MACRO-ARC I: **THE NAMELESS ONE**
Sub-Arc I-1: *The Child Who Was Never Registered*
No one remembers the exact moment when the gods descended for the first time.
Only the custom remains.
Every twenty years, without exception, the sky opened above the Valley of Arkhavel and the gods descended to grant names. It was not a religious ceremony. There were no prayers, no pleas, no hope. It was a process. An administration of destiny.
A name was not just a word.
It was permission to exist.
That morning, the entire town gathered in the central square before sunrise. The streets had been cleaned. The bells had rung three times at dawn, exactly as tradition dictated. No one spoke above a whisper.
In the center of the square, the cradles were lined up.
One after another. Dozens of them. Some were new, carved with sacred symbols. Others were old, repaired again and again by generations who could not afford anything better. All of them were oriented toward the sky.
Mothers held their breath.
Fathers clenched their fists.
The elderly watched in silence, as if looking too closely might invite disaster.
I was there too.
I could not understand the weight of that moment, but I felt the tension in the air. The silence was not natural. It was not human. It was imposed, as if the world itself were waiting for a command.
My cradle was at the end.
Not by choice, but by neglect.
The wood was splintered. One of its legs was shorter than the others, and someone had placed a stone beneath it to keep it from tilting. It bore no engraved symbols. Only marks of use, dents, scars.
Like me.
The sky darkened without warning.
It was not a storm. The clouds did not move. They simply appeared, forming a perfect circle above the square. At its center, a fracture of light slowly began to open.
Some people knelt.
Others wept in silence.
I opened my eyes.
The first pillar of light descended gently, as though the sky were exhaling.
It settled over the first cradle.
—**Arelion** —spoke a voice that came from nowhere in particular—. Wisdom. Clarity. Longevity.
The light withdrew. The child cried. The mother fell to her knees.
The second pillar descended.
—**Mireth**. Grace. Healing. Celestial affinity.
One by one, the pillars fell.
One by one, the voices spoke.
One by one, lives were sealed.
There was no emotion in the voice of the gods.
No judgment.
Only assignment.
I waited.
Not because I understood what was happening, but because everyone else did. Because even without comprehension, one can feel when something important is unfolding.
The light advanced.
It passed cradles richly adorned.
It passed humble cradles.
It passed those marked with desperate prayers carved into the wood.
The voice continued.
—Strength.
—Vision.
—Shared fate.
—Command.
—Sacrifice.
Some blessings drew sighs of relief. Others caused looks of terror. But all were accepted.
All… except one.
My cradle.
The light stopped… one cradle short.
For a single second, no one noticed.
In the second that followed, someone held their breath.
In the third, fear began to seep through the crowd like poison.
The pillar of light that should have descended upon me…
did not descend.
The silence grew heavier.
The temple priest took a hesitant step forward. He unrolled the sacred parchment, the one that was only revealed during the ceremony. His fingers trembled as they traced the divine symbols written upon it.
—This… —he murmured—. This is not possible.
The old seer staggered back, as though she had seen something that should not exist.
—There is no name —she whispered—. There is no line. No mark.
The voice of the sky did not speak.
For the first time in centuries…
the heavens were silent.
The murmuring erupted.
—What does this mean?
—Is it a punishment?
—A bad omen?
—The gods do not make mistakes.
I felt gazes pierce into me. They were not hateful. Nor were they compassionate. They were uncertain—and that was far worse.
The priest snapped the parchment shut.
—Listen —he said, raising his voice—. The divine registry is absolute. If there is no name… then—
He stopped.
He did not want to say it.
No one wanted to hear it.
—Then that child… does not belong to destiny.
My mother screamed.
Or at least, she tried to.
She opened her mouth in desperation, trying to say something—anything—but no sound came out. It was as though the air itself refused to obey her.
The sky trembled.
Not with light.
Not with thunder.
With a pause.
An interruption so subtle that most did not notice it—but I did.
Because in that impossible instant, I felt something.
Not a voice.
Not a word.
A **gaze**.
Something looked downward, directly at my cradle, as if trying to understand an error that should not exist.
The priest collapsed to his knees.
—Forgive us —he whispered—. Forgive us for failing to understand.
The fracture in the sky began to close.
The pillars of light vanished. The clouds dispersed. The sun shone again as though nothing had happened.
The ceremony was over.
The chosen were carried away in loving arms.
The names were carved into stone.
The world continued to turn.
Only one cradle was left behind.
Mine.
That night, while the town celebrated its chosen children, no one came for me. No one asked what should be done with me. No one wrote anything about me.
For the first time, I understood something without anyone needing to explain it.
In this world, to exist without a name does not make you special.
It makes you **impossible**.
And somewhere deep within the heavens, something had just committed its very first mistake.