In the age before calendars, when memory itself was still a fragile thing, the heavens bled for the first time. From that crimson rain a whisper spread through every shrine: when sorrow takes form and walks upon the earth, the world will remember how to cry. Generations repeated the words, polishing them into legend, until the prophecy became a bedtime tale told beside quiet hearths. No one expected the sky to keep its promise.
Centuries later, in the mountain village of Ravenfall, thunder lived like an old dog that would not die. On a night when even wolves hid beneath roots, a child was born beneath a storm so violent that the river climbed its own banks to watch. The midwife said the rain burned her hands when it touched the newborn's skin. The boy's mother died before she could name him, and the mark upon his chest—three thin lines intersecting like shattered glass—glowed as though it had stolen a star. The elder who saw it crossed himself and whispered, cursed. Thus began the life of Rayan, the boy who survived the storm.
He grew under the weight of eyes that feared him. When he learned to walk, the village's well turned black with ash. When he laughed, a flock of birds crashed against the chapel roof and died where they fell. The baker's wife once dared to hand him a sweet roll; the next morning her husband was crushed beneath a wagon. Word spread that misfortune followed wherever Rayan's shadow touched. The elder built him a hut beyond the river and left food at its door. He was ten the first time he understood that the silence around him was not peace—it was fear given shape.
Days passed in a slow, gray rhythm. He spoke to stones and trees because they could not run from him. Sometimes he watched the other children from a distance, tracing their laughter as if it were a language he would never learn. Whenever he stepped closer, the sunlight dimmed and clouds gathered, gentle warnings from the world itself. The boy learned restraint the way others learn prayer.
One dusk, while the sky bruised into purple, a voice drifted from behind him. "You shouldn't hide from the world."
He turned. A girl about his age stood barefoot on the riverbank, hair pale as frost, a small pendant shaped like a sun resting against her throat. She smiled as if she had never heard of curses. "My name's Aria," she said. "What's yours?"
He hesitated. "Rayan."
"My mother says you're dangerous." Her tone was almost curious. "You don't look dangerous."
"I am," he answered, because it was easier than explaining.
She sat beside him anyway, toes skimming the surface of the water. The current sparkled around her ankles; the clouds did not gather. Rayan stared at the sky, waiting for thunder, but the storm did not come. For the first time in years, the world let him breathe.
They met again and again. Aria brought small things: an apple, a storybook missing pages, a song she half remembered from chapel choirs. She taught him to read the names of stars, and he listened to her laugh as though it were proof he could belong somewhere. The curse slept while she was near. Hope, that reckless light, began to bloom in him like forbidden spring.
On the night of the annual festival, when the villagers hung lanterns along every path to honor the gods of harvest, Aria found him by the river. "If you stand behind the chapel hill," she whispered, "you can see all the lights. No one will know you're there."
Rayan nodded. The idea of watching joy without touching it felt almost safe.
The hill smelled of wet grass and candle smoke. Below, the village shimmered—hundreds of lanterns floating on air like captive stars. Music spilled through open windows, laughter rolling across the fields. For a heartbeat, Rayan believed that perhaps the world had forgiven him.
Then the wind changed. The music faltered. Lantern flames bent sideways, shivering in the sudden hush. A low hum began inside his chest—the old mark pulsing beneath his shirt.
"No…" he whispered.
The first lantern burst, scattering fire across the square. Screams replaced laughter. Horses reared and bolted; roofs caught flame faster than rain could fall. Aria turned toward the hill, searching through the smoke. "Rayan!" she shouted.
He stumbled down the slope, heart hammering. "Stay back!" he cried, but she ran to him. The ground split between them with a sound like the cracking of the world. From the fissure rose a black mist, thick and whispering. Voices twined within it—ancient, mournful, hungry. Bearer of sorrow, they breathed. Awaken.
Pain lanced through him. The sigil on his chest flared white, burning a hole through the fabric. Every drop of rain turned red as it hit the ground. Villagers dropped to their knees, shielding their eyes from a light that wasn't light at all. The air smelled of iron and tears. Aria's scream was the last human sound before the storm swallowed everything.
Rayan reached for her across the chasm, fingers brushing empty air. "Aria!"
The mist surged upward, wrapping around him like a cloak. Through the veil he saw flashes—his mother's face, the elder's trembling hands, every frightened look he had ever endured—spinning like shards inside the storm.
Why do you run from what you are? the voices asked.
"I don't want this," he gasped.
Want is irrelevant. You are the Balance undone.
Lightning struck the chapel spire, splitting the bell in two. The sound rolled through the valley like the laughter of gods. Rayan fell to his knees as energy rippled outward, flattening fire and wind alike. When the light faded, the village of Ravenfall no longer existed—only rain, endless and red, falling on a crater of smoking earth.
Hours later, silence returned. The storm withdrew, leaving behind a boy lying face-down in mud. Steam rose from his skin; the mark on his chest had dimmed to a faint ember. Around him the world smelled of wet ash and sorrow. He opened his eyes to find nothing living within sight—no birds, no flames, not even ghosts. Only the soft sound of the sky, still weeping for what it had done.
Rayan stood, swaying. Every step crushed puddles the color of wine. "I didn't mean to," he whispered, voice hoarse. The mist whispered back, echoing his words as though mocking them. In the distance, something moved—a single lantern floating on a flooded street, its light flickering against ruins. He walked toward it. Inside the broken glass burned a tiny flame that refused to die. He cupped it between his hands, and the warmth stung. A memory surfaced: Aria laughing beside the river, sunlight in her hair. He wondered if the flame had borrowed her courage.
The clouds began to close again. Rayan looked up. The rain that touched his face was clear now, not red. "Stop crying," he told the sky. "It's over." But the heavens did not listen; perhaps they wept not for him, but for what he would yet become.
Far away, unseen among the peaks, a watcher wrapped in silver robes marked the event upon a scroll. "The Cursekeeper has awakened," the watcher murmured. "The Balance tilts."
And beneath the endless drizzle, the boy who brought misfortune took his first step into legend.