The unnatural calm that had descended upon Aethelburg with Velian's birth lingered for weeks, a gentle veil muffling the usual harshness of the coastal region. The Turbulent Sea—true to its name more often than not—now lapped at the cliffs below Azuris Keep with an almost tender rhythm. Fishermen reported inexplicably bountiful catches, their nets heavy with silver-scaled fish unseen in these waters for generations. Even the gnarled, wind-battered trees atop the cliffs stood a little straighter, their leaves a touch greener. It was as though the land itself exhaled—not in relief, but in anticipation.
Inside the keep, the sense of wonder was far more acute. Velian appeared, in all ways, a normal babe: needing sustenance, sleep, and the warmth of his mother's arms. Yet, there were… moments. Fleeting instants that brushed the edges of the ordinary and whispered of the extraordinary.
He rarely cried—not with the demanding, lung-bursting wail of most infants. When he did, it was that same clear, resonant sound heard at his birth—more a complex note of emotion than a simple cry of discomfort. More often, he simply watched. His sky-blue eyes, already unnervingly intelligent, would follow the dance of dust motes in a sunbeam, the flicker of candlelight on ancient tapestries, or the shifting expressions on his mother's face with unnerving focus. It wasn't the vacant stare of a newborn—it was the attentive gaze of a scholar.
Elara, still recovering though her strength returned daily, often found herself watching him for hours. "He learns, Kaelen," she whispered one evening, as Velian lay in his cradle, tiny fingers twitching as if grasping at the moonlight streaming through the window. "It's more than just… seeing. He understands. I swear it."
Kaelen, a man of action and tangible truths, struggled to express what he too had begun to feel. Once, he'd dangled his silver signet ring—an intricate piece bearing the snarling wolf of House Azuris—before Velian. Most babes would gurgle, perhaps reach for it clumsily. Velian had stared at it with unblinking focus for a full minute. Then, his tiny lips curved into a disconcertingly knowing smile, and his gaze rose to meet Kaelen's—as if to say, I see what this means to you. A shiver ran down the Lord's spine—not from fear, but from a deep, unsettling recognition.
Maeva, the midwife, became a frequent, albeit hushed, visitor. Initially frightened by the omens surrounding Velian's birth, her fear had shifted into a kind of reverent fascination. "Never in all my years, my Lord, my Lady," she confided quietly, "have I seen a child track movement like this one. Like a hawk. And his grip... for one so small, it's like iron." She demonstrated how Velian's tiny hand would close around a finger with startling strength.
The whispers began, as whispers do. Servants spoke in quiet tones of the "Star-Child" in the nursery. Of how his room always seemed brighter, warmer, than any other in the keep. Of how, on full-moon nights, Velian's white hair shimmered with an inner light. Kaelen, ever pragmatic, did his best to quell the more fanciful rumors, blaming lingering excitement from the celestial events of the birth. Yet in his heart, he knew these were not just sailor's tales or idle gossip.
When Velian was about three months old, Elara hummed a lullaby—an ancient Azuris melody passed down through generations. It was a complex tune, rich in minor chords and unexpected resolutions. As she sang, Velian, propped on a cushion, watched her lips intently. When she paused, he cooed—not randomly, but with a clear, distinct tone that perfectly echoed her last note.
Elara froze. Had she imagined it?
Gently, she hummed the note again.
Velian repeated it—pitch-perfect, unwavering.
Her heart thudded. She tried a higher note. He matched it. A lower one. Again, perfect. This wasn't mimicry; it was comprehension—an understanding of pitch and harmony far beyond his months.
That evening, she showed Kaelen. His typically stern face contorted into astonishment. A man proud of his battlefield composure, he now found himself floored by a three-month-old's perfect pitch.
"By the sacred fires," he muttered, running a hand through his dark hair. "What is he, Elara?"
"He's our son," she said, though her voice trembled. "And he is… special. More than we can comprehend."
Out of both love and the dawning fear of the unknown, they agreed on a course of action. Velian's gifts were to be nurtured—but also shielded. The world did not always treat difference with kindness. Stories of prodigies feared, of mages hunted, were all too common. House Azuris was a minor house, their reach limited. Should the wrong kind of attention fall on Velian, they would not be able to protect him.
As he grew from infant to toddler, the signs only multiplied. He spoke his first words before his first winter—not "mama" or "dada," but crisp syllables echoing the runic tongue etched into the keep's oldest stones—a language no longer spoken fluently. Elara, a scholar by inclination, nearly fainted when he pointed to a carving on the hearth and uttered a word she'd only seen in a decaying scroll.
He walked early—not with a toddler's uncertain wobble, but with eerie grace, as though his body already understood the mechanics of movement. He wandered the keep tirelessly, his fingers trailing over cold stone, his eyes absorbing every detail. He'd sit for hours in the dusty library—not tearing pages like other children, but quietly examining the illuminated manuscripts as if deciphering secrets.
One day, Kaelen discovered him in the armory. The door, normally locked, was somehow open. Velian, barely two, stood before a rack of practice swords—not touching, only staring with intense focus. As Kaelen watched from the shadows, a lightweight practice foil twitched. It was slight—barely a movement—but it shifted toward Velian, as though responding to an unspoken summons.
Kaelen's breath caught. He made a sound—half-gasp, half-grunt. Velian turned, those sapphire eyes wide. The moment passed. The sword stilled.
Kaelen told Elara nothing—not at first. What could he say? That their son, not yet able to hold a spoon, might be moving objects with his mind? Madness. Yet the memory lingered, a seed of unease and awe. He began watching Velian more closely.
Animals flocked to the boy. Stray cats curled around his feet. Guard dogs, known for their ferocity, wagged their tails and whined when he neared. It was as if nature itself recognized something in him—something kindred.
The "system"—as old texts sometimes described the magical framework that governed power and progression—had not yet awakened. There were no glowing glyphs visible only to him, no surges of energy. But the potential thrummed beneath his skin—raw, quiet, undeniable. It was in the intelligence behind his gaze, the uncanny speed of his learning, the way the world subtly bent around his presence.
One evening, a storm rolled over the Turbulent Sea—an ordinary tempest, not the cosmic fury of Velian's birth. Elara sat reading to him. He was nearly three now, his white hair cascading to his shoulders, eyes bright and alert. The story was a simple one—of a brave knight and a mischievous sprite.
As she read about the sprite's magical light, Velian extended a small finger toward the candle flame beside them. His brow furrowed.
Elara watched, heart pounding.
The flame flickered. Then it bent—elongating, stretching toward his finger, trembling like a serpent swaying to a silent song.
Then, abruptly, it snapped back. Velian blinked, his lips curving in a satisfied smile. He turned back to the book as if bending fire was nothing at all.
Elara's hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes widened in wonder—and in fear. The whispers were growing louder. She knew, with a certainty both terrifying and exhilarating, that their lives—and perhaps the world—would never be the same.
Velian was not merely special.
He was a harbinger of something vast, something unknown.
And his journey had only just begun.