Weeks passed quietly after the birth.The manor that once echoed with healers' footsteps had fallen into a rhythm again.
In the nursery, the boy slept peacefully, the faint blue shimmer of Aether still swirling softly around him. His parents watched him grow with quiet awe — and quiet fear.
The healers had confirmed what none of them had ever seen before. His body was producing Aether faster than it could expel it. Normally, such overflow would burn through a person's life energy, but somehow… his remained steady. Balanced. Unexplained.
Elara worried constantly. Sometimes, when the boy slept, she'd stand beside the crib and watch his small chest rise and fall, whispering silent prayers to the Light.
"Is it because of my wound?" she once asked Cael, her voice trembling. "From that battle all those years ago… did it pass to him?"
Cael had only held her hand.
"No, Elara. He's strong because of you, not broken by you."
She smiled faintly at that, though her eyes said she didn't believe it.
The years slipped by quietly, and so did his childhood.
At one, he walked.At two, he began forming words but rarely spoke.At three, he began to read.
The books in the Solarin manor — once gathering dust — became his companions. He'd sit on the floor, small hands tracing the letters, whispering the words in a soft, almost melodic tone. Sometimes, Elara would read with him, her voice faint but steady.
The boy learned faster than anyone expected. But even as his mind grew sharper, he remained a child of silence. He didn't cry. He didn't laugh often. He just… observed.
Both parents agreed to keep him sheltered for now.They didn't understand what he was, and neither did the healers.
When he turned four, the world outside finally found him.
That morning, one of the maids — Mira — was carrying a bundle of fresh linens through the hall. As she turned a corner, the door ahead creaked open.
The boy stepped out, holding a small book against his chest. His hair was darker now, shadowing those deep blue eyes that always seemed a little too calm.
Mira blinked, startled.
"Oh, whoa—young master! You scared me for a moment there."
He tilted his head slightly, not saying anything at first. Then, softly:
"What is that you're holding?"
"Laundry, my lord."
He blinked again.
"What is laundry?"
Her lips parted, unsure how to explain something so ordinary.
"Well… it's what keeps your clothes clean. We wash what's dirty, dry it, and fold it again."
He nodded slowly, eyes narrowing in quiet thought. Then, as if satisfied, he began following her down the corridor. Mira smiled a little, adjusting the pile in her arms.
"You don't have to walk with me, young master."
But he didn't answer. He just followed, quiet as a shadow, his small hands clasped behind his back. His gaze, though, wasn't lost — it was focused, as if every word she spoke was something sacred.
They stepped out into the sunlight.
The courtyard spread open before them — wide stone tiles framed by the golden banners of House Solarin. In the center, two knights were sparring, their swords flashing under the morning sun. Sparks leapt with every strike.
The boy stopped walking.
He tugged lightly at Mira's sleeve.
"What is that?"
"Sword training, young master. That's Sir Ren, your father's second. He's sparring with one of the newer swordsmen."
The boy said nothing more. He just walked toward the courtyard, slow and steady, and sat on a wooden bench near the edge of the training field.
His small hands rested on his knees. His eyes locked onto the knights, following every motion. Each swing. Each spark. Each breath.
He didn't flinch at the sound of clashing metal — he leaned in.
Mira lingered behind, watching him.
"You really like the sound of swords, don't you?"
He didn't answer, but the faintest hint of a smile flickered across his face before fading again.
For the rest of the morning, the boy sat there — silent, unblinking — as if the rhythm of battle itself had found a new observer.
Some children dream of play.Others dream of flight.He dreamed of the sound of steel.
And as the day faded into dusk, the quiet hum of his Aether followed the rhythm of the knights' blades — perfectly in sync.
End of Chapter 2