The winds had quieted.
Years passed - or so it seemed. In Elysiar, time flowed like a river split into hidden branches. Seasons came, sometimes out of order. Some days passed like seconds; others stretched to silence.
In the quiet village of Thale's Hollow, tucked deep within the Weaving Woods. life moved at its own pace. Farmer's worked with hands calloused by peace, and children laughed without knowing the world beyond their forest veil. Magic was simple here - used for growing crops and warming homes, not for war or prophecy.
It was on such morning, fog curling between the trees like sleping spirits, that Callen Vey, a humble woodworker, heard a sound that did not belong.
Not a cry.
Not a whisper.
But... a hum.
A rhythmic vibration, as if the forest itself was breathing. He followed it instinctively, drawn deeper into the heart of the woods, to a clearing he didn't remember existing. At its center lay a cradle - impossibly smooth, carved from black stone veined with silver light.
Inside it: a child, awake and watching him.
The baby's eyes weren't just looking - they were studying.
Callen froze. Not from fear, but from awe.
"Who would leave a child here?" he whispered.
No one answered. But the wind shifted. Leaves stirred. The mark on the boy's palm - a subtle sigil like a clock with no hands - glowed for just a second, then faded.
He hesitated.
But then the baby reached out - not with a cry, but with a silent, expectant gaze, as if he already knew Callen would come.
"Alright then," Callen said softly, scooping him up with calloused, careful hands. "I guess there's no bad thing raising you with me, you've been waiting right?"
Back in Thale's Hollow, the villagers were cautious at first.
A child appearing out of nowhere? Wrapped in enchanted cloth and wearing a look too wise for his age?
But the child never caused trouble. He rarely cried, often stared at stars, and learned to walk far earlier than any other toddler in memory. Many thought he was such a weird child.
Callen raised him as his own - with warmth, patience, and quiet pride. He named him Aetherion, after an old legend his grandmother once told - a hero who came from the sky to heal a fractured world. And even naming him using his family's name "Vey"
He told no one of the mark on the boy's palm.
Not even when it pulsed under moonlight.
"He is... different," said the village healer once, watching Aetherion calmly stare at a storm no child should've stood near.
"Aye," Callen replied. "But maybe that's what the world needs."
Aetherion grew under the forest's watchful eye. Thus he was loved by the villagers who accepted him. The woods whispered to him. The stars never left his sight.
But far above, in realms unseen, those who watched the timelines began to stir.
The Chronicle had begun to turn.