Months had slipped by like sand out of open palms—warm, golden, and impossible to hold onto for long. Siraoshi, once the flailing infant with eyes too wide for his own good, was now a toddling boy with dirt on his knees, wild thoughts in his head, and questions stacked higher than his tiny arms could reach. The village had become his cradle, the fields his playground, and the animals his ever-patient audience for endless babble and mispronounced words.
And yet, for all the passing days, there were still puzzles too big for his tiny brain.
Like today.
His mother, Elira, was glowing.
Not in the magical, light-spilling-from-her-fingertips sort of way (although she had done that last week when a goat broke its leg leaping over a fence), but in a softer, warmer way. She hummed while kneading bread. She twirled as she cleaned. She even giggled—giggle!—when she stubbed her toe on the table. This was not standard maternal protocol.
Something was up.
And Siraoshi—small, suspicious, and slightly sticky from stolen honey—was determined to find out.
He peeked from behind the leg of a rickety chair, eyes narrowed, watching her stir the soup with a grace that clearly meant either she was in love… or had just remembered she won the village raffle for a new broom.
"Mah… ma," he muttered, testing the familiar word. She looked over her shoulder and beamed at him, the kind of smile that made sunflowers jealous.
"Today's a special day," she said in that lilting, musical tongue of this world.
He caught bits and pieces. Today. Special. Someone. Coming?
He furrowed his brows. "Someone coming?" he parroted softly, testing the phrase.
Her eyes lit up—clearly proud of his progress—and she knelt beside him, ruffling his hair with flour-dusted fingers. "Yes, sweet bud. A visitor. An old friend."
Old friend?
Now his curiosity burst into full wildfire. Who? Why? And why was she acting like she'd been gifted a dragon egg made of chocolate?
The language barrier still loomed tall and thick like a stone wall. He'd begun to understand basic phrases—food, danger, no-touch-that-you'll-die, etc.—but adult conversations? It was like trying to read a novel through a keyhole while being poked by a goose.
Still, he felt the truth beneath the words. Something was about to happen. Something different. Something important.
He didn't know if this "friend" was a merchant, a wizard, or some secret relative—but he knew one thing for certain:
This wasn't just another ordinary day in the sleepy village.
And whatever had made his mother glow like that… he was going to find out.
Even if he had to eavesdrop from under the table like a shadow-dwelling squirrel.
That night, the world whispered in strange rhythms. The crickets played their midnight song, the leaves danced in the wind, and somewhere between dream and waking, Siraoshi opened his eyes to the moonlight spilling through the window like liquid silver. His body was warm, wrapped in soft fabric, and when he blinked away the sleep, he realized—he wasn't in his bed.
He was being carried.
Cradled in his mother's arms, her face calm and aglow in the moonlight, she walked barefoot across the green, grassy plains. Her white robe flowed behind her like a ghost's tail, and with every step, the grass seemed to sway in reverence. The village slumbered around them—quiet, unmoving—but she moved with purpose, like one walking a path written long before the night was born.
Siraoshi didn't speak. He didn't cry. Something in the air—the cool hush of the wind, the soft murmur of leaves overhead—told him this was a moment meant to be felt, not interrupted.
She walked toward the heart of the village, to the place where the great tree stood.
He had seen it before from afar: a colossal, ancient thing that towered above homes and hills, its trunk wider than any house, its roots cracking stone paths and drinking deep from the earth. But now, up close, it breathed with magic. Glowing veins of emerald light pulsed just beneath its bark like slow-moving rivers, and its leaves shimmered with faint bioluminescence, casting soft shadows on the ground.
His mother approached the trunk, and with a whisper—a word older than the stones—her hands began to glow. Soft blue light coiled around her fingers, danced down her arms like threads of moonlight. She pressed her hand to the wood.
The bark rippled.
A seam formed, and from it, a door emerged—grown from the very wood of the tree itself. It creaked open slowly, not like wood groaning but like breath being released, and behind it: a spiral staircase carved into the inside of the trunk, glowing with faint moss-lights and lined with curling vines.
Up she climbed.
