The Year of the Silver Eclipse is a story that would be recorded in Kaldoran annals, but it is a memory of a freezing time that, less than pleasantly, was kept in the heavy, grey stone walls of House Graythorn. The cold was such that it killed any animals that were found wandering around and also iced the insides of the window areas of the houses heavily as if an attempt was made to draw out the sound from the very core of the world. .
It was a deep, unforgiving frost. They say that the coldest and longest night of the terrible winter was the time of the happening of the strange celestial event that made the moon of Midnight to look like a shining silver disc that was overpowering the darkness thus only a few stars could be seen. They say that on that night, the wind was tearing the rickety turret to the abandoned, desolate tower and that was all you could hea
It seemed like the world had shrunk into the circle of the firelight and the smell of lavender, sweat, and blood that came from the Duchess's chamber of giving birth. Lady Seraphina was lying exhausted among the pillows, her body had been a vessel that was emptied through a flood of pain and strength.
Her silver hair was matted, and her face was covered with hair from the UN-braided strands, which are usually beautifully plaited. However, there was a fighting, invincible glow in the eyes of the color of summer twilight. In the fold of her arm, there was her infant son, cloaked in more gentle-than-the-softest cloths.
The very first cry of the baby seemed to be held by the air around, it was a breaking-in-of-the-world, very indignant, and loud cry which had gone through the terrifying and quiet night abruptly.
The Duke, Alistair Graythorn, was a man whose cold stare could have quieted even the most unruly council chamber. He was like a statue of ice standing by the bed. The dim light from the fire playing over his face emphasized the furrows but his normally unyielding jaw had relaxed.
For a short instant he resembled not the indomitable Duke aka the "Iron Hawk" but just a man experiencing a miracle. He extended his hand, a swordsman's hand, scarred and powerful enough to break a man's ribs, slowly as if unsure and then he softly grazed the infant's cheek with a lone, rough knuckle.
First of all, the baby's skin was extraordinarily flawless, the hair was a tuft of dark down, a flawless heritage from his father. And then, the baby looked around. His eyes were of the tranquil, deep blue of Lake Seraph, after which his mother was named a shocking contrast to the Graythorn storm-grey.
"He is here," said Alistair softly, his voice a low rumble, thick with an emotion that was beyond pride. It was wonder, and under it, a layer of deep fear. "One born under the Eclipse Light. The court astrologers will be intolerable. They will scribble prophecies until their ink is all used up."
"Let them write as much as they want," said Seraphina quietly, her voice hoarse but brave. She took the baby's face between her index finger and thumb. "He is our child, Alistair. There is no other prophecy that is of any importance."
Even she, a very down-to-earth person, could not discard the dominant symbolism of the moment a born under the Silver Eclipse child was said to be starlight entwined with the mortal fabric, a destiny of either repairing or tearing the fate pattern.
Alistair got even closer with his words which only his son's soul could hear. "You will have to be very strong, little lion. Stronger than any one of us." The somewhat whispered sentence contained the un-uttered, enormously heavy implication of the family name Graythorn: a long line of military leaders, aristocrats, and expert swordsmen, a heritage of iron and virtue and mercilessly high expectations, now all coming down on that little, wrapped-up bundle of life.
The infant Leonel was not only a prodigious talent; he was like an intricate map slowly revealing the undiscovered lands of his intellect and his body as each year unfolded.
He was a silent, attentive boy who could always be spotted soaking in the sun's rays in the vast library while a thick, leather-bound book lying on his lap resembled a dormant giant. Not only was he competent in his letters by the age of three, but he was also trying to make sense of the complex philosophical arguments in the tutors' discarded volumes and incessantly asking "why, " which, as a result, exposed their limited knowledge of the subject.
It was far from just being advanced for his age; it was this profound, inborn craving for systematic understanding which didn't leave much room for the disorderly and unpredictable nature of childhood.
His mental growth was equally troubling. Children of noble birth at that age were usually still awkwardly stumbling over rugs and their own feet, but Leonel was already astonishingly concise in his movement. None could match him to climb with a quiet, unbroken smoothness the old, twisted oak in the central yard like a cat, for his tiny hands were discovering grip-points that no one could see.
Late in the day, the sight of the household guards training in the yard was usually accompanied by Leonel's kitchen spoon imitation of their drill which, unlike the wild, noisy, and downright unconvincing nature of a boy's sacrifice, was a series of accurate, tightly controlled movements which faintly resembled real, deadly swordsmanship. He wasn't fighting in his play; he was, at that time, rehearsing.
His fifth birthday morning could be described as sharp and light with the last glittering pieces of the winter frost still clinging to the cobblestones. After a little, formal breakfast during which he was gifted with a new set of books and a beautifully made wooden hawk, his father had one interaction only: "Come with me," and without leading him to the library, he took him to the place that was really the estate's core: the training grounds.
It was a large, practical, and austere area of packed earth that had been marked by years of boots and blades, and it was enclosed by tall stone walls from where there were hanging the old shields bearing the Graythorn hawk. The whole atmosphere was filled with the smells of earnest work: the smell of leather after oiling, that of a sharpening stone, and a little metallic smell of sweat that had already dried.
"Today, you stop watching from the sidelines," Alistair's voice was like a knife that cut through the cold air and was missing the usual politeness found in a council chamber. "Today, you take up the tool of our trade. Today, you start."
Leonel's little heart grew bigger. He tried to copy his father's firm and unshakable stance, which seemed to be deeply rooted in the earth, by straightening his back. The feeling of eagerness which was present in his veins was not new to him but today it was quite different—more intense, more pure, like a newly sharpened blade.
Alistair lowered himself to one knee and handed him a wooden training sword. It was of the right size and perfectly balanced for a person of his stature, the handle being quite smooth due to the carver's work. The shock of it was its very weight, a very real and undeniable promise of what was yet to come. "Not at all a toy, Leonel. Consider it as a part of your control. But your control is like a ship without wind. You have to become aware of the wind inside you. We call it Vitalis Energy."
Leonel looked perplexed, his little face showing deep thought. "Energy? Like the fire in the hearth?"
"Asking a better question," Alistair agreed.
He put one of his hands on Leonel's belly.
"Close your eyes. Stop thinking about your hands and your feet. Go deeper into yourself. Search for the heat in your innermost core, right here. It is like… a tiny, always moving ember. Can you sense it?"
Leonel had to quiet himself, turning away the view of the highly armed racks and the sound of the smith hammer in the far distance. For a while, the thump that he could hear was only that of his own heartbeat. Soon there was the feeling - not heat, but definitely something that could become heat. Something very faint, as if a small handful of glowing dust had been thrown into the void behind his navel and was now swirling with no particular shape. The feeling kept on escaping from him, not wanting to be caught.
"It's... fuzzy," he said under his breath, full of vexation."
"That is your core. Your wellspring," Alistar affirmed, his voice being a calm support."
"Take a breath, and see whether you are actually drawing the air to that very point, thus giving the little ember air. Breathing out, the irritant being gone from the place you leave the hand air. See the dust as one single coal."