The boy who would become a sovereign—who would break time and wear its shards like a crown—was currently getting his hair braided by his mother.
"Hold still, firefly," Elara chided, her calloused fingers weaving through his wheat-gold strands. The setting sun painted their small hut in hues of honey and rust, catching the copper pots hanging by the hearth. "If you squirm, you'll end up with a lopsided mess. Again."
Ardyn huffed, but obeyed, picking at a loose thread on his tunic. "It's already long enough to trip me," he grumbled. At twelve summers, he was all elbows and knees, his frame slight as a sapling. "The other boys—"
"—are jealous," Kael interrupted from his seat by the forge, not looking up from the broken plowshare he was mending. The smith's shoulders strained against his sweat-damp shirt, arms corded with muscle earned from years of bending metal to his will. "They'd kill for hair that doesn't look like straw chewed by goats."
Elara laughed, the sound bright as her loom's shuttle darting between threads. "Oh, hush. We kept it long because someone cried when we tried to cut it." She tugged playfully on Ardyn's braid. "And because the gods gave us a son with lashes longer than mine and cheeks softer than rose petals. Why not enjoy our pretty child while we can?"
Ardyn's face burned. His mother's teasing was relentless—and worse, true. He'd inherited Elara's delicate features: the arch of his brows, the fullness of his mouth. From Kael came the sharp cut of his jaw and the stubborn set of his shoulders. But his eyes...
Golden. Burning.
Even now, catching the firelight, they glowed like embers in a banked hearth—too vivid, too knowing for a village boy.
Outside, the Obelisk's crimson pulse thrummed through the dusk, casting jagged shadows across the dirt paths. Somewhere beyond the wheat fields, the village children were playing at war, their shouts drifting through the open shutter:
"First to die! First to die!"
Ardyn flinched. The taunt was old as his memories—their favorite game, their cruel prophecy. In a world where men were measured by the width of their backs and their skill with a scythe, a boy who preferred his mother's stories to fistfights was an easy target.
Kael's hammer stilled. The silence was heavier than the anvil.
Elara's hands gentled, finishing the braid with a ribbon the color of sunset. "They fear what they don't understand, firefly." She turned him to face her, her own eyes—brown and warm as freshly turned earth—holding his. "Your father's people called lightning down from the sky. Mine wove spells into cloth. And you..." She tapped his chest, right over the stubborn heartbeat. "You carry both. That's not weakness. That's kindling."
A log shifted in the hearth, sending up a shower of sparks.
Somewhere beyond the village, beyond the Obelisk's bleeding light, something stirred.
Glossary
Obelisk - A towering, ancient monolith that pulses with crimson light. More than stone, it's said to be a nail holding reality together. (From your lore notes)
Plowshare - The cutting blade of a farmer's plow. Kael mends tools, not just weapons—showing his practical nature.