They were born in silence.
Not the kind of silence that follows peace, but the kind that comes after something ancient has been shattered—like a glass echo ringing across the stars.
On that day, the Earth trembled—but not in fear. Storms halted mid-rage, thunderheads drifted apart like feathers in the sky, and oceans, once violent, stilled to a breathless calm. Chaos, for a brief moment, simply… ceased.
Across the globe, three babies were born. Not in the same city, not even on the same continent. But in that same precise minute—a sliver of time unmarked by any watch—they came into existence. And the world knew something had changed.
Somewhere in the high desert of Chile, beneath the cold gaze of a billion stars, a boy opened his eyes for the first time.
He did not cry.
His mother gasped, not from pain, but from a strange warmth that bloomed in her chest as the nurse placed him on her skin. Outside, the wind stopped. The air grew dense, like it had forgotten how to move. Astronomers at the nearby observatory looked up from their screens—entire constellations had flickered, just for a moment.
No one would remember that. But the boy—Aarav—would carry it in his bones.
Thousands of miles away, in the Indian Ocean, a girl was born under a silver moon, aboard a drifting medical ferry during a tropical storm.
Lightning had split the sky only moments before. Waves clawed at the hull. Panic rang through the corridors.
Then she was born.
And everything went still.
The sea calmed. Rain dissolved into mist. The clouds parted, letting the full moon gaze directly down upon her like a mother returning home. The sailors said it was a miracle. The midwife whispered that the baby's eyes looked like liquid silver.
Her name was Nyra. And she came into the world as if the ocean itself had chosen to breathe through her.
But the third… was different.
In a sun-scorched village in East Africa, a woman screamed as fire bloomed in the sky above. The sun was too bright. It had pulsed unnaturally for hours before her labor began.
The boy came out silent. His mother smiled weakly, whispered his name—Kael—and died with the sun's final flare burning through the sky.
Doctors called it a complication. But the local elders said the sun had taken something back. And from that day on, the heat in that region never felt quite right.
Three children. Three vessels.
No one knew them. They never met. Their names were not carved into any prophecy or hidden scroll. No ancient cult awaited their arrival.
But the universe noticed.
It tilted, ever so slightly, toward balance.
And though the world moved on—nations rising and falling, people living and dying—something deep beneath the surface had begun. A thread had been pulled in the fabric of spacetime.
The stars had whispered to each other that night.
The Moon had reflected a new truth.
And the Sun... had wept for what it had lost.