Garron Varrow stood at the edge of the wheat rows, hand resting on his old hoe. Storm clouds loomed overhead, but the wind normally restless in the valley had vanished.
Something was wrong.
He turned toward the barn, where a child's voice rang out frantic, afraid.
"Pa!"
Caelum, no older than eight, came sprinting down the path barefoot, his tunic torn and mud-streaked. Tears streamed down his face.
Behind him, something stirred.
A whirlwind wild, howling, born from nothing spiraled down the hillside, kicking up stones and dust. It wasn't natural. It wasn't weather.
It was responding to the boy.
Garron stepped forward instinctively, shielding his son with his body as the gust slammed into them.
And just as suddenly
It stopped.
Dead still.
Only Caelum's sobs remained.
"The fox it was hurt I didn't mean to—"
Garron dropped to one knee, placed his hands on his son's trembling shoulders, and stared into those wide, stormy eyes.
Not blue. Not grey.
Wind-touched.
And then it hit him.
This was no accident.
The bloodline he had buried, long silenced, was stirring again.
The boy was gifted.
No marked.
Like Garron had once been. Before the wars. Before the exile.
He exhaled slowly, keeping his voice steady.
"You didn't do anything wrong, Cael."
"But from now on, you listen to me. You keep this quiet. You don't show anyone. Not even your mother."
The boy sniffled. "Why?"
Garron looked toward the mountains, where the towers of Arcvale stood like silent blades.
"Because the wind listens to you," he said. "And the world… doesn't like what it fears."