Chapter 5: The First Stirring
The townsfolk began to dream.
Not all at once. Not yet.
But one by one, those who had passed the red-haired boy in the streets found themselves waking breathless, cold sweat on their brows, and the memory of a white-eyed figure standing in fire fading from their minds like smoke.
The clone noticed it too.
The people stared longer. Whispered louder. The air began to feel… heavy.
He sat on the edge of a fountain, watching the sky. His eyes saw more than mortals knew — patterns in the clouds, threads of magic that danced between trees, the shape of time as it curved and coiled through the wind.
He felt it then. A presence approaching.
Not divine. Not a god.
But close enough.
In the northern hills, a priest rode into Rinvale.
His name was Calen. He bore no weapon, only a staff carved with silver veins, and a satchel filled with holy herbs and ancient scrolls. The Order had sent him not for war, but for confirmation. The red light weeks ago — it was seen by many, but felt by very few.
Calen was one of the few.
When he stepped into Rinvale, his heart quickened. The ground hummed. He could feel it in his bones — something sacred had taken root here, but twisted, like a prayer carved in reverse.
At the tavern, he asked questions.
At the shrine, he found red flowers blooming through stone — spider lilies that had no seeds, no scent, no explanation.
When he finally saw the boy in the square, everything stopped.
The clone turned and looked directly at him.
Two pairs of eyes met:
—Calen's, seasoned by scripture and years of service to the divine.
—The clone's, white and ancient, the kind of eyes that had seen stars die.
"Who are you?" Calen asked, breath caught in his throat.
The boy tilted his head. "I'm… just a visitor."
The air between them thickened. The priest's staff vibrated faintly.
"You carry something unnatural," Calen said slowly.
The boy nodded, calm. "I was made that way."
The priest stepped forward, lowering his voice. "Are you… a fragment of a god? A vessel?"
The clone gave no answer. But as he turned to leave, red lilies sprouted behind his steps. Calen watched, eyes wide, hand gripping his staff.
Far above, veiled by clouds and drifting stone, the true god-child sat upon a throne of ash and glass, watching the encounter unfold through a pool of still water.
He smiled faintly.
"Good," he whispered. "Let them wonder."
From his fingertips, strands of creation magic flickered — forming the image of a crown made of flame, then shattering it into dust. Not yet. The world wasn't ready.
But it would be.
He turned, stepping into a great chamber built from his own memory — halls that remembered the gods he devoured. Their voices still echoed faintly behind the walls.
"They feared me once," he whispered. "They will again."
And in the town below, as the moon rose, the people of Rinvale began to whisper the first name not written in any book:
"The White-Eyed Child."