The morning smelled of bread and pine.
Aeron sat bundled in a sling against his mother's chest as the Nightveil family prepared for the harvest gathering—an annual meet-up between nearby families before the cold months rolled in.
Their small yard buzzed with voices, laughter, and footsteps.
And Aeron watched.
Not with wide-eyed wonder.
But with calculation.
> New variables. New rhythms.
> Every person leaks something, if you're quiet enough to feel it.
—
The first presence he felt was a storm inside silk.
She stepped into the house with the grace of a dancer and the weight of a tree's shadow.
"Mother Elowen!" his father said, smiling.
Lyra gasped with delight and ran into the arms of an old woman wrapped in gray and blue, hair pinned with bone clasps and feathers.
She bent slowly to kiss Aeron's forehead, her hand light but charged.
He almost flinched.
> She… has walked where mana sings.
> She's no ordinary grandmother.
Elowen's eyes met his—and for a moment, just a flicker, her expression shifted. As if she saw something beneath his skin.
She smiled.
"Bright soul, this one," she whispered.
No one else noticed the way the hearth flames flickered at her words.
—
Then came the thunder of boots.
"HO! Is the baby still tiny or has he started wrestling wolves yet?"
Uncle Brann barreled through the door, a thick man with a beard like wildfire and the voice of a bard. A hunting bow slung over one shoulder, a toothy grin under sharp eyes.
He lifted Aeron with ease, holding him up toward the ceiling.
"Look at you! Gonna be trouble, I see it already!"
Aeron gave a soft gurgle. But inside, he observed.
> His hands are calloused… but mana dances around him like sparks off a blade.
> He's killed things that don't bleed red.
Brann had the soul of a warrior—but not the elegance of a knight. He reeked of forest, blood, and secrets.
And Aeron liked him immediately.
Not because he was safe.
But because he was honest.
—
Outside, near the well, two children argued over a stick.
One of them was Lyra. The other was a village boy—lean, brown-haired, with a quick tongue and quicker feet.
Kael.
He was loud, proud, and always trying to prove he could outsmart Lyra.
"Mana isn't real!" he shouted, waving the stick. "You just imagine it!"
"It is real," Lyra snapped. "Aeron believes me!"
"He's a baby."
"Babies know more than you!"
Aeron chuckled softly in his sling, and Kael glared at him like he understood.
> This one is reckless.
> But there's something odd about him…
When Kael grabbed the stick again, a spark flashed at his fingertips. Just for a heartbeat. Tiny. Blue. But Aeron saw it.
So did Elowen—from across the garden.
Her gaze narrowed.
Kael dropped the stick like it had bitten him.
> He has magic… he just doesn't know it yet.
> Or someone doesn't want him to.
Interesting.
—
As the sun dipped low, casting gold across the fields, Aeron lay beside Lyra on a quilt while laughter rose from the fire pit.
Elowen whispered strange songs to herself.
Brann sharpened a blade against his boot.
Kael chased fireflies until his mother called him home.
Aeron closed his eyes.
Not to sleep.
But to listen.
To learn the patterns behind their words.
To feel how their mana moved—how it danced, swelled, hid.
He would remember it all.
Because these people—this strange little circle of souls with secrets—would matter.
They were pieces of something bigger.
He could feel it in his bones.
> The world doesn't turn on kings and legends alone.
> Sometimes, it starts in gardens… in old songs… in the hands of children.
> I wasn't reborn into royalty. But I was born in the right place.
And as the stars began to appear, Aeron opened his eyes again.
Watching.
Waiting.
And smiling.