Step after step, the stairs wound upward like a spiral of dreams, the air growing thinner, sweeter, filled with the scent of sap and wind and distant lightning. The climb felt endless. Siraoshi, wide-eyed in her arms, watched as the glowing moss on the walls twinkled like fireflies, and the silence was not heavy—it was sacred.
And then—at last—the stairs ended.
They stepped out onto a great, circular platform at the top of the tree.
There were no walls.
No ceiling.
Just sky.
Sky so wide and deep it made Siraoshi's breath hitch in awe. The stars stretched from horizon to horizon in wild, sweeping constellations, far brighter than any night sky he had ever known. And above them—five moons. Five. Each one a different color: pale silver, dusky rose, gold like a coin, deep cobalt blue, and one a strange, flickering green that pulsed softly like a heartbeat in the sky.
Wind raced across the open platform, cool and filled with the scent of earth and ancient bark and something else—something electric. Alive. As if the very air was waiting for a secret to be told.
His mother sat down with him on her lap, her eyes half-closed, her voice a soft hum. She didn't say anything to him—not yet—but she gazed at the moons like they were old friends returned from a long journey.
And Siraoshi, his heart pounding with excitement and wonder, didn't know if this was a ritual, a tradition, a secret meeting, or just a private moment between a mother and her son beneath the sky—but he knew one thing:
He would never forget this.
The air, the wind, the endless stars, the towering moons, the silent, magical tree that watched over the village—this world was real. This world was his.
And somewhere, in the midst of that vast, breathing sky, answers waited.
He just had to keep climbing.
The stars overhead seemed to pulse as if they, too, were holding their breath.
Siraoshi sat in his mother's lap at the very top of the world—at least, it felt like the top. The circular platform atop the ancient tree trembled ever so gently beneath them, not with fear or weakness, but like something stirring from sleep. His mother whispered to the wind in that strange, beautiful tongue he barely understood, and then…
Others began to arrive.
First, soft footsteps on the winding staircase. Then another. And another.
One by one, they came—elves. Dozens of them. Some old, some barely older than children, some regal and calm, some weathered with time, all of them sharing the same haunting beauty. Long, pointed ears shimmered beneath moonlight. Their hair fell in silken waterfalls—silver, gold, obsidian, even shades of violet and sea-green. Each bore a luminous gem nestled into their forehead, small and glimmering like stardust embedded in flesh. And their eyes... their eyes held stories. Deep, old stories.
They did not speak. They simply stood in a circle around the edges of the platform, forming a silent ring of watchers under the five moons. The night wind teased their cloaks and robes. A low hum, gentle and resonant, began to fill the air—like a choir of crickets singing from the soul.
Siraoshi clutched his mother's robe, wide-eyed and unsure whether to feel honored or terrified. All these beautiful, quiet beings were watching him. A tiny boy who still didn't understand half the words around him. What was going on? What were they doing up here? Why now?
And then, the hum parted.
Footsteps—measured and serene—echoed up the staircase.
From the shadows emerged a figure. Tall, graceful, and cloaked in robes of woven silver thread. His face was noble, unmarred by time yet carved with the softness of wisdom. His long white hair, tinged with hues of blue, flowed like the river of night itself. A staff—twisted wood wrapped with living ivy—rested in his right hand, and his forehead gem was larger, brighter than the others, glowing with a radiant amethyst hue.
The elder.
No one said his name. They didn't need to.
Siraoshi felt it in his bones—this man was important. Revered. Ancient.
He looked like a man in his forties, maybe even younger, but the way he moved—the calm gravity of his steps, the stillness in his gaze—suggested centuries of watching stars rise and fall. His presence was like stepping into a memory made flesh, a warmth both unfamiliar and inexplicably comforting.
The other elves bowed their heads as he approached. Even Siraoshi's mother lowered her eyes, holding her son a little tighter.
Then the elder stopped before them.
And looked at Siraoshi.
Not past him. Not through him. At him.
There was no harshness in that gaze—only soft understanding, the kind that speaks without words. The wind died down for a heartbeat. The stars paused their flickering.
"Is this him?" the elder asked softly, in a language Siraoshi could half-recognize.
His mother nodded, her voice trembling. "Yes, Chief Elder. This is my son."
The elder knelt before them, his staff tapping gently on the wooden floor. Up close, Siraoshi saw the tiniest tattoos—runes, perhaps—etched along the old man's fingers and jaw, as if the language of magic itself had chosen his skin for a canvas.
The elder smiled at him. A real smile—kind, gentle, as if he knew every thought in Siraoshi's head and approved of them all. Then he reached out with one hand, slowly, and laid it over the boy's forehead.
Warmth.
Not fire. Not light. Not pressure.
Warmth. The comforting feeling of an embrace remembered from long ago. It flowed from that hand and spread through his skull, down his spine, into his heart. For a moment, Siraoshi saw something he couldn't explain—images, maybe? A sword in a field of fire. A city of crystal trees. A falling star. A face—his own? Older? Screaming in triumph?
And then it was gone.
The elder pulled his hand back, his expression thoughtful.
"The spirit in this child... it does not belong solely to this world," he said, half to himself. "Old eyes behind young ones. A journey interrupted. Perhaps... a return?"
The other elves murmured softly.
Siraoshi didn't understand all the words—but he knew one thing:
Something important was happening.
Something far bigger than himself.
The mystery of his father. The secrets his mother carried in her eyes. The feeling that he did not quite fit into this world, even as he loved its sky and wind and stars—all of it was connected. And maybe, just maybe, this night, beneath five glowing moons and a hundred watchful eyes, was the beginning of understanding.
The elder stood.
And smiled again.
"Let the ceremony begin."
The elder moved like time itself—gentle, unhurried, but full of weight and meaning. He turned to Siraoshi's mother and extended his arms. Her eyes, glowing faintly in the moonlight, glistened with something unspoken as she gently passed her son into his hands.
Cradled now in arms that felt impossibly ancient, Siraoshi felt a strange hush pass over the gathering. A living stillness. The elder turned slowly and walked toward the very center of the great platform atop the ancient tree.
There, beneath the celestial dome of the sky, he raised his staff—and with a flick, the air shimmered. Magic bent like silk in the wind. A cradle formed from spiraling vines, blooming with white, bioluminescent flowers, its edges laced with soft moss and glowing dew. It was warm, alive, and gently pulsing with natural magic.
He laid Siraoshi in the cradle, stepping back with reverent silence.
The world held its breath.
Then came the song.
A single note. Then another. Then dozens, hundreds of voices, in harmony, all around. Soft, wordless at first, rising like mist. Then the words—ancient, melodic, cradling him in sound as surely as the cradle of vines held his body.
"Starlight Lullaby" they sang.
Verse 1In twilight's hush, where moons arise,We dance beneath the silver skies.The wind it sings, the stars reply,Our lullaby, a soft goodbye.
ChorusOh sky so wide, with breath of flame,Call every soul by starlit name.The leaves shall hum, the stars shall cry,And hearts shall soar, forever high.
Verse 2The rivers dream of morning light,The flowers glow with lunar white.We sing with joy the sky-song's tune,Beneath the gaze of fivefold moons.
BridgeWings of dawn, roots of stone,Guide the lost ones safely home.With every note, a world takes flight,With every tear, the stars shine bright.
And Siraoshi—he felt it. He didn't understand the language, not entirely, but something deeper stirred in him. Something primal. Something ancient. The wind in his ears whispered in rhythm. The leaves above trembled in resonance. The stars above the five moons seemed to pulse with every beat.
His chest swelled. He felt connected—not just to the elves, not just to his mother—but to the world. To the tree beneath him, to the earth below that, and to something far, far older.
When the song faded into silence, it was not emptiness he felt—but completion.
The elder stepped forward once more.
Without speaking, he raised both arms high toward the sky. The entire assembly mirrored him, their faces turned upward, eyes closed, arms outstretched.
Then it began.
From every palm—old, young, worn, delicate—golden light began to emerge. Tiny particles like dust motes bathed in morning sun floated upward, then curved toward the center of the platform, toward him.
They danced. They circled. Spirals of glowing dust spun around the cradle, faster and faster, forming a vortex of light. Siraoshi gasped—not from fear, but wonder.
And then the light compressed.
Right toward his forehead.
He felt it hit—not like a strike, but a merging. A kiss of divinity. A spark of something old and holy threading itself through him. It sank into his skin, coalescing just above his brow.
And then it solidified.
The gem.
A warm, radiant crystal, small and smooth and softly glowing with golden light, now rested in his forehead—just like the others.
And he felt it.
Magic. Pure, ancient, wild and vibrant, poured through his veins like fire made of song. Every nerve in his body hummed. His fingers tingled. His heartbeat seemed to match the rhythm of the earth itself.
He was no longer just an outsider. No longer just a child reborn.
He was chosen.
Part of them.
The ceremony ended not with applause or words—but with silence. The kind of silence that holds reverence. The kind of silence that says, You have witnessed something sacred.
The elder looked down upon him, a smile gracing his ageless face.
"Welcome," he whispered. "Welcome, little star."
And beneath the five moons, beneath the sky filled with watching stars, Siraoshi closed his eyes—not because he was tired, but because the moment wrapped around him like the arms of the universe itself.
He was no longer just a soul from another world.
He was now of this world.
Morning arrived not gently, but with a breath of golden splendor. The five moons had vanished, replaced by a sky soaked in honeyed light and cloud wisps like cotton drawn across a painter's dream. Dew clung to every blade of grass like crystal offerings to the dawn, and the towering tree—his tree—stood tall behind him, its magic now subtly etched into his memory.
Siraoshi was one year old.
He knew this not because of any calendar, but because he felt it. Like something old inside him had turned a page. The rhythm of the world was different now, and he was different with it.
He sat upright in the soft cradle of vines his mother had woven for him—no longer the ceremonial one, but one back home, in their small yet warm dwelling carved into the base of the sacred tree. Morning light streamed through a circular window of living bark, and his mother's soft hum drifted from the other room like a melody that never really left his ears.
And then he felt it.
A flutter. A flicker. A strange, electric pull beneath the skin.
His brow warmed.
The gem.
It glowed.
Soft, pulsing light radiated from his forehead, golden and pure, bathing his tiny face in a radiant halo. He blinked, stunned by the sensation—not painful, but alive. It pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, and each time he felt something—wonder, awe, joy—it grew brighter, warmer, more vivid.
He stared at his reflection in the polished silver bowl beside him, mouth slightly ajar.
The gem responded.
Was it alive? Was it sensing him? Or was it him? A piece of his soul, crystallized and visible?
Every time his thoughts swelled with curiosity, every time he marveled at the newness of his own body, his home, the colors outside the window—the gem flared with light, as if agreeing, as if whispering: Yes. Feel. Explore. Become.
And in that moment, that very moment beneath the basking sun, Siraoshi felt a decision plant itself in the core of his being, as solid and eternal as the roots of the world-tree itself:
He would see it all.
Every glimmering forest and roaring river. Every floating island and whispering ruin. Every tower of light and shadow, every stretch of desert wind and mountain breath.
This world, this new world, was alive.
And he would not simply live in it.
He would explore it.
He would chase it.
He would love it.
He laughed—a bright, boyish giggle full of sunbeam and sky—and the gem flared in joy. He crawled to the window, peeking out past the roots and flowers. There were elves dancing in the village square. A deer with antlers like blooming branches walked past. Fireflies drifted in daylight. The grass shimmered with hues he'd never seen before—gold-green, blue-yellow, dream-silver.
The world was magic.
And so, Siraoshi, reborn from another life, chosen by the elves, marked by starlight, decided something.
"I'm going," he whispered—not with words, but with heart. "Someday, I'll go to all the places this world hides. I'll walk through floating cities and sleep beneath ancient skies. I'll ride the wind, cross the seas, speak to dragons and laugh with gods."
A fire had lit within him. Not a raging one, no. But a steady one. A hearthfire of wonder, fed by the glowing gem in his brow.
Siraoshi had decided—on the morning of his first birthday—not just to live…
But to dream wide.
To walk far.
To see everything.