A Man Who Never Ages
835 Words
The sun was low when Xylenne's carriage rolled back through the gates of the Winter Estate. The sky burned faintly orange against the bare branches, and the chill of early evening hung over the gardens. Fallen leaves scattered across the stone path as the horses slowed.
The front doors opened before she could even step down. Maids and servants rushed forward, then froze when they saw her.
"Her wound it's gone!" one whispered.
"Little dove?" her grandfather's voice came from behind the servants. He stepped into view, his old coat still buttoned from a meeting earlier that day. His eyes widened as he saw her, clean-faced and unbandaged. "What happened?" Xylenne smiled awkwardly. "My professor healed it," she said, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. "I guess my bandages were an eyesore to everyone." Her grandfather's expression hardened. His eyes narrowed the way they did when he was thinking too deeply. "And... what does this professor look like?" he asked slowly.
Xylenne blinked, tilting her head. "Well, he used to be a royal mage. He looks... kind of like me, actually. A male version, I guess."
The words hit him like a blade. He froze. His breath stopped. For a long moment, he didn't move at all. The firelight from the entry hall flickered against his face, revealing the faint tremor in his jaw. "My dear," he said finally, his voice tight. "How young does he look?"
"He looks very young," Xylenne said, not noticing his fear. "And, oh! He told me his name today. Caelthorn Dreamyr. I don't think the other students know it." The cane in her grandfather's hand slipped slightly, the tip scraping against the marble floor. His mind flooded with memories, years, decades, lifetimes past.
He remembered walking the royal palace halls in his youth. The chandeliers glittering above, the banners hanging heavy in the air, the scent of incense and polished stone. And among the nobles and guards, there had been one man, tall, white-haired, radiant like moonlight on snow. Caelthorn Dreamyr. The man who never aged. The mage the kings called The Divine Visionary.
He had served under four monarchs, seen heirs rise, die, and rise again. Each generation feared him, yet each sought his counsel. His beauty was unearthly, his knowledge boundless. And behind that soft voice and calm smile hid something far darker, something even the gods hesitated to touch.
Her grandfather had seen it once, long ago. He had been younger then, foolish and curious, and he'd seen Caelthorn smile as he performed a spell that turned a nobleman's ambitions into ashes. It was beautiful, horrifying, effortless. The man hadn't aged a day since. Now he was here, teaching children. Her grandfather's pulse quickened.
"W-what did Caelthorn say to you?" he asked urgently, his tone sharp enough to make the maids turn. Xylenne blinked, startled. "He did say some weird things," she admitted. "He told me to be careful and not get hurt anymore... and that in the future, we'll have history? Oh, and that he doesn't have use for me right now." She frowned, crossing her arms. "He's really weird."
Her grandfather's heart sank. His stomach turned to ice.
"That bastard..." he whispered under his breath.
He looked at her, so small, so bright, so unaware, and the ache in his chest deepened. I should have known he'd come after my granddaughter... He believes in that prophecy. The thought tightened his throat. He straightened, forcing his voice steady. "Have your maids prepare you for the night, little dove," he said. "You have a big day tomorrow."
"Okay, Grandfather," Xylenne said softly.
At once, the maids fluttered around her, leading her away toward her chambers, brushing her hair, drawing her a bath, laying out her sleeping gown. Their gentle chatter filled the halls again, but her grandfather didn't hear it. He walked instead. slowly, deliberately, toward the kitchen.
The corridors felt longer than usual. The autumn wind whistled faintly through the cracks in the window frames, and his reflection followed him from mirror to mirror, growing older and heavier with every step. When he reached the kitchen, he slammed his palms down on the wooden table. The sound echoed through the stone halls. The servants jumped. He leaned there, trembling, staring at his own hands. They looked smaller, weaker than he remembered. His breath came in uneven pulls. "She'll lose everything to him," he whispered to himself. "If he's after her, she'll lose everything..."
He looked up slowly at the empty room, his eyes wide with fear. The fire crackled in the stove. Outside, the night wind carried the faint rustle of dead leaves scraping against the windows. And in another part of the city, under the cold blue moonlight, a tall figure in white stood at the balcony of the royal academy, his hands clasped behind his back, his long hair shifting gently in the wind.
Caelthorn Dreamyr smiled faintly to himself. "History begins soon," he murmured. And the autumn night fell silent.
- Writer
