Caelum Veylor sat quietly on the wooden fence post, his small fingers curled around the old wood as the evening sun washed the hills in gold.
Most six-year-olds would be shouting or chasing beetles. He wasn't like most six-year-olds.
Down in the field, his father, Erion, struggled with a stubborn plowstone embedded in the dirt path. Magic-enhanced farming tools had long since been outlawed in their province—especially for families like theirs.
Families with "bad blood."
Caelum tilted his head. He didn't look away from his father's straining arms. Instead, his pale silver eyes narrowed… and the ground shivered.
Not enough to draw attention. Just enough.
The soil beneath the stone softened with a whisper of mana—mana he wasn't supposed to be able to use yet.
Erion yanked the plowstone free and stumbled back. "Hah! Finally." He looked up, smiling at his son.
Caelum smiled back and swung his legs.
No one noticed the tiny ripple of light that flickered around his palm.
Back inside the farmhouse, dinner was quiet. His mother, Lysa, had tried again to braid his hair, but it always slipped free. His sister Elira—older by three years—was bragging about helping the herb merchant carry barrels into town.
Caelum listened. Always listened. Words were like threads. Loose threads often led to frayed truths.
"They say the Dominion scouts passed through the east ridge last week," Elira whispered. "That they're testing children for mana purity."
Their mother's hand tightened on her spoon. "That's just fear-talking. No one comes this far west. We're beneath notice."
Caelum kept his head down. But something inside him stirred. A memory? A whisper?
Not beneath. Hidden.
That night, he dreamed again.
Not of monsters, or heroes. He dreamed of a forest where the trees bled stars and the sky wept upside-down.
He stood in the center of it, barefoot, his arms glowing with pale light. Something ancient circled him in the mist—a shape with silver fur and long wings that hummed like strings of a harp.
"You're not ready," it said.
"But you're waking too fast."
He tried to speak, but no words came. Only breath. Only warmth.
Then he woke, and Aelira's voice was gone—but her scent lingered in the wind outside the open window.
The next day, it happened.
He hadn't meant to reveal anything. He never did.
He was following Elira into the lower grove. She liked to wander too far, chasing bugs or pretending to be one of the Highborn Sentries from old stories. Caelum followed like a shadow, quiet, just in case.
That's when the beast struck.
A ridgefang boar. Mana-warped. Twice the size of a cart, tusks glowing with corrupted light. It came tearing through the trees, crashing toward Elira.
She froze.
Caelum stepped forward.
He didn't think. He didn't chant. He didn't scream.
The world slowed.
And then—the mana moved.
It didn't surge from him. It surged to him. From the trees. The ground. The leyline beneath the earth. Like it recognized him.
A veil of blue light bloomed in front of him, just as the boar's tusks slammed forward. The beast shrieked, crashing into the shield with enough force to shake the air.
It bounced back. Staggered. Then ran.
Elira turned slowly. Her mouth opened. But no sound came.
Caelum was still glowing.
A moment later, the light flickered and died.
No one believed her.
Not really.
She told their parents. "He stopped it. He cast a spell. A real one!"
Lysa gave Caelum a strange look, then kissed her daughter's head. "You were scared, sweetling. Maybe Caelum just stood in the way and the beast ran."
Elira frowned. Caelum said nothing. He just nodded.
That night, he didn't dream.
But outside, Aelira watched from the tree line.
"He's remembering too fast," she whispered to the wind.
"And soon… the world will, too."