The sun was just beginning to rise when the young married couple stepped off the boat, their sleepy daughters clinging to them like koalas. The salty breeze of Calendra welcomed them with a gentle kiss, and for a brief moment, Felicity thought she heard the wind whisper something—something ancient and soft, like a forgotten lullaby.
Joseph, tall and broad-shouldered with a calm strength about him, held their youngest daughter in his arms. Felicity held the hand of their eldest, who trotted beside her with curious eyes wide open, taking in the new land like a sponge soaking up water.
They had come a long way from Denara. First by bus—an uncomfortable seven-hour ride with choppy stops and the occasional chicken as a fellow passenger—then by boat over shimmering green waters that seemed to hum beneath the surface. Finally, they boarded another bus bound for Paradeso, a quaint town nestled in the hills of Calendra Island.
Paradeso wasn't like any other town they'd visited. It was quiet, yes, but not in a lifeless way. The air itself carried a sense of purpose, as though the town was patiently waiting for something—someone.
Joseph didn't talk much on the ride. His gaze remained distant, fixed on the winding road ahead. Felicity, ever the more talkative one, kept the girls entertained with stories about brave horses and magical butterflies who lived in rose gardens—tales that were, in truth, passed down from her own grandmother.
The reason for their trip was unusual. Joseph had received a letter—an actual handwritten letter on thick parchment sealed with wax. It was from the Council of Elders of his family lineage, summoning him to Paradeso with his wife and daughters. No explanation. Just the date, the location, and the words: "It is time."
Felicity thought it was a little theatrical, but Joseph knew better than to ignore a letter from the Council.
When they arrived at the compound of the elders, a sprawling estate surrounded by rose fields and tall white walls, it felt more like entering a sanctuary than a family gathering. The girls immediately darted toward the flower fields, giggling and running barefoot among the petals. Their laughter rang through the air like wind chimes in spring.
Inside the main house, the air was heavy with incense and silence. The elders sat in a circle—men and women in their twilight years, their eyes as sharp as ever. Joseph and Felicity were ushered in, bowing respectfully before sitting at the center of the room.
"We have seen the signs," one of the elders, a woman named Liora, spoke first. "And the signs have spoken of your daughters."
Joseph glanced at Felicity. She gave him a small nod to let him know she was just as confused.
"Two daughters," another elder continued, "born to a man of your bloodline, Joseph. It has happened only once every five generations. Each time, great change follows."
"Change?" Joseph asked cautiously.
"Some say salvation. Others say... cleansing," Liora said, looking at Felicity now. "Your daughters are the beginning of a prophecy that predates even our oldest records. They will be key to saving many when the next cataclysm comes."
"Cataclysm?" Felicity echoed, her heart skipping a beat.
"We cannot say when, or how," Liora said, "only that the threads of destiny are already spinning."
Outside, unaware of the weighty prophecy being spoken about them, the two little girls continued to play. The older daughter, Samara, danced in the wind, her dress fluttering like wings. The younger one, Elena, toddled after her, occasionally stopping to stare at the roses as though she could hear them speak.
Just a few houses away in the same compound, a different kind of conversation was happening.
"I still don't get it," grumbled a balding man stirring a pot of chicken stew. "Why Joseph?"
This was Nathan's father—gruff, proud, and always three seconds away from starting a conspiracy theory. He had two sons, each one already holding great promise, and he firmly believed that the greatness of a family should be measured in sons.
His wife rolled her eyes as she set plates on the long wooden table. "Maybe Joseph finally did something right in his life," she muttered.
"Bah!" he spat. "My Nathan can read a man just by looking at him. Tell me that's not more useful than some daughters with fairy-tale futures."
Nathan, their youngest son, leaned against the window frame, chewing a slice of mango. He wasn't like his brother and other cousins. Quiet, observant, and oddly charming, Nathan had inherited something rare—a gift. He could see the energetic auras of people, a shimmering field of colors that surrounded everyone like invisible halos. Most of the time, these colors helped him figure out who was lying, who was genuine, and who was worth befriending. It had given his family an edge in business for years.
Nathan didn't flaunt his ability. He knew how powerful it was, but he also knew it wasn't something to use carelessly. He had never seen auras like the ones he was about to see.
Later that afternoon, he slipped out of the house, mango still in hand, and strolled toward the rose fields. He spotted the two little girls from a distance and paused.
The older girl, Samara, had an aura so bright and golden, it nearly hurt to look at. It shimmered like the sun reflecting on water, pure and strong.
But the younger one, Elena, her aura was something else entirely. It pulsed with hues Nathan couldn't name. There were streaks of violet, waves of deep ocean blue, soft golds and greens, but also colors that danced outside the visible spectrum, like the edges of a dream or the memories of a forgotten song. She was like a walking northern light.
Nathan blinked. His heart skipped. He wasn't even sure what he was seeing.
The girls laughed and tumbled in the grass, Elena suddenly turning to look at him. Their eyes met for a brief second. Her gaze was calm. Unafraid. As if she knew who he was. As if she had met him in another life.
Later that evening, Joseph and Felicity emerged from the elders' house with peaceful smiles and renewed purpose. They didn't share everything that was said, only that the future held great things for their daughters.
They stayed one more night on the island, visiting old friends, sharing laughter and food, enjoying the calm before the storm—though they didn't know a storm was coming.
The next morning, they boarded a plane back to the City of Denara. Felicity held both girls close as they napped through the flight, dreaming the dreams only children can dream—free of fear, full of stars.
Meanwhile, a few rows behind them sat Nathan and his parents. Nathan stared out the window, silently watching clouds drift by.
His parents, however, were still fuming.
"I want to know what's so special about those girls," his mother hissed.
"We'll find out," his father muttered, opening his notebook. "We'll hire someone. Discreet. We'll keep tabs on them."
Nathan said nothing.
He had seen what they hadn't. He had felt the power thrumming in the aura of a toddler. He didn't know what the prophecy said, but something inside him whispered: She's going to change everything.
And somehow, he knew he'd be part of it.