Morning crept over Lera as if the sun itself hesitated, wary of what had been born the night before.
Golden light seeped across frost-glazed rooftops, melting ice into tiny rivulets that glinted like scattered jewels.
Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, mingling with the warm scent of fresh bread.
Crows called from the gables, their harsh cries breaking the hush—sharper than usual, as if echoing last night's silence.
In the distance, sheep bleated, awakening the fields.
It was a morning that pretended nothing had changed.
But everything had.
Word of Mara's child spread by whispers carried on the cool breeze—from the elder's hearth to the well, from the granary steps to the forge.
By mid-morning, every neighbor knew: a boy had been born under the old moon—a blessing, many said.
Yet some whispers carried a edge, recalling tales of silver-eyed omens from fireside stories.
A small crowd formed outside the wooden gate.
They stood in pale shafts of sunlight, voices hushed.
"It's been five years since our last birth," Old Matthis murmured, rubbing his cracked hands.
"Five winters," Ena the baker's wife echoed, glancing toward the chimney's thin smoke. "Two stillborn before that."
A hush fell as grief reminded them how precious each child was.
Then, to ward off the memory, they turned their thoughts to life—hoping, smiling, waiting.
But beneath the smiles, eyes darted, wondering if this birth carried the night's curse.
When the door finally opened, Daren appeared.
His sleeves were rolled up; the lines around his eyes were deeper, but pride lifted his chin.
He gave a solemn nod.
That single gesture broke the silence—villagers stepped forward one by one, crossing the threshold.
They brought gifts: warm loaves still steaming, soft knitted cloths that smelled of goat's wool, small wooden toys sanded smooth, and a pouch of marigold and nettle to strengthen Mara.
Each present conveyed relief, hope, joy.
The air inside thickened with the mingled scents—fresh bread cutting through lingering juniper and blood's faint echo.
Inside, the midwife sat by the hearth, stirring thin broth that steamed in swirls.
She spoke little, but her eyes remained on the cradle where Aven lay, swaddled in linen scented with juniper and myrrh.
Her fingers twitched, as if tracing unseen wards.
Mara rested on the bed, pale but steady.
Her dark hair was braided back; warmth had returned to her cheeks.
She held her son close, one finger curled around his tiny hand.
So small, and yet… she thought, feeling a tremor of both awe and dread.
He's ours. But he's not like other children.
Those silver eyes—polished like the moon itself—stare with a knowing that chills me.
Aven did not weep.
His breath was soft, rhythmic—like a quiet wind over still waters.
Around him, voices dropped to reverent whispers.
Fear was there too: an instinctive reverence for something beyond their understanding.
Outside, children gathered at the fence.
A gray-haired ramble of giggling voices drifted in.
"He's tiny!" Yela whispered, her voice high with excitement.
"My da says moon-born babies are lucky," Thom declared, chest puffed out.
"A bit odd," the sharp-nosed boy muttered, arms folded. "Moon babies aren't normal."
His words hung, stirring a flicker of last night's shadows in the bright day.
Yela bristled.
Thom squared his shoulders.
The smaller boy's words stung, but none dared look away—curiosity held them fast.
Mixed with a thread of unease, like the woods' distant moan.
Mara stepped onto the porch, Aven cradled against her heart.
Her feet sank into the cool earth; she steadied herself against the doorframe.
The morning chill brushed her arms, but she didn't shiver.
Don't let them see you afraid, she told herself.
He needs you steady.
"Do you want to see him?" she asked softly.
Thom and Yela nodded.
Even the sharp-nosed boy leaned forward.
Mara lifted the cloth just enough—Aven's silver eyes blinked once, then held their gaze on each child, unblinking and curious.
Not foggy like a newborn's, but sharp, reflecting the sun like hidden stars.
"He's looking right at me," Yela breathed.
"No, at me," Thom insisted.
Aven reached out a tiny hand, fingers flexing in the air as if grasping something unseen.
Laughter bubbled up—bright and relieved.
The tension dissolved into delight.
Yet it felt fragile, like frost underfoot.
By afternoon, Lera hummed with celebration.
Fires blazed under iron kettles; sweet, peppery stew scented the air.
Bread was broken and shared, warmth passing from hand to hand.
Hunters returned early, spurs clinking on the path, grinning at the sight of the cradle.
But their grins faltered briefly, eyes lingering on the cradle's shadow.
Elder Harwin arrived at dusk, leaning on his gnarled cane.
He paused beneath the old oak, watching the laughter drift through the yard.
Daren joined him; they stood shoulder to shoulder.
"You named him?" Harwin asked, voice low.
"Aven," Daren replied.
The elder's eyes crinkled.
"A fine name—like my own grandfather's. Fits a boy born under portentous skies."
He sighed, tapping his cane.
"Strange night. Lightning in clear sky. Silence that felt… alive."
Daren said nothing, the memory of that single flash still burning behind his eyes.
And the child's eyes, mirroring it.
As twilight fell, the children clamored to play near the cradle.
"He can watch," Yela insisted, bouncing an old leather ball.
They formed a loose circle in the fading light, rolling and tossing, their laughter a lullaby of pure joy.
Aven lay on a blanket in the grass, his silver eyes following the ball's arc.
Then—a tiny, deliberate smile curved his lips.
The children halted mid-game, startled.
Thom pointed.
Yela giggled.
Even the sharp-nosed boy cracked a grin.
"He smiled!" someone shouted.
"He's learning already," said another.
Promises spilled out—lessons in climbing walls, catching frogs, wielding swords.
Hope fluttered in every promise.
But woven in, whispers of caution, as if the night might listen.
Night deepened.
Lanterns glowed along the path, casting soft orbs of light on stone and wood.
A few voices drifted in song—old lullabies hummed for memory's sake.
Their melodies carried a faint tremor, warding against the dark.
Inside, Mara rocked Aven to sleep.
Daren sat close, fingertips brushing hers.
The house was hushed, warm embers glowing in the hearth.
Mara watched him closely, heart thudding in her ears.
He is different, she thought.
But is he danger or destiny?
Outside the window, shadows stretched long and deliberate—almost reaching the sill, then recoiling.
The wind returned, rustling leaves in a gentle sigh.
Yet it carried a low moan, like the woods awakening.
Aven cooed; his lids fluttered before closing.
Daren's whisper trembled: "He's... different."
Mara nodded, voice soft: "I feel it too."
Silence held them, heavy with the unknown.
Beyond the village, where moonlight barely touched, a lone crow cried once—and then all fell silent again.
Waiting, as the night had before.