The message reached the capital city of Lunaris by dusk on the third day.
Escorted by the swift-winged couriers of the Luna Royal Post, Braten's letter was placed into the hands of a man robed in midnight blue, standing atop the white marble balconies of Vaelstrome Keep.
Duke Alaric Vaelstrome, Warden of the Northern Front and Sword of the King, read it in silence. His gray eyes—sharp as cut steel—narrowed with each line. The seal of his old comrade was unmistakable. So too was the weight of his words.
"The child is not normal, Alaric. His strength is beyond reason. My wife is frightened. The villagers whisper. I fear the world may come for him before we understand what he is."
Alaric's gloved hands tightened around the parchment.
Braten Thorns was no fool. He had once been Commander of the Silver Flame, a knight whose name carried weight on the battlefield and honor in the courts. If Braten feared his son… then this was no mere tantrum.
With a flick of his wrist, Alaric summoned his steward.
"Prepare my horse," he said, voice cold and resolute. "We ride for the village by dawn."
The road to Braten's home was long, winding through forest and open fields kissed by the early spring bloom. By the time Alaric arrived—flanked by two elite guards in blackened steel—the sun was hanging low, painting the sky in hues of amber and blood.
Lucy stood at the doorway when she saw them approach, Caelen nestled against her chest. Her eyes widened in awe and fear; she had never seen nobility so close, especially not this one.
Braten stepped out, armorless but standing tall.
"Alaric," he said with a nod.
"Old friend," the Duke replied, dismounting. His gaze drifted to the child in Lucy's arms. "So... this is the boy the world trembles for."
They sat inside the repaired cottage. The wreckage from the incident had been mostly cleared, but the tension lingered like dust in the beams.
Lucy told the story again, in greater detail this time. How Caelen laughed while lifting furniture as if it weighed nothing. How he glowed faintly—truly glowed—when angry or excited. How the air itself seemed to bend around him.
Alaric said nothing, only studied the boy quietly. Caelen, awake now, stared back at the Duke with golden eyes. Not hazel, not brown—golden, like burning sunfire.
"A child of prophecy, perhaps," Alaric finally murmured, almost to himself. "Or something older. Something forgotten."
Braten frowned. "You've heard of signs like this?"
"Not in centuries. Not since the fall of the Celestborn."
The room fell silent.
The Celestborn—myths to most. Beings said to be born when cosmic forces aligned, destined to shift the balance of the world itself. Heroes... or destroyers. Legends claimed they could speak to dragons, walk through fire, shatter mountains with a thought.
"But those are stories," Lucy said, trembling.
"Yes," Alaric agreed. "Stories the old kingdoms buried. Stories the Church of the Starbinders banned. But stories... often carry truth."
He turned to Braten. "You must leave this place."
Braten blinked. "What?"
"If Caelen is what I believe he is, then hiding here won't protect him. Not for long. Rumors travel faster than blades, and fear breeds quicker than wildfire. Someone will come. Someone dangerous."
Braten clenched his jaw. "Then what do you suggest?"
"I will take you to the capital," Alaric said. "To the Starforge Citadel. There are scholars, ancient wards, and mages who still remember the old tongues. There, we may uncover the truth of Caelen's birth... and his future."
Lucy hesitated. "And if he is a danger?"
Alaric met her gaze. "Then it's better we learn that now, with people who care for him—than when strangers find out and chain him like a beast."
Silence fell again.
Finally, Braten stood and extended a hand. "Then we ride together, one last time."
Alaric smiled faintly. "Like old days."
But none of them noticed, outside the shattered window, a dark-feathered crow watching from the treeline.
Its eyes glowed faintly red.
And far, far away—beneath the black spires of a fortress cloaked in storm—someone else had felt the tremble in the stars.
Someone who had been waiting... for this child to be born.