The council chamber had witnessed a thousand debates over its centuries of use, carved from living rock by the temple's founders when the world was younger, but seldom had the atmosphere been so charged with electric tension. Twelve stone seats arranged in a perfect circle dominated the space, each worn smooth by generations of monks who had sat here to decide matters of doctrine, discipline, and destiny. Above, the ingeniously designed domed ceiling captured whispers and threw them back as echoes, a architectural reminder that no word could be truly private here, that all speech was witnessed by stone and sky.
Master Zephyrus struck his ancient staff against the floor three times, the sound reverberating through the chamber like thunder. The silver-haired leader of Mount Helicon moved with the careful, measured dignity of advanced age, each step deliberate, but his eyes remained sharp as the mountain wind that eternally swept their peaks. "Brothers, we gather in solemn council to decide the fate of the storm-brought child."
They had waited three long days for the weather to fully clear, three days during which the mysterious infant had consumed remarkable quantities of milk and slept peacefully only when the wind blew through the temple corridors. Now, with morning sun streaming through the high arched windows and painting geometric patterns on the worn floor, twelve monks would vote on whether to keep or cast out the foundling who had arrived in such unprecedented circumstances.
Brother Kyrios stood first, as everyone who knew him had expected he would. Thin as a winter reed and twice as rigid in his principles, he commanded respect through sheer force of disapproval and unwavering adherence to tradition. "Master, brothers, we must speak honestly and without sentiment about our situation. Winter approaches with its inevitable hardships. Our stores are already calculated to the last grain of barley, the last drop of oil. This child—" he gestured sharply toward the chamber doors, beyond which the infant lay, "—consumes three times what a normal infant requires. How can we justify such extraordinary burden?"
Murmurs rippled around the circle like disturbed water. The practical concern was undeniably valid—Mount Helicon survived on modest donations from pilgrims and what little they could grow in the arduously maintained terraced gardens clinging to the mountainside.
"Furthermore," Kyrios continued, his resonant voice gaining the familiar rhythm of prepared argument, "consider carefully the circumstances of his arrival. A storm that defied nature's laws itself. Wind that moved with clear intent and purpose. What if the child brings calamity upon us? What if keeping him invites whatever mysterious forces delivered him to our door?"
"And what if casting him out offends those same forces?" The sharp interruption came from Brother Alexei, the temple's youngest council member, his passion overcoming protocol. "If the storm was divine will made manifest—"
"If, if, if!" Kyrios's weathered hand cut through the air like a blade. "We cannot make decisions of such magnitude based on superstition and formless fear. We have real, immediate concerns. Real mouths to feed through winter. Real responsibilities to the brothers already here who depend upon our judgment."
Master Zephyrus raised his hand for silence, and the chamber stilled instantly. When he stood, the morning light streaming through the eastern windows caught the silver in his long beard, making him seem for a transcendent moment like the prophets of old, touched by divine radiance. "Brother Kyrios speaks of practicality. Let me speak of precedent."
He moved to the exact center of the circle with careful steps, each placement deliberate as ritual. "Nine hundred years ago, in the time of our order's youth, a child was found at the sacred gates of the Oracle at Delphi during an earthquake that should have leveled the temple. That child became Gelon the Foundation-Builder, who established three temples to Gaia and revolutionized earth pneuma techniques. Six centuries past, twins were discovered unharmed in a burning field after lightning strikes that turned sand to glass. They became the legendary Sunset Brothers, whose fire techniques are still taught with reverence in the eastern schools."
"Stories," Kyrios muttered dismissively, but Zephyrus continued, his voice gaining strength.
"Three hundred years ago, a girl was pulled from flood waters that had drowned seasoned swimmers, found breathing calmly beneath the surface. She founded the River's Dance school and revolutionized water pneuma techniques that saved countless lives." His voice rose, gaining the power of absolute conviction. "And now, a child arrives in a storm that speaks with voice, carried by winds that move with deliberate purpose, found in the one untouched spot where destruction chose not to venture. You call this calamity? I call it destiny written in wind and stone."
The old master reached into his voluminous robes and withdrew an ancient scroll, its edges darkened with age. The mere sight of it caused several monks to lean forward. "From the Prophecies of Aether, recorded by the Oracle Pythia herself in the age of heroes: 'When winds speak with tongue of gods, when storm's heart births human form, when the eagle rises from foundation of stone, then shall pneuma find its highest expression.'"
Profound silence greeted this pronouncement. Even Kyrios looked visibly shaken—few had heard the actual prophecy spoken aloud, only whispered rumors of its existence.
"You believe this infant..." Brother Dimitri's normally steady voice trailed off into awed silence.
"I believe," Zephyrus said with unshakeable firmness, "that the gods do not deliver gifts lightly or without purpose. Whether this child fulfils ancient prophecy or simply needs our humble care, turning him away would be the true calamity. We are monks of the pneuma tradition, sworn to seek the divine breath in all things. How can we reject a child carried to us on that very breath?"
The debate continued for hours as the sun traced its path across the sky. Brother Nephele, ever cautious, worried about attracting unwanted attention from rival temples who might see threat in a prophecy-touched child. Brother Iason questioned their ability to properly raise a child who might have a destiny beyond their limited understanding. Brother Thomas pointed out, repeatedly and with increasing frustration, the insufficient food stores that were already stretched thin.
But when Master Zephyrus finally called for the vote, when each monk selected with ritual solemnity either a white stone for keeping or black for casting out, the count was decisive: seven white stones gleaming like hope, five black stones dark as winter nights.
Kyrios placed his black stone with deliberate, dramatic care, his disapproval radiating like heat from a forge. "Mark my words well—this decision will transform our temple in ways we cannot foresee or control. I pray we have wisdom enough to handle what we've chosen to accept."
"Then help us find that wisdom," Zephyrus replied with surprising gentleness. "The vote is cast according to our ancient ways. The child stays. Brother Matthias, you found him—you will serve as primary caretaker. Brother Benedictus, I trust you to solve our provisioning challenges with your usual remarkable creativity."
The kitchen master groaned audibly but nodded his acceptance. "I'll manage something. Always do, don't I?"
As the monks filed out in contemplative silence, Matthias lingered, uncertainty written across his features. "Master, what if Kyrios speaks truly? What if we're inviting forces beyond our understanding?"
Zephyrus smiled then, suddenly looking less like an ancient, venerable master and more like a man remembering the passions and uncertainties of his own youth. "My boy, forces beyond our understanding arrive whether we invite them or not. At least this one comes in a form we can love and guide. Now go—I believe young Aetos is probably hungry again."
"Aetos?" Matthias blinked in surprise. "You've named him already?"
"The storm brought an eagle to our mountain," the master said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "What else would we call him?"