The forest had always been a quiet place, even when Aion was small. Its trees were tall, straight, and endless, stretching above him in a lattice of green and shadow that seemed to hum with life. To other children, it might have been frightening, a place where nothing familiar waited. To Aion, it had always been a refuge. The mossy stones, the soft trickle of the stream, the distant caw of a bird — these were companions, patient and constant.
On this morning, however, the forest felt different. The light filtered down through the leaves in uneven patches, shifting strangely as though something outside their world had touched it. The air smelled faintly of smoke and earth, though no fire had burned here. The small stones beneath his feet seemed heavier, grounded with a quiet gravity that tugged at his steps.
Aion wandered along a narrow path, barefoot as he always preferred, letting the soft soil and fallen leaves press against his soles. His wooden horse, rough and crooked, swung at his side. He had carved it himself from a splintered branch and polished it with wax until it gleamed in the sunlight. To anyone else, it would have looked like a child's toy, but to Aion, it was a piece of the world he understood — imperfect, stubborn, alive in its own way.
"Why does the forest feel… like it's watching me?" he asked aloud, though he knew no one would answer.
A whisper of wind ran through the branches, rustling the leaves overhead. Aion paused. He had learned long ago that the forest spoke in silence, that it waited for him to notice things humans often ignored: the tilt of a branch, the curve of a root, the soft glimmer of sunlight on water. He knelt by the stream, tracing his finger through its surface, and watched as the light shimmered across the ripples. The water did not just reflect the sun; it seemed to remember it, capturing pieces of the day and letting them float slowly downstream.
A sudden movement caught his eye. A small fox, russet and bright, stepped from behind a tree. It paused, tilting its head, as though judging him. Aion held still. The fox blinked once, then another, then turned and disappeared among the ferns. He smiled faintly. "Even you are cautious," he murmured.
He did not notice the shadow at first — a long, twisting shape among the trees. It was subtle, a flicker at the edge of his vision. But when he glanced over his shoulder, it was gone. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. He had felt this before, though never so acutely. It was a presence that didn't belong to the forest, not to the moss, not to the wind, not to the small animals that watched him with wary eyes. Something older was here.
Aion pressed his hands to the wooden horse, feeling the rough edges beneath his fingers. He whispered to it as he walked: "Stay close. We'll be safe if we stick together."
The path narrowed, winding between gnarled oaks and twisted roots. He stumbled once, catching himself on the trunk of a tree, and glanced up. Sunlight broke through a gap in the leaves, painting the forest floor in jagged lines. In that fractured light, he saw it again: a figure, tall, cloaked, standing motionless among the shadows. Aion froze.
"Who's there?" His voice was calm, but it carried a weight he did not intend. The figure did not move.
He took a step forward. Then another. The figure remained still, its presence so commanding that Aion felt his heartbeat echo in the quiet of the forest.
The light shifted, and for the briefest moment, he saw the eyes — gray, sharp, and ancient. Eyes that had watched worlds rise and fall. Aion's small hands gripped the wooden horse tighter, though the toy seemed suddenly fragile in his grasp.
"You shouldn't be here," he said.
The figure tilted its head slightly, as though amused. "Nor should you," it said, voice low, steady, yet carrying the resonance of something far beyond mortal understanding.
Aion swallowed. He had felt awe before, had known fear, but this was different. This was the sensation of standing before something vast, timeless, and inevitable. The forest seemed to hold its breath.
"I'm just walking," Aion said. "I didn't mean to intrude."
The figure took a step closer, its cloak brushing the leaves. "Nor did I mean to be seen," it said.
Aion's heart thumped against his ribs. He wanted to run, to escape, but his feet were rooted to the soil. Something about this presence was not entirely frightening. It was… heavy. It carried history. It carried sorrow. It carried regret.
The figure lowered its hood. The hair was gray like ash. The eyes, older than mountains, softened, almost imperceptibly.
"You are not meant to be small," the figure murmured. "Yet here you are."
Aion looked down at himself, at the crooked wooden horse, at the dirt on his feet. "I don't know what you mean."
"Small, yet whole. Fragile, yet more than what this world can hold. Do you know what you are carrying inside you?" The voice was both question and statement.
"I… I don't know," Aion said honestly. "I'm just… me."
The figure studied him. Long minutes passed in silence. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying leaves across the path. The small stream chuckled over stones. Somewhere deep in the forest, a bird called once.
"You are more than you understand," the figure finally said. "And one day, that will matter. Everything you love — everything you protect — will depend on it."
Aion's chest tightened. "I don't want to be more than me. I don't want to hurt anyone."
The figure's eyes softened, just slightly. "It is not your choice entirely. But it is your choice how you respond. That is what matters."
Aion did not answer. He only nodded, feeling the weight of the words settle over him like the forest's quiet shadow.
The figure turned, stepping back into the trees. Its form blurred at the edges, blending with shadow and light. Aion caught one last glimpse — a hand, roughened, scarred, resting lightly on the hilt of a sword. A hand that had held countless battles and tragedies, now silent.
Then the figure was gone. Only the sway of leaves and the trickle of the stream remained.
Aion sat down on a mossy stone, clutching his wooden horse. His small chest heaved with wonder, fear, and something he could not name. The forest had returned to its familiar rhythms, but he knew the quiet had shifted. The air felt heavier. The shadows felt older. And the pulse beneath his skin, though he had not yet discovered it fully, thrummed like the memory of something vast — a secret waiting to be awakened.
He whispered to himself, barely audible: "Who… are you?"
The forest did not answer. But deep within it, somewhere between root and sky, the earth itself seemed to stir.