The village slept in the tender light before sunrise, a hush that stretched over every rooftop and cobblestone. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, thin and silver, as though even the air itself were holding its breath. A dog barked once in the distance, the only sharp note in a world still half-dreaming.
Aion stirred beneath the blanket Mara had patched countless times. He rolled onto his side and rested his cheek against the rough fabric, listening to the village awaken. The rhythm of life was steady: Elden chopping wood, the faint scrape of Mara's broom, the whisper of wind through the wheat beyond the fields.
He did not move at first, content to feel the warmth of his small bed and the quiet heartbeat of the home. Beneath it all, however, he sensed something unfamiliar: a pulse, faint but persistent, thrumming beneath his ribs. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, yet it carried a weight that pressed against his chest and demanded attention.
"Mama?" he whispered.
Mara appeared in the doorway, her hands still damp from washing dishes. Her eyes, soft and tired, scanned him with the careful precision of a parent who had learned to read every twitch and hesitation.
"Good morning, little one," she said. "Did you sleep well?"
Aion nodded slowly, though his mind felt heavy. "I think… I felt something last night. Something inside me."
Mara's gaze softened, but a flicker of worry crossed her face. "Change is a strange thing, Aion. Sometimes it is gentle. Sometimes it is fierce. But it is always part of life. And sometimes… it is just the beginning of understanding yourself."
He frowned slightly. He did not understand the pulse, nor why it made him shiver. It was not pain. It was not warmth exactly. It was something alive, patient, and vast, and it seemed to exist both inside him and outside, in the whisper of wind through the wheat and the steady flow of the nearby stream.
Breakfast was quiet, the kind of quiet that settles deep into the bones. Mara laid out bread, honey, and milk in chipped bowls, while Elden moved about, repairing fences and checking the small animals that were always in need of care. Aion ate slowly, savoring the sweetness of the honey, the soft warmth of the bread. The ordinary comfort anchored him, yet could not drown the faint, insistent hum beneath his skin.
After breakfast, he wandered outside. The fields glimmered in the morning light, waves of golden wheat swaying gently in the breeze. Children were playing along the dirt road, sticks raised as swords, shouting their imagined victories. Aion watched them quietly, gripping the small wooden horse he had carved with his own hands.
He stepped off the road, moving toward the stream. The water gurgled over stones, carrying the reflection of sunlight like tiny silver flames. Aion knelt and dipped his fingers into the cool current. The pulse beneath his skin brightened faintly, as if responding to the life around him.
A bird landed near the bank, its head cocked curiously at the boy. "Good morning," he said softly.
The bird chirped and hopped closer before taking off again, wings flapping in a rhythm that seemed almost musical. Aion watched it go, feeling a small ache, a tug of longing he could not name.
He wandered further, toward the edge of the forest, where the trees thickened and the shadows stretched long across the earth. The forest had always been a place of quiet fascination: cool and dark, full of twisting roots and the scent of moss and earth. Today, it called to him differently. The wind here seemed to hum, carrying whispers that brushed against his hair and whispered across his ears like a song just beyond reach.
Aion pressed a hand to the trunk of a tree. The pulse beneath his skin throbbed more strongly now, almost as if the forest recognized him, calling him to listen. He hugged his wooden horse tightly. "I'm not ready," he whispered. "Not yet."
The wind shifted again, brushing against his face like a faint caress. Aion shivered. He wanted to stay here forever, perched on the threshold of something larger than himself, but Mara's voice floated faintly from the village:
"Aion! Come back! Breakfast is finished!"
He turned reluctantly, one last glance at the forest before following the sound. His bare feet pressed against the earth as he ran, carrying both the warmth of the sun and the cold whisper of the unknown.
Inside, Mara smiled as he entered. "There you are," she said. "You've been quiet this morning."
"I… I felt something," he said, still holding the wooden horse tightly. "Something alive. In the wind, in the water… in me."
Mara knelt and cupped his face gently. "Then you must be careful, little one," she said. "Not everyone will understand. Not everyone will know what to do with something so… unusual. But it is not wrong. It is simply a part of who you are."
Elden looked over from where he was repairing the fence. "You've always been different, Aion," he said gently. "But different doesn't mean dangerous. It means you notice things others cannot. That is a gift."
Aion felt the pulse beneath his skin again, steady and persistent, and nodded slowly. He did not understand fully, but he believed them. Somehow, he knew the pulse would guide him. It had to.
As the day progressed, he helped Mara gather herbs, carried water from the stream, and tended to small wounds of scraped knees and torn clothes from the other children. The village moved around him, alive with ordinary rhythms, yet Aion felt a quiet distance from it all, as if he existed in both this world and another, vast and silent.
By evening, he returned to the old oak at the edge of the fields. The sun had dipped low, painting the wheat in gold and amber. Aion climbed to his favorite branch and sat with the wooden horse pressed to his chest. The pulse beneath his skin throbbed warmly, almost like a heartbeat not entirely his own.
He whispered into the wind, "I don't want to be anything more than me. I just want to stay small, with Mama and Papa, and this world I know."
The wind rustled through the leaves. The pulse beneath his skin responded. Somewhere far beyond the hills, beyond the reach of mortal eyes, something stirred and shifted its gaze toward the boy.
And it knew.