Dawn came gently to Mount Helicon, painting the ancient peaks in shades of rose and gold that seemed to breathe with divine light. In the temple's inner sanctum, where pneuma flows were strongest and the very stones thrummed with accumulated power, twelve monks gathered in solemn procession for the naming ceremony. The circular chamber hummed with barely contained energy—centuries of meditation, prayer, and breath work had left their indelible mark here, creating a sacred space where the boundary between physical and spiritual grew gossamer-thin, where mortals could almost touch the infinite.
Brother Matthias carried the infant to the centre with careful reverence, where Master Zephyrus waited with the sacred oils in their ancient alabaster vessels. The child's storm-cloud eyes, grey as winter skies yet bright with inner