"The world was quiet that night.
Too quiet for a storm."
Snow fell like ash—slow, soft, and endless. The wind drifted through the broken ribs of an ancient mountain temple, long forgotten by time. Stone walls cracked with age, pillars swallowed by frost. Even echoes seemed too afraid to return.
But something... was crying.
At the front of a slow-moving line, an old monk halted. His name was Eshun. His back was hunched, his breath white in the air. He had walked these paths for forty winters—through peace, through war, through silence.
But tonight, something stopped him.
Not the cold.
A sound.
The other monks froze behind him.
It wasn't wind. It wasn't a bird. It was a voice. Small. Sharp. Shivering. A child's cry, rising from beneath a collapsed altar, where snow piled thick over ancient stone.
And beneath the snow, a glow.
Eshun dropped to his knees. His fingers brushed away the frost, digging down, careful, quiet. The snow hissed as it melted.
And then he saw it.
A baby.
Wrapped in cloth that smoked but didn't burn. Warm despite the cold. Silent now.
The child's eyes were open.
Not red. Not blue. Silver. Bright, still, glowing with a calm too ancient for something so small.
He didn't cry.
He stared.
Eshun's hand trembled as it reached out. The baby didn't flinch. He looked into the old monk's eyes as if he knew him. As if he'd been waiting.
Then… he smiled.
There should have been fear.
The cloth was marked—symbols long erased from human memory. Symbols of flame, of chaos, of a number never spoken in holy places. Eight, etched in a language older than Earth.
Still, they didn't run.
They didn't abandon him.
They brought him in.
They gave him fire, warmth, and a name.
Lucen.
The light that survives winter.
—
Years passed.
Lucen grew beneath the mountain sky, inside stone halls that whispered peace and discipline. He ran barefoot through the gardens. Trained under waterfalls. Meditated in silence beside stone lanterns.
But something was always... different.
The monks said he was gifted. Fast. Focused. Strong.
Too strong.
Sometimes, when he was angry, things cracked. Glass broke. Shadows moved without wind. At night, he whispered in languages no one recognized.
Eshun watched him closely. He saw it in Lucen's eyes.
This child hadn't just been born. He had been placed.
But Lucen?
He didn't care about that.
He only wanted to help.
From the edge of the cliffs, he'd stare down at the cities far below—broken streets, burning lights, people struggling.
And he'd say it. Again and again.
"I was born for something greater."
Sometimes, that scared the monks.
Sometimes, it scared Lucen himself.
But no one—not even him—could imagine how true that would become.
Next Chapter :- CHAPTER 2: THE HORNED LAMB 🐑