Aetern
Welcome, dear reader!
Thank you so much for opening Milear: Renunciation.
This dilogy can be read as a completely standalone story. However, if you wish to fully immerse yourself in the dark and dangerous world of Tarn, uncover its deepest secrets, and witness where it all began with the story of Aluen’s parents, I highly recommend starting with the prequel.
The beginning of the series, Flowers of Shiatal, is already completed and fully available for you to read.
Welcome to the Abyss. Enjoy the ride.
One hundred and seventy years after the “Loop of Oblivion” was shattered, the kingdom of Aetern had finally risen from the ashes, transforming into a monolithic force wedged between jagged mountain peaks and ancient forests. It was no longer a ghost city frozen in the anticipation of death. These were lands where the breath of the Abyss, harnessed by the will of a single elf, thrummed at every turn. Over this time, nature and common folk had learned to coexist with the magical hum left behind by the curse. To the southwest, the human lands of Vironor had become a thriving realm. Massive stone keeps on the banks of the River Sirion now controlled not only the crossings but the trade routes linking the drow Underdark with the elven woods. The people of Aetern—blunt, hardened, and fiercely loyal—became the backbone of an army that knew no fear of magic, for they had been raised in its shadow.
The central plains were now webbed with roads where caravans hauled silk from El’Tariel and magesteel ore from Zak’Dolarn. But as a traveler drew closer to the kingdom’s heart, the very air shifted. It grew thicker, colder.
The capital, Amad Sirion, towered over Lake Mirror of Syrin like an icy spire. The city no longer looked abandoned. Its streets, carved into gray stone, pulsed with life—but it was life of a different sort: disciplined, hushed, and dangerous.
Above the Citadel’s main gates and on banners snapping in the wind, the city’s crest shone: a powerful oak branch, death-bound and intertwined with a naked blade. The symbol spoke for itself: the peaceful life of the elven forest had forever fused with steel and the necessity of guarding its borders. The branch gave life, but the sword ensured it never bowed.
The Citadel, where Laest now ruled, had become a place of power. The stones here still held the echoes of the Shackles of Aetern, and in the deep dungeons where the Abyss was most restless, the training halls were carved.
A strange equilibrium reigned in the city. A human knight in heavy plate could be seen patrolling the streets side-by-side with a silent drow scout. Sun elves like Nelion brought light and the clamor of taverns, yet the figures of the King and his Shadow loomed invisibly over it all.
The city ran like a clockwork mechanism. Here, silence was prized above shouting, and loyalty to the Oath was the only law.
The corridors of the Amad Sirion Citadel resembled a frozen river of pale stone and moonlight. In one hundred and seventy years, the walls that once breathed only dust and oblivion had filled with a heavy, measured rhythm. There was none of the frantic bustle found in human castles; servants moved like ghosts, their footsteps swallowed by thick rugs embroidered with oak branches. Every nod of a head, every rustle of fabric was calibrated to the millimeter—in the King’s house, order was absolute.
Aetern’s politics were now settled in silence. Advisors—grim human warlords in heavy armor sitting alongside refined elven lords—exchanged only brief phrases. Their faces were masks, for every soul knew: in the shadows beneath the vaulted ceilings, the gaze of an observer loyal to Sylar might always be lurking. Power in the kingdom was monolithic, but that unity rested on the edge of the sword woven into the heraldic branch.
The doors to Laest’s study, heavy and reinforced with age-darkened steel, swung open without a single creak. Inside, the space felt even more compressed and concentrated. High windows overlooking Lake Mirror of Syrin let in a cold light that shattered against a massive desk of black wood. There was no room for ornament or excess—only maps scrawled in fine script and reports from the farthest corners of the Whispering Wastes and the Underdark.
Time itself had stalled in this room. Laest Milear, his silhouette sharp against the brightening sky, seemed a part of the interior—as unbreakable and cold as the walls of his fortress. Every quill on his desk lay perfectly parallel to the edge, and magical folios were arranged as if they hadn’t been touched in decades, though the King knew every page by heart. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation: decisions that could shift the course of history were made here, and every word spoken within these walls carried the weight of a granite slab.
Down the corridors leading away from the royal chambers, the echo of a rare laugh or a sharp shout might ring out—places where Laest’s domain ended and the world of those who still remembered the taste of life outside of duty began. But here, in the administrative heart of Amad Sirion, everything succumbed to a single will, and even the air seemed to hold its breath, afraid to break the majestic stillness of the Key of the Abyss.
The heavy forged doors burst open with such a crash that two servants carrying a stack of fresh linens nearly dropped their load, shrinking into the wall niches to blend with the stone. An elf came flying through the doorway—not walking, but tumbling. He hit the smooth stone on one knee, skidding to a halt, breathing hard.
It was Aluen Milear. His leather armor was coated in a layer of gray dust and deep gouges, and his dark, near-black hair had escaped its messy tie, shielding his face in jagged strands. A crimson bruise was blooming on his cheekbone, but the stare of his piercing green eyes, burning with gold, held not a single drop of submission.
“Go to hell, Sylar!” he spat, wiping blood from a split lip with the back of his hand.
His voice, still carrying that raw, adolescent crack, dissolved into a snarl. Aluen braced his hands against the floor, straining to rise, when a calm, soul-chilling voice drifted from the depths of the training hall—where the grave-cold draft of the Abyss still lingered. It was Ram.
“I didn’t dismiss you, brat. Get back in the circle.”
Sylar’s words lashed through the corridor, forcing the servants to avert their eyes and hurry away. Aluen froze, his shoulders bunching beneath the thin leather of his armor, sharp fangs flashing from under his upper lip. He turned slowly toward the doorway, where the First Scout’s motionless silhouette was etched into the heavy shadows.
“I’ve been in there for six hours,” Aluen hissed. At his feet, the shadows began to stretch unnaturally, bleeding across the floor like living ink. “Are you teaching me to kill, or do you just want to watch me drop dead from exhaustion?”
He straightened up with a defiant jerk, though his knees wavered. At the far end of the gallery, by the doors of the royal study, the tall figure of Laest appeared. The King stood perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back, his cold, impenetrable gaze pinning his son to the spot.Life in the royal house, carried the bitter tang of scorched steel
Aluen didn’t wait for an answer. The gold in his eyes flared into a blinding flash, and he played what Sylar called the “final card of desperation.”
“Rot in the Void,” he threw over his shoulder, and the space behind him literally cracked.
Instead of stepping back into the hall, Aluentore into the Void. For a heartbeat, his body lost its form, becoming a blurred smudge before vanishing entirely, leaving only a puff of settling dust. He re-emerged high under the gallery’s vaulted ceiling, perched on a narrow ledge where heavy Aetern banners draped over stone gargoyles. His fingers, hardened by brutal training, clamped onto the cold stone. Sylar had taught him that height wasn’t a sanctuary—just a different angle of attack—but right now, Aluen needed space.
He tore forward, lunging across wall projections and decorative cornices. It was a frantic, ten-meter-high acrobatic display: a leap onto a chandelier that chimed piteously under his weight, a sharp kick-off from the wall—and then he was racing along the upper tier, vaulting over balcony railings.
“You can’t catch me!” he shouted down, feeling the adrenaline drown out the fatigue as the Whisper of the Void began to ring in his ears.
Sylar didn’t run. Ram’s shadow simply began to move through the hall below with terrifying speed, vanishing into doorways only to reappear behind the next pillar. This wasn’t a chase; it was a hunt. Sylar was herding him like a young drorh, forcing Aluen into increasingly complex maneuvers.
The prince launched himself off the statue of an ancient king, flipped through the air, and dipped into another short plunge, reappearing on the exterior of a window. He clung to the sheer face of the Citadel, suspended over the abyss of the lake. He was panting, fangs bared, fingers clawing into the granite. From the window a floor below, Sylar’s unruffled voice drifted out:
“Not bad for a third-tier move. But you forgot that I see your shadows before you even decide to jump. Come down, or I’ll help you fall.”
Aluen looked down at the glassy surface of the lake, then up—to where Laest’s figure loomed over the battlements, watching this lethal dance. Aluen felt it: the exact moment Sylar’s cold mask fractured. He saw Ram below give a nearly imperceptible twitch of his dagger, and the realization hit his brain harder than any magical high.
“Help me fall?” Aluen grinned, baring his teeth. “A hundred years and you still haven’t realized, Sylar... I don’t fall. I fly.”
Instead of hugging the wall or climbing down, Aluen let out a wild, near-manic laugh—the kind Nelion would favor—and kicked off the granite with both feet. He didn’t just jump; he plummeted like a stone, back-first, straight into the void over Lake Mirror of Syrin.
In mid-air, he plunged again. For a fraction of a second, his body vanished. Sylar, already poised to snag his trajectory with a magical thread, grasped at nothing but empty air. Aluen reappeared five meters to the right, level with the window where Ram stood. Flying past, Aluen lunged out, grabbing the heavy dark velvet curtain with a violent yank, bringing the entire rod crashing down onto his mentor’s head.
Before Sylar could react, the prince projected a pure, concentrated Whisper of the Void into the space between them. It wasn’t a fear of death. Aluen struck at the one thing that hurt most: control. For one heartbeat, he forced Sylar to see his prize pupil shattering against the rocks—not as an accident, but as Aluen’s own choice.
“Well, Ram? Whose heart just skipped a beat?!” Aluen roared before vanishing once more.
He surged upward, landing on the very edge of the battlements a few paces from Laest. The King didn’t even flinch as his son landed on all fours, claws and daggers scraping the expensive tile. Aluen rose, chest heaving, and met his father’s gaze with a smirk, ignoring the blood now leaking from his nose—the price of too many Void-jumps.
Below, in the window, Sylar stood frozen. His fingers gripped the stone sill so hard that a web of cracks snaked through the masonry. This was it. The moment A’zark’s First Scout—master of intrigue, cold-blooded predator—was ready to personally lash the Crown Prince of Aetern with magical whips, elven dignity be damned.
“Milear!” Sylar’s voice drifted up, quiet, yet frost began to creep across the Citadel walls. “If you don’t come down this instant... I will forget you are the heir. I will beat the Void out of you along with your soul.”
Aluen turned back to Laest, his grin sharp and defiant.
“Hear that, Father? Your ‘hound’ has snapped his leash. Looks like I won today.”
