AETHON:Demons in steel

The western balcony's ancient stones still held the day's warmth beneath Aethon's palms as he leaned into the night. luna and selene casting a gentle glow on hi- em - the world, below him, the academy grounds stretched like a sleeping beast - all jagged towers and shadowed courtyards where even now, faint glows of late-night practitioners flickered between the arches.

He inhaled deeply, the crisp air carrying hints of pine from the distant mountains and the ever-present tang of magic that clung to the academy's stones. The training session with Pyro had left his nerves frayed - too much fire, too much reckless energy. Out here, with only the stars as witness, the tension in his shoulders finally began to unwind.

Aethon tilted his head back, his dark eyes tracing the familiar constellations. There - the Hunter's Bow. There - the Maiden's Veil. And there, burning brighter than all others, the First Watcher's Star.

"The blood in your veins carries more than magic, boy," his father had said on nights like this, his work-roughened finger tracing the star's path across the heavens. "Our ancestors walk the shadows between worlds, but their eyes never leave us. The First Watcher was the greatest of them

Aethon could almost feel the ghost of his father's hand on his shoulder, smell the woodsmoke and iron that always clung to his clothes. The memory was so vivid it made his chest ache.

His mother had always scoffed at their stargazing. "Superstitious nonsense," she'd say, rolling her eyes even as she tucked a blanket around Aethon's shoulders. "Magic comes from study and discipline, and it for those who has affinity for it not from dead men's ghosts." But she'd always stayed on the rooftop with them, her sharp eyes softening as she listened to his father's stories.

Now, years and a lifetime of battles later, Aethon wondered what she would say if she saw him - her scholarly son who had become everything she distrusted. A warrior. A weapon. A man who danced too close to the same shadows his ancestors had warned about.

The balcony door creaked open behind him, its rusted hinges groaning in protest.

"Brooding in the dark shadow boy ? How predictable."

Pyro's voice was like gravel dragged over stone - rough with exhaustion but still carrying that ever-present edge of amusement. Aethon didn't need to turn to know the fire-wielder was smirking.

"And yet here you are," Aethon replied, his voice cool, "following me like a lost puppy. What does that say about you?"

Heat prickled against Aethon's skin as Pyro came to stand beside him, close enough that the residual warmth from his magic made the night air shimmer between them. For once, Pyro was silent as he studied the stars, his usual restless energy subdued. The flickering torchlight from below painted his scarred face in shifting patterns of gold and shadow.

"Your people really believe that?" Pyro asked after a long moment, nodding toward the First Watcher's star. His usual mocking tone was absent, replaced by something almost... curious. "That your ancestors are up there, judging your every move?, such an overtold story"

Aethon's fingers tightened on the railing, the stone rough beneath his palms. "It's not about judgment or the story," he said, more sharply than he intended. "It's about remembrance. About knowing the road we walk was paved by those who came before."

To his surprise, Pyro didn't immediately laugh or make some crude joke. Instead, the fire-wielder held up his hand, a small flame springing to life in his palm. It burned low and steady, casting dancing shadows across his face.

"My old man used to say fire carries the memories of those we've lost," Pyro said quietly. The flame in his hand flickered, turning briefly blue at its core. "That every spark holds a story. Guess we're not so different after all, Shadowboy."

Aethon scoffed, but the usual venom was absent from his voice. "Don't flatter yourself, sparky" flashing a cheeky grin

Even as he said it, the words rang hollow. The darkness that curled at Aethon's fingertips had done things far worse than burning.

Above them, the First Watcher's star pulsed brighter for a moment, as if in warning. Aethon wondered what his father would think of the man he'd become - of the battles fought not for honor, but survival, of the shadows he'd learned to wield like knives in the dark that had killed him, and caused the death of people he loved, and now he's soul bounded to that destructive weapon

Would the First Watcher see a worthy successor? Or just another fool dancing at the edge of the abyss?

"You're doing that thing again," Pyro said, shattering the silence.

"What thing?" Aethon growled.

"That brooding, tragic-hero thing." Pyro's smirk was back, but it lacked its usual edge. "It's exhausting to watch. And I say that as someone who regularly sets himself on fire for fun."

Aethon rolled his eyes. "And you're insufferable to listen to. Don't you have a bed to set aflame or something?"

Pyro's laugh echoed across the quiet balcony, startling a pair of ravens from their roost in the nearby bell tower. "Yeah, yeah. Save the witty banter for tomorrow, Shadowboy. Morgana's booked us front-row seats in the Crucible make sure not to die from fear tommorow if you know what i mean" He stretched, his joints popping audibly,Assuming we survive whatever fresh hell she's cooked up, we should be able to win some money, have to leave now,make sure o be there by evening ,sh dosen't like to be kept waiting"he said as he stepped away from the railing, his silhouette framed by the moonlight as he headed for the door.

"Hey," Aethon called after him, the word slipping out before he could reconsider.

Pyro turned slightly, one eyebrow raised.

"Your old man," Aethon said, voice quieter now. "He was right. Fire does remember. It burns... but it keeps things alive, too."

For a heartbeat, Pyro's smirk faded entirely. Something flickered behind his eyes—not flame, but a memory.

He gave a small nod. "Yeah. And shadows don't just hide things. Sometimes they protect."

Aethon watched him go, the fire-wielder's presence slowly retreating down the corridor. The door creaked shut behind him, and the quiet returned.

The stars above still burned. The First Watcher still kept vigil.

Aethon leaned forward on the railing again, letting the night wrap around him like a forgotten cloak. The warmth from Pyro's magic lingered faintly in the stone at his side, and for the first time in a long while, it wasn't unwelcome.

He whispered into the silence, not sure who he was speaking to—his father, the First Watcher, or the fragments of himself that still believed in old stories.

"I'm trying."

The stars watched. The fire remembered. The shadows prepared.

Tomorrow, the Crucible awaited.