The morning Aetos joined the dawn meditation changed everything.
Two years old, barely reaching the knees of the youngest novices, he had somehow escaped his crib again—the third time that week despite the new latches Brother Dimitri had sworn were completely child-proof. The carpenter monk had spent hours installing the complicated mechanisms, testing them repeatedly, muttering prayers and assurances that no toddler could possibly figure out the intricate system. Instead of wandering the shadowy corridors as he usually did, or climbing the ancient furniture with his characteristic fearlessness, Matthias found him in the vast meditation hall, seated in perfect lotus position among the adult monks who had risen before dawn for their practice.
His tiny form mimicked their complex breathing exercises with startling, almost unsettling precision. Where grown men who had studied for years struggled to maintain the intricate rhythm of the Breath of Mountains technique—an advanced practice that required perfect control of diaphragm, chest, and throat—Aetos performed it naturally, effortlessly, his small chest rising and falling in the ancient pattern as if he'd been practicing since before birth, as if the knowledge lived in his very bones.
Master Zephyrus, leading the meditation from his place at the front of the hall, had noticed the child's presence within moments but chosen not to disturb him. The old master's eyes had widened slightly—the only sign of his surprise—before returning to his own practice. Now, as the session concluded with the traditional three bells, he approached the toddler with curious, assessing eyes that held both wonder and calculation.
"How do you know this breathing, little eagle?" His voice was gentle but probing, the tone he used when questioning advanced students about complex philosophical matters.
Aetos looked up with those storm-coloured eyes, grey depths that seemed to hold reflections of clouds and sky, and said simply, "Wind shows me."
From that morning forward, without any formal discussion or vote, he joined the dawn practice. The sight became a source of perpetual wonder and, for some of the more traditional brothers, distinct discomfort—a baby among grown men, often breathing with better form and deeper concentration than monks who'd studied the techniques for decades. His presence changed the very atmosphere of the sessions in ways both subtle and profound. The air felt more alive, more responsive, as if it recognized one of its own. Several brothers reported achieving deeper meditative states when Aetos participated, describing sensations of floating or becoming one with the mountain winds.
But it was during meals that the child's peculiar nature showed most clearly and practically.
"He's done it again," Brother Benedictus announced at the weekly council meeting, his usually jovial face creased with concern as he brandished his carefully maintained ledger. "This morning's breakfast alone: two full bowls of porridge that should have fed four grown men, an entire loaf of fresh bread, cheese that should have lasted three days for the children's table, and enough goat's milk to float a boat. He's two years old! Two!"
The other children in the temple's care had quickly learned to eat with focused efficiency when Aetos was present. Not from any cruelty on his part—he never stole food from others' plates or demanded their portions with tears or tantrums. But his appetite was so vast, so seemingly bottomless, that latecomers often found empty serving bowls and a very satisfied toddler patting his rounded belly with contentment.
"Perhaps," Brother Alexei suggested thoughtfully, reviewing his detailed medical notes with furrowed brow, "his pneuma circulation burns energy at an dramatically accelerated rate. I've observed his body temperature runs consistently higher than normal—sometimes by as much as two degrees. His healing from minor scrapes and bruises is remarkably fast, almost visible to the naked eye. Such a metabolism would require tremendous fuel."
"All I know," Benedictus grumbled, crossing his thick arms over his chest, "is that I'm having to negotiate with farmers down in the valley now. Our traditional mountain suppliers can't keep up with one small boy's appetite. They think I'm joking when I place the orders."
The climbing incidents escalated dramatically that spring as Aetos grew stronger and more coordinated. First, it was merely furniture—chairs stacked precariously, tables scaled with monkey-like agility, shelves climbed like ladder rungs. Then he progressed to walls themselves, using tiny finger-holds in the ancient stone that shouldn't have supported even his minimal weight. The morning Brother Matthias found him on the narrow second-story ledge outside the library windows marked a terrifying turning point.
"Aetos!" Matthias's heart nearly stopped, ice flooding his veins as he saw the boy balanced on the narrow stone projection, reaching eagerly for a nest where swallows had built in the eaves. "Don't move! Stay exactly where you are!"
"Birds," Aetos explained happily, his voice carrying pure delight, completely unconcerned by the twenty-foot drop onto unforgiving stone. "Want to see babies. Hear peeping!"
The rescue required three strong monks, a hastily fetched ladder, and all of Brother Matthias's self-control not to panic. Aetos protested the entire time, genuinely confused by the adults' white faces and trembling hands. When finally brought inside to safety, he asked with genuine puzzlement that wrinkled his small nose, "Why scared? Wind catches."
"Wind doesn't catch little boys who fall," Matthias explained patiently, still shaking from the near-disaster, his hands trembling as he checked the child for injuries.
Aetos frowned deeply, clearly disagreeing with this adult assessment but lacking the vocabulary to explain why the grown-up was so obviously wrong about something so simple.
New safety measures were implemented immediately: higher walls around all play areas, complicated locks on every window, small bells attached to Aetos's clothing to track his movement through the temple. Within a week, displaying an ingenuity that would have impressed master engineers, he had figured out how to silence the bells and pick even the most complex locks. The higher walls merely presented a more interesting challenge to overcome.
"It's not defiance," Master Zephyrus observed one afternoon, stroking his long beard as he watched Aetos scale a supposedly unclimbable barrier with spider-like ease. "Look at his face—pure joy, absolute bliss. He climbs because the air itself calls him upward. Fighting this nature would be like commanding a river to flow uphill or ordering the sun not to rise."
The master's wisdom was proven dramatically correct during the Festival of First Winds, when spring's return was celebrated with ancient rituals. Three-year-old Aetos disappeared during the evening ceremonies, vanishing between one moment and the next. Panic spread through the temple like wildfire until a visiting merchant, craning his neck skyward, pointed with a shaking finger.
There, atop the temple's highest spire—a narrow pinnacle that even experienced grown men feared to climb—sat Aetos. He was singing in his high, clear voice, the wordless melody mixing with the evening wind to create harmonies that raised goosebumps on every listener's skin. The setting sun painted him gold and crimson, and for a long moment, every person present saw not a child but something else entirely—a spirit of air given human form, a young god testing his wings.
The rescue took two harrowing hours and required all of Master Zephyrus's most powerful calming techniques to prevent Matthias from hyperventilating with terror. Aetos, brought down safely by the temple's most skilled climbers, seemed genuinely puzzled by all the fuss and commotion.
"Pretty sunset from high," he explained with the simple logic of childhood. "Wanted to see more sky."
That night, the council convened in emergency session, oil lamps burning late into the darkness.
"The boy needs training," Zephyrus declared firmly, his usually gentle voice carrying unusual steel. "Real training, not just supervision and safety measures. His pneuma is manifesting whether we guide it or not. Better to channel this extraordinary gift than let it develop wild and uncontrolled."
"He's three years old," Kyrios protested, his conservative nature bristling at the suggestion. "The youngest we ever take students is seven, and even that is considered dangerously radical by most temples."
"Aetos is not typical," the master replied with unshakeable firmness. "Continue treating him as a normal child, and one day we'll find him floating off the mountain entirely, lost to the sky. He needs structure, discipline, and most importantly, understanding of his remarkable abilities."
The vote was closer than the original decision to keep him: six in favour, five against, one abstention from Brother Thomas who couldn't decide. But it was enough to change everything.
The next morning, when Aetos inevitably escaped his room before dawn—the locks might as well have been made of air—he found Master Zephyrus waiting in the central courtyard, seated in meditation posture.
"Come, little eagle," the old man said, extending a weathered hand that had guided hundreds of students. "Time to learn why the wind calls you so strongly."
Aetos's face lit up with such pure, radiant delight that even stern Kyrios, watching disapprovingly from his window, had to smile despite himself. The storm's gift was about to discover his wings.