The village stirred slowly, as if it too were reluctant to wake. Smoke curled from the chimneys in thin ribbons, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and baking bread. Chickens clucked and pecked in the dirt, while a dog barked in the distance, chasing shadows that belonged to no one.
Aion lay in bed, still curled beneath the thin blanket his mother had patched so many times the fabric was threadbare. The morning light filtered through the small window above his head, painting his dark hair in a halo of gold. For a long moment, he simply watched it, letting the quiet settle around him like a soft cloak.
He could hear Mara moving in the next room, her footsteps light on the wooden floor, the occasional clatter of a pot or spoon. Elden's voice drifted faintly from outside, calling greetings to neighbors as he prepared the fields for the day. The world was ordinary. Safe. Small. And yet, beneath the ordinary, something hummed — faint, persistent, alive.
Aion swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded to the window. The fields beyond stretched gold and gentle under the sun. He lifted his hands, inspecting the faint warmth in his palms, a pulse that seemed to linger just beneath his skin. The memory of the fever from the night before made him shiver. He had felt the light then, but it had been wild and strange, dangerous in ways he could not name. Now it lingered quietly, almost shy, like a secret waiting for him to notice.
"Mama," he called softly.
Mara appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on her apron. Her eyes, always warm, carried a trace of worry today.
"Good morning, little one," she said, kneeling to meet his gaze. "Did you sleep well?"
"I think so," Aion whispered. His eyes flicked to the faint pulse beneath his skin. "Mama… I think something is… changing."
Mara reached for him, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "Change isn't always bad," she said gently. "It's just… something new."
Aion frowned. "But what if it's dangerous?"
"Then we learn to be careful," she said. "But fear doesn't mean you are wrong, Aion. You just need to be wise about what you do with what you have."
He nodded, though the words offered little comfort. He had always known the world could be cruel — he had seen it in the animals that fell to storms, in the villagers' struggles with the earth, in the way the wind sometimes tore roofs from cottages. But this… this was different. Something inside him had shifted, and he could feel it everywhere: in his heartbeat, in his breath, in the light that stirred beneath his skin.
Breakfast was quiet. Mara laid out bread, fresh from the oven, and honey in a small bowl. Elden poured warm milk into a chipped cup for Aion. He took a bite of bread and felt the taste of home anchor him — the sweetness of honey, the soft warmth of the bread, the gentle comfort of routine. For a moment, he almost forgot the pulse beneath his skin, the weight of something larger than himself pressing at the edges of his awareness.
After breakfast, Aion wandered outside, barefoot as always. The village was alive with ordinary sounds: the rhythmic clang of the blacksmith's hammer, the soft chatter of neighbors, the clatter of a cart along the dirt road. Aion moved among it all like a shadow, watching, learning, observing. He greeted the children playing in the dirt with a nod, but he did not join them. Their games felt too small today, too fleeting. His eyes kept drifting toward the horizon, where the fields stretched endlessly and the sky arched impossibly high.
He found himself at the stream that wound behind the village. The water gurgled over stones and roots, carrying reflections of the morning light. Aion knelt, dipping his fingers into the cool current. The pulse beneath his skin responded, brightening slightly as if it recognized the life around him. A small bird hopped near the bank, eyeing him with curiosity. Aion smiled faintly.
"Good morning," he said softly.
The bird tilted its head, then fluttered away. Aion watched it go, feeling an ache he could not name — a longing for something just beyond his reach, something that belonged to him and yet had never been his to hold.
He wandered further, following the stream to the edge of the forest. The trees stood tall and silent, their trunks gnarled and twisted, roots curling into the earth like ancient fingers. Aion had explored here before, but never far. Today, he felt a pull deeper into the shadows, a whisper in the wind that seemed almost like a voice calling his name.
"Who's there?" he asked.
Only the rustle of leaves answered. The forest seemed alive, aware of him, waiting. Aion pressed his hands to the trunk of a tree. The pulse beneath his skin responded again, steady, strong, and insistent. It was as if the forest recognized him, recognized what he carried within.
"Mama said to be careful," he whispered. "But I need to know…"
The wind shifted, carrying a faint scent of smoke, of earth, of something older than the village, older than the hills, older than the sun. Aion's eyes widened. The pulse beneath his skin flared slightly, though he did not understand why.
He backed away from the tree, clutching his wooden horse. "I'm not ready," he muttered.
But the forest did not answer. It only waited.
By midday, he returned to the village. Mara was mending clothes, Elden repairing the fence. They greeted him with smiles, but both noticed the tension in his small shoulders, the way his eyes darted to the forest edge more than to them.
"Everything all right?" Mara asked.
"I think so," Aion replied, though the words tasted hollow.
Elden placed a hand on his shoulder. "You've grown quieter lately," he said gently. "Something on your mind?"
Aion shook his head. "Nothing important."
But he knew it was not nothing. He had felt the pull of the forest, the pulse beneath his skin, the faint brush of something immense that had begun to notice him. He was small, mortal, and fragile — yet already, he carried a spark that could not be contained.
As evening fell, Aion returned to the small oak tree at the edge of the fields. He climbed into its branches and watched the sun dip behind the hills. The village glowed in gold, smoke curling from chimneys, laughter drifting faintly on the wind. And above it all, the sky stretched wide and infinite, vast and unknowable, as if holding its breath for him.
Aion hugged the wooden horse tightly. "I don't want to be anything more than me," he whispered.
The wind rustled through the leaves. The pulse beneath his skin thrummed in response. Somewhere, beyond the reach of mortal eyes, something stirred and turned its gaze toward the boy.
And in the quiet of the forest and the gold of the fields, the world began to remember him.