Aaravos watches the darkened mirror, humming quietly.

All according to plan then.

He has a pawn in Viren, and he may listen through the man's ears if he so chooses.

Now, he closes his eyes and casts his awareness down, into the world that he's been apart from for so long, trapped as he is in this tower.

One thousand years is a long time, if it has truly been so long. Time passes oddly in this place, unknowable and unreachable now that the gate was destroyed.

And what crime had he committed, what terrible sin had he manifested to justify such a banishment?

Aaravos sighs at the memory of the stars warping as he'd reached out, in one last attempt to reverse what had been done as he tumbled down, down, down into this prison.

But now is not the time to ruminate on what was, but on what is, what forces stir the world to ruin.

The Dragon Prince flits through the world on wings of palest blue and the thought brings to mind the first dragons, Sung into being by their long-forgotten gods.

Aaravos remembers them, bright and glorious in a way that no longer exists, eroded by the passage of time and fading mortal memory.

He's felt the touch of Sky, burning blue and white in the hands of a mage not born to the elements known to all mortalkind. It is fascinating, and he follows the marks left by the mage as they have journeyed west, towards Aaravos's beloved Xadia.

Callum dreams of the stars sometimes, bright and glimmering above him.

They seem to wink at him, warm and familiar as his room in the castle, with his sketchbooks and drawings and soft bed.

Sometimes, he hears a voice, deep and old, in a way he's come to associate with Primal magic itself.

Harrow is his father, but at the same time, Callum knows this voice.

Somehow.

"Sky, is the youngest of all Primal Elements, little najima," the voice says. "It is the wind, the gathering storm, the hurricane's eye. To grasp it, you must cast aside the fears that chain you to the earth, and rise as a bird on the wing."

He casts Aspiro with his mother's words in mind, but heeds the words that he's heard in his dreams as well. The spell flows from his lips with ease, and as he does he swears he hears a laugh of delight from just over his shoulder, but he knows that no one stands there.

He turns to find Ezran walking up the path, Corvus in tow.

There is a flash of blue at his right, a touch to his shoulder.

Well done, little najima.

Clearly he's seeing and hearing things, so he refocuses on his brother, puts aside the revelation of Sky for the time being.

Aaravos laughs with delight, watching the mage grasp that Spark of Sky and set it free.

Such a clever child, he muses.

He reaches for one of the few tomes in his tower that still has blank pages after all these years, and begins to write.

He needs to study this further, see what else might be learned. Besides, splitting his attention between both Viren and this mage is tiresome, and with Viren in a prison cell at the moment, fate undecided, he can focus on the mage more.

He is a slender child, no more than 14 years of age, with green eyes and dark hair.

Aaravos tilts his head, noting the slight edge to the boy's ears, half hidden by his hair. Not entirely human then, he decides.

Interesting...wait...there's something on the edge of his memory, something hazed by time and magic not his own.

Something about...pain lances through his skull as he tries to grab hold of the knowledge and his howl of anguish reverberates through the air.

This boy, he means something to the world, to magic, something to the intricate weave of fate that clings to the very stars themselves.

It is important.

He struggles to his feet, the tome forgotten and staggers to the center of the tower, where the circle of Primal symbols sits, glimmering with starlight.

Why can't he remember?

He presses a shaking hand to Sky, breath rasping in his lungs as he attempts to retrieve the knowledge stolen from him.

But even that is too much, consciousness hurtling away from him, and he slumps, unmoving upon the stone.

It takes Callum and Rayla two days to reach the border of Xadia. It's rough, without Ezran, and Callum wants more than anything for him to be there with them as they return Zym home.

It's unfair, he thinks, turning the puzzle box over in his hands, tracing the design of Sky as he ruminates.

"I'll take first watch," Rayla says on the second night. "You get some rest. You look like you need it."

Callum sighs, "Do I really look that bad?"

"Well, you look less like a dead person," Rayla says, running a whetstone down her blades, eyeing the edge suspiciously.

Callum glares.

"What?" Rayla says. "It's the truth." She smiles at him. "Get to sleep, Callum. I'll wake you for your watch."

"Alright," Callum says.

He dreams of a room, the walls cool stone, colorful tapestries fluttering against them. It feels like Sky here, wind ruffling his hair, light and airy in a way that few places are.

It is also not empty.

Someone lies on the floor, sprawled in a manner that Callum can only call elegant, like all those paintings that line the Hall of Fallen in the palace, Kings and Queens in gentle repose.

This person isn't human, pale hair long and shimmering, dark horns curling back, not unlike Rayla's.

Their skin is like starlight, as if twilight sky had decided to take on a mortal form, like one of the fairy tales Mom had told him at bedtime so long ago.

White diamonds gleam beneath their eyes, glowing faintly.

Callum approaches hesitantly, kneeling beside them, letting out a faint sigh of relief as their chest rises and falls gently. Not dead, just asleep?

"Hello?" he whispers.

No reply.

Now that he is closer, Callum can see one hand is pressed to the glowing symbol of Sky, engraved into the floor. Beside the figure's head, the symbol of the Star glows with pale white light.

This person is connected to the Star, Callum realizes, remembering the cube's propensity to light up with corresponding elements.

And with Sky too, he thinks, looking to the glowing blue symbol.

He reaches out to touch their shoulder, shaking gently.

"Hey," he says.

A quiet groan, eyelids fluttering, and their head turns, eyes opening at last.

They're black eyes, and Callum winces at the sight, though he can see that the eyes aren't all black, as the irises are a warm gold, surrounded by pitch black darkness.

The head tilts, watching him, curious.

"Little najima," the familiar, deep voice says. "You are very far from home, indeed."

"Who are you?" Callum says.

The figure smiles, "I am Aaravos, little najima. Now, what is your name?"