers slipping into Elmore’s palm. She said nothing, but her eyes shimmered—silvered by the light, or perhaps by tears. Her grip was firm. Proud.

  The night bled onward into song and feast. Great platters were brought into the Hall—roasts and pies and spiced squash, ciders both sweet and strong. Dancers filled the square, and music from drums and hand-carved flutes echoed off the stone like the heartbeat of the valley itself.

  Elmore stood once more at the edge of the dais, watching it all. The flickering fires. The families. The laughter.

  Tonight was no battle. No beast slain. No new mine dug.

  But it was a victory.

  A victory of hope.

  A victory of legacy.

  And a victory of the unyielding spirit of his people.

  And deep below, the Dungeon of the Ancients exhaled its unseen breath—content, for now.

  Along with the triumph came a single black letter with gold edging handed directly to Elmore while he was on his way home. A letter he would wait to read.

  AITHER LAW (1): citizens are not allowed to kill one another under any circumstances, except for ordained executions, or duels which may be allowed as long as they are witnessed by at least two unrelated citizens and both parties agree and agree to the terms of the duel. Non-citizens may never kill a citizen and may not declare a duel, in the case a citizen declares a duel the non-citizen may not decline and must be approved and witnessed by at least three unrelated citizens in this case only the challenger may set the terms.

  AITHER LAW (2): A sacred boundary is established with a radius of 500 meters surrounding the residence of Elmore, Chief of the Valley. This land is inviolable and considered sanctified by both tradition and Aitheric decree. No person—citizen or otherwise—may enter this boundary without the express permission of Elmore himself, or in his absence, clear evidence of his intent to allow entry. This intent may be verbal, written, or otherwise made obvious by Elmore's known will. Trespass upon this land without such permission will be impossible . Only those invited with purpose may walk the path to his hearth.

  AITHER LAW (3):No item that either requires Aither in its creation or naturally contains Aither may be exported beyond the borders of Elmore’s domain. This includes, but is not limited to: weapons, tools, constructs, crystals, infused materials, alchemical substances, and any product shaped, grown, or altered by Aither. Only subjects of lakeVail may own such items. Visitors may retain what they bring with them, but anything made or awakened within this land remains bound to it.

  Export tax (1): A small levy is placed on all exports leaving the valley. This tithe must be paid in recognized currency or fair barter and will be collected automatically at all designated checkpoints. The rate and acceptable forms of payment are set by Elmore or those he entrusts to enforce the tax code.

  Aither Production Tax (2):Elmore now passively collects a fractional tithe of all Aither naturally produced by the Nexus systems of those within his territory—citizens and visitors alike. This draw is constant and subtle, never enough to hinder use, development, or expression of abilities, but always present, like a breeze one quickly forgets.

  The collected Aither is silently funneled into the hollowed skull set into the back of Elmore’s throne, where it is stored until called upon for rulership, ritual, or war. None may opt out, and only the land itself acknowledges the taking.