Morning crept over Lera as if the sun itself were unsure, edging slowly over the ridge and laying light with a careful hand. Frost glazed the rooftops and fence rails, a thin white crust that melted into bright beads as the day warmed. Thin rivulets ran along the thatch and down the gutters, catching the light like scattered bits of glass. Smoke drifted from chimneys in pale ribbons and settled low, tasting faintly of pine and damp wood. From the gables came the rough cawing of crows. Far off, sheep called to one another across fields still stiff with cold.
It looked like any other morning.
It was not.
Word moved through the lanes the way smoke does—quiet at first, then everywhere. From the elder's hearth to the well, from the granary steps to the forge, whispers carried in the cold air: Mara's child had come with the old moon still in the sky. A boy. Alive. A blessing, some said, touching wood as they spoke, as if the word itself were delicate.
By midmorning, a small knot of villagers gathered outside the wooden gate. They kept their voices low without meaning to, standing in shafts of sun that turned the frost to steam.
"It's been five years since our last birth," Old Matthis murmured. He rubbed his cracked hands together as if the memory had chilled him.
"Five winters," said Ena the baker's wife, glancing at the thin chimney smoke as if counting time by how it rose. "Two stillborn before that."
The words pressed down on them for a moment. Eyes slid to the ground. Someone coughed, too loud in the quiet. Then, as if pushing grief back into its box, the talk turned to warm loaves and knitted cloths and good luck.
The door opened. Daren stepped out, sleeves rolled, hair pushed back with damp fingers. The skin around his eyes was pulled tight, but there was something steadier in the set of his mouth. He lifted his chin in a single nod. It was permission and pride all at once.
The hush cracked. People moved forward, one by one, crossing the threshold to place their small offerings where they would be seen and used. Steam still rose from the bread Ena carried, smelling of yeast and the hint of honey she always snuck into celebration loaves. A woolen shawl, soft and a little scratchy with lanolin, went over the chair back. Wooden toys—an ox, a bird with a turning wheel—clicked softly when set down. A pouch of marigold and nettle, tied with twine, landed near the hearth.
"Strengthen her," Ena said, nodding toward the herbs as if they might hear.
Inside, the midwife sat by the fire, coaxing a thin broth to a slow simmer. The steam lifted in loose curls, smelling of bone and thyme and the iron edge of cooked blood—a smell that promised warmth over taste. She said little, and when she did it was to ask for more water or to pass a cloth. Her eyes kept drifting to the cradle where the baby lay, swaddled tight in linen that still carried the scent of juniper and myrrh. The old protections clung to the fabric, sharp enough to taste in the back of the throat.
Mara rested against the pillows. The color had come back to her cheeks in a soft wash. Her hair, dark and heavy, was braided away from her face. She had the look of someone who had walked a long road and found a chair at last. She held her son close, her finger hooked by his tiny hand with a grip that surprised her with its strength.
So small, she thought, the warmth of him soaking through the cloth to her skin.
So small—and not like the others.
Silas did not cry. His breath was steady and soft, little puffs against her chest, the sound of a gentle wind moving through tall grass. Around him, voices lowered without effort, as if the room knew to make space. People smiled, but their eyes kept searching his face and then the room and then back again, like they were checking whether what they felt had a shape.
Outside the fence, the children gathered, pressed shoulder to shoulder, their mittens clutching the rails. Their chatter floated in—light, quick, full of bravado that fell apart at the edges.
"He's tiny," Yela whispered, bouncing on her toes despite the cold.
"My da says moon-born babies are lucky," Thom declared, sticking out his chest and trying to look older than his years.
"A bit odd," said a sharp-nosed boy, arms folded tight. He spoke as if he wanted someone to argue with him.
Yela bristled at that, and Thom squared his shoulders. No one moved away. Curiosity glued them to the spot, warm as a fire shared.
Mara stepped out onto the porch, the boards cold under her bare feet even through the thin leather of her slippers. The morning air was crisp enough to sting in the nose. She steadied herself with one hand on the doorframe. Silas lay tucked against her, a bundled weight shaped perfectly to the curve of her arms.
Don't let them see you afraid, she told herself, feeling the familiar wave of protectiveness rise.
He needs you steady.
"Do you want to see him?" she asked, keeping her voice soft.
All three nodded. Even the sharp-nosed boy leaned forward, his eyes bright.
Mara lifted the cloth just enough. Silas's eyes blinked once—dark, deep, and clear—and then fixed on each child in turn. He did not look away.
"He's looking right at me," Yela breathed, hand pressed over her mouth.
"No, at me," Thom said, edging nearer.
Silas reached out, fingers unfolding like tiny shoots searching for light. His hand closed on air, grasping at something he alone seemed to feel.
Laughter came then—quick, relieved, the kind that breaks tension without anyone saying why. It ran through the children and out to the adults and loosened shoulders all around.
By afternoon, the village hummed. Fires burned brighter under iron kettles; stew bubbled thick with carrots and pepper and bits of venison, the smell sitting heavy and good in the air. Bread was torn and passed from hand to hand, the crust crisp, the inside soft, warm enough to burn the tongue if you were careless. Hunters came back earlier than they needed to and stood with their boots muddying the yard, leaning on spear shafts while they peered over shoulders for a glimpse of the cradle. Their smiles were wide and a little shy, like boys again.
Elder Harwin arrived at dusk, his cane tapping the path in a steady rhythm. He paused beneath the old oak, his breath showing white. Laughter drifted to him in waves, thinning at the edges as the cold returned. Daren joined him without a word, shoulder to shoulder, the two of them watching the yard the way men do when they're thinking of something else entirely.
"You named him?" Harwin asked at last, voice low.
"Silas," Daren said.
The elder's eyes creased. "A good name. My grandfather's. It sits well on a boy born under a watchful sky." He lifted his chin toward the horizon. "Strange night. Lightning in a clear sky. A silence that felt… full."
Daren's mouth tightened, memory flashing behind his eyes. One clean line of light, and then the weight of quiet pressing down like a hand.
As the light thinned further, the children begged to play where the baby could see.
"He can watch," Yela insisted, cradling an old leather ball that smelled faintly of oil and smoke.
They formed a messy circle on the packed earth, rolling and tossing the ball in the last of the day. The leather thumped softly against small palms and bounced toward waiting feet. Their laughter rose and fell, simple as a song. Silas lay on a folded blanket in the grass with a woolen wrap tucked around him. His eyes followed the ball's arc, back and forth, back and forth, as if it left a trail only he could trace.
Then his mouth tilted. Not a fluke flutter. A deliberate, small smile, brief as a spark.
The game stopped. Thom froze mid-throw. Yela clapped a hand to her chest and laughed out loud. Even the sharp-nosed boy's mouth cracked open in surprise before breaking into a grin he couldn't help.
"He smiled!"
"He's learning," someone said, half awed, half claiming credit as if their playing had taught him.
Promises tumbled out, eager and bright. They would show him how to climb the low stone wall without scraping his knees. How to catch frogs in the reeds without getting bitten. How to skip stones and tie knots and—Thom added this part, puffing himself up again—how to hold a practice sword the right way.
Hope moved from voice to voice until it felt like warmth itself.
Night slid in slow. Lanterns were hung along the path, small circles of honeyed light pooling on the ground. The crows quieted. A couple of old songs found their way into the yard, hummed more than sung, tunes people knew in their bones. Breath fogged in front of mouths and drifted away like smoke.
Inside, Mara rocked Silas, the chair creaking softly with each gentle push. The hearth held a deep glow, embers shifting with an occasional soft sigh. Daren sat close enough that their knees touched now and then, his fingertip tracing idle circles on the back of her hand.
Mara watched Silas's face. His lashes fluttered against his cheeks; his breath warmed the thin fabric of her shift. He made a small sound—content, the mouth of it like a coo—and kept sliding toward sleep.
He is different, she thought. The words didn't sit heavy or light. They simply were.
But is he danger or destiny?
Outside the window, the yard was a patchwork of lantern light and shadow. The dark seemed to lean in and then pull back, as if undecided. The wind, absent through the day, returned in a thin run through the leaves, carrying the cold tang of the stream and a whisper of wet earth.
Silas's lids closed. His mouth stilled. Sleep took him in a steady, even pull.
"He's… different," Daren said, the word caught on a breath.
Mara nodded. "I feel it too."
They sat with that. Not pushing at it. Just letting it be in the room with them, alongside the faint crackle of the fire and the smell of broth and smoke and the sweet-sour trace of milk on Mara's skin.
From the far field, a single crow called once, a rough note in the dark. The sound hung in the air and then fell away.
Silence settled again. Not empty. Listening.