Celestial Descendant

The battlefield lay silent under the shroud of dusk, the air thick with the acrid scent of smoke and the remnants of sorrow. The distant echo of clashing steel lingered, a haunting reminder of the chaos that had unfolded. Amidst the carnage, a lone flower, its petals white and fragile, stood defiant against the backdrop of death, untouched by the horrors surrounding it. It was here that a single golden tear fell—a divine droplet that shimmered like a fleeting ray of sunlight against the bleakness of the scene.

As the tear landed softly upon the delicate petals, it glided downwards, its golden hue glistening in the fading light. It trickled off the flower, caressing the earth before being absorbed into the ground. For a moment, all was still. The world held its breath, unaware of the monumental change that had begun.

Days passed, and the flower stood still, seemingly untouched by the miracle that had just occurred. Time stretched on, each second a quiet reminder of the desolation that surrounded it. Yet deep within the roots of the flower, a subtle change began to stir.

The roots, firmly anchored in the soil, stirred with newfound energy, unfurling slowly in response to the golden tear's essence coursing through the earth. A silent symphony played beneath the surface, drawing them toward the boy’s lifeless body, where the faint remnants of life still lingered within him. The moon hung low in the sky, casting silvery light upon the scene, illuminating the stark contrast between the desolation of the battlefield and the fragile beauty of the flower.

As the roots brushed against his cold skin, their touch marked the beginning of an extraordinary transformation—one that would defy the very nature of life and death. In that moment, the flower's essence instinctively intertwined with the boy, recognizing the flickering warmth still present in his form. The roots began to seep into his body, merging their vitality with his in a silent exchange, igniting a profound process that would alter their fates.

With each passing moment, the roots delved deeper, wrapping around the boy's heart and igniting a pulse of energy that resonated through the stillness. It echoed within him—a heartbeat growing stronger with every breath that was not his. The world seemed to shift, time pausing to witness this extraordinary act of reclamation, the air thick with anticipation and the weight of what was to come.

In this quiet battlefield, where death had claimed many, the flower's quest ignited a spark of hope—a whisper of defiance against fate's cruelty. The roots continued their mission, intertwining their lives in a dance as old as time. This union was born not of choice but of instinct, transcending the boundaries of life and death.

In that sacred moment, where death met rebirth, the battlefield felt a shift. The heavy air lightened, and a glimmer of hope pierced the suffocating gloom.

As dawn began to break over the horizon, the boy's lifeless body stirred. He sat up slowly, cradling his brother's head in his arms, his eyes still closed as if caught between the realms of the living and the dead. The first rays of sunlight spilled across the landscape, illuminating the remnants of the battlefield and casting a warm glow over him.

The focus turned to the boy’s face as the dawn light bathed him in warmth. His once-cloudy eyes, devoid of life, began to illuminate with flickers of awareness. The golden tear that had merged with him resonated within, and with each heartbeat, clarity surged through him, the fog of death lifting.

As the sun ascended, painting the sky in hues of orange and gold, a new life awakened—a life that bore the weight of a tragic past but was now infused with the promise of hope.

The battlefield was still. With dawn’s first light, the boy sat up, his limbs moving with uncertainty, as though he were waking up in a body he did not recognize. His once-cloudy eyes now gleamed vibrant, brimming with the life that had been reignited within him. In his arms, he cradled the severed head of his brother, staring down at it with an unreadable expression. There was no recognition, no sorrow, only a lingering weight—fragments of memories that were not his own.

Moments of another life flickered through his mind, ghostly and distant: a flash of laughter, the warmth of tears, the clench of anger. They passed by like shadows, and though they filled the empty spaces inside him, they felt detached, like dreams forgotten upon waking. Inside, the flower—newly conscious, newly aware—processed these alien feelings without understanding them. Emotions, sensations, and the traces of a life once lived flooded through him, yet nothing rooted itself in meaning. He didn’t know joy. He didn’t know sorrow. He simply existed, alive but unfeeling.

The soft shuffle of feet in the distance broke the silence, and the flower’s attention shifted. Emerging from the shadows of the battlefield, a group of men—scavengers—prowled among the dead, their eyes gleaming with greed as they looted whatever they could find from the fallen. One of them, Kael, strode forward with a cruel smirk etched into his rugged face. His eyes landed on the boy, sitting quietly amidst the wreckage, cradling the head.

“Well, what do we have here?” Kael’s voice was sharp, laced with mockery. “A survivor, huh? Just sitting there all calm like he’s got nowhere to be.”

The boy didn’t move, didn’t respond. His eyes, bright and clear, focused on Kael without seeing him. It was as though he hadn’t registered the man’s presence at all. The flower inside, still learning, had no concept of danger, of confrontation. It simply watched, passively absorbing this new experience.

Kael stepped closer, crouching in front of the boy. He waved a hand in front of his face, his sneer growing wider. “Hey! You in there, kid? Or did the shock take your tongue?”

The boy’s silence persisted. He felt the man’s hand close to him, the shadow falling across his face, but there was no instinct to respond, no impulse to react. Inside, the flower processed this as well, noting the sensation of closeness, the sound of a voice, but without any awareness of how to respond.

“Kael, something’s not right,” one of the bandits muttered, stepping forward. He eyed the boy warily, uneasy with the blank expression. “Look at him—he’s not even flinching. It’s like he’s... broken.”

Kael’s eyes narrowed. His grin faded, replaced by a flicker of frustration. “Broken or not, he’s still worth something. Slavers in Azeroth’ll pay good coin for a healthy kid. Mute or not, they don’t care.”

Kael leaned closer, grabbing the boy’s chin roughly, forcing him to look up. The boy’s gaze locked with Kael’s, wide and unblinking, yet empty of anything resembling fear or defiance. It was as if there were nothing behind those eyes, just vibrant, unnatural clarity without the human soul.

“See? Not even a twitch,” Kael spat, his voice hard with impatience. “Are you deaf, boy? Dumb?”

The boy didn’t answer. He didn’t even blink. Kael’s grip tightened, shaking his chin, but still, the flower’s detachment lingered. It recognized the force, understood the roughness of the touch, but there was no reason to resist. No words came to mind.

One of the bandits shifted uncomfortably. “Kael... maybe we should leave him. He’s strange. What if he’s sick? We don’t need that kind of trouble.”

Kael shot him a glare. “Sick or not, he’s worth money. A kid this healthy can fetch a price, and you lot are too scared of a quiet brat?” He yanked the boy to his feet roughly. The boy stumbled but didn’t resist, his limbs following the motions without question, as if his body was a puppet for Kael’s command. “He’s just mute. That’s all. Now tie him up.”

Kael shoved the boy forward, and the bandits moved in quickly, binding his hands. The ropes bit into his wrists, but he didn’t flinch, didn’t fight back. His expression remained distant, his eyes still open, as though nothing in the world could break through the haze that surrounded him.

The other bandits exchanged uneasy glances, clearly unsettled by the boy’s detachment, but none of them dared question Kael again. They prodded him forward, pushing him to walk with them as they continued to scavenge. The boy’s body obeyed, moving as directed, yet inside, the flower continued to observe. The world around it was full of sensations—voices, movement, cold air on his skin—but none of it meant anything yet. There was only learning. Only the vague understanding that it was alive now, in this body, and that whatever happened next was simply the next step in its existence.

As they dragged the boy through the wreckage of the battlefield at Rivermarch, the air thick with the stench of blood and decay, the bandits continued their scavenging. The sounds of clanking metal, muffled curses, and distant shouts mingled with the unsettling atmosphere that surrounded them. Each time the boy’s vibrant eyes flickered toward them, a chill crept down their spines. He remained silent, his expression unreadable, the severed head of his brother resting in his arms, contrasting starkly with the life that glimmered within him.

Kael, leading the group, tried to shake off the unsettling feeling hanging in the air. “Did you hear what happened in Rivermarch?” he began, attempting to fill the silence. “The first and second princes are at each other’s throats since their father fell ill. It’s chaos here!”

Thug 1, a burly man with a rough face and a weathered look, chimed in, “Right! I heard Aldric has been rallying the Magic Knights, while Valen is gathering the court mages. They’re tearing the kingdom apart!”

Thug 2, leaner and marked by scars, leaned in closer. “You think those magic knights can take on the mages? I heard Valen’s mages can summon storms and create walls of fire! Aldric’s got the muscle, but they’re not exactly a match for real magic.”

Kael scoffed, his expression turning serious. “Mages aren’t invincible, you know. We’ve seen them fall in battle. Aldric’s men have trained hard, and his magic knights are some of the fiercest fighters around. They’ve been holding the line better than anyone expected.”

“Better than anyone expected?” Thug 1 replied, scratching his head. “Valen might be weak in battle, but he’s got the mind for it. Aldric is just a brute, and it seems he’s got more pride than sense. What good are brawn and swords if he can’t outthink his opponent?”

Kael nodded, casting a glance back at the boy. “Yeah, but the war isn’t just about magic and might. Aldric’s got the support of the common folk. They’ll rally behind someone who can defend them, especially now that Aedan’s gone missing.”

“Aedan, the youngest prince?” Thug 2 raised an eyebrow. “I heard he was trying to learn magic himself, but he has no aptitude. Can’t even light a candle! How’s a mage like that supposed to lead anyone?”

Kael’s eyes narrowed, a shadow passing over his face. “That’s exactly the problem. With him missing, there’s no one left to stand for the people. Aldric will do what he can, but he’s no mage. The nobles are getting restless, and they want someone with power.”

The boy remained still, absorbing the conversations swirling around him like the dust kicked up by their feet. He could feel the weight of their words—the fears, the ambitions, the desperation—but the meanings were lost on him, still clouded by the remnants of unfamiliar memories that tugged at his consciousness. A fleeting image of a family, laughter, and warmth flickered in his mind, juxtaposed against the harsh reality he now faced.

“Look at him,” Thug 1 remarked, glancing back at the boy. “He’s not even flinching. You think he’s got a screw loose or something? How does a kid survive this long without a scream?” The unease in his voice reflected the growing tension within the group.

Kael shrugged, but uncertainty crept into his tone. “Maybe he’s just in shock. Or maybe he’s hiding something. Either way, he’s our ticket to some coin. We’ve got to keep moving before the other scavengers show up.”

As they walked, the boy felt a mix of sensations—strange and unfamiliar. The throb of pain, the taste of ash, and the chill of fear washed over him in waves, even as he maintained his silence. Inside, the flower struggled to understand these new feelings, sifting through the chaos for any semblance of identity.

“Have you heard the tales?” Thug 2 broke in, attempting to lighten the mood. “They say the mages can bend the elements to their will. Some even whisper that they can read minds!” His voice dripped with a mixture of awe and skepticism.

“Mind readers? Ha! That’s just stories to keep the children awake at night,” Thug 1 scoffed, though a hint of uncertainty laced his words. “What good are mind games against a blade?”

“Maybe,” Kael replied, his gaze fixed ahead, “but you can’t underestimate a well-placed spell. We need to be cautious. This battlefield is crawling with survivors and angry spirits.” He glanced at the boy again, the vibrant light in his eyes unsettling. “If this one’s got any tricks up his sleeve, we’re done for.”

They tied the boy’s hands tightly, the ropes biting into his skin. Still, he made no sound, his unresponsive form compliant in their grasp. The vibrant light in his eyes, though unsettling, remained unwavering. As the bandits exchanged worried glances, their laughter faltering, the boy continued his silent observation, absorbing the world around him with an intensity that hinted at a deeper understanding just waiting to emerge.

In the midst of their banter, the boy’s vibrant eyes seemed to hold a flicker of awareness, reflecting the turmoil of the world he now inhabited. Each word spoken by the bandits echoed in his mind, intertwining with the memories he struggled to grasp. For now, he was merely a vessel, slowly awakening to the chaos, the pain, and the tentative hope that lay buried within the shadows of Rivermarch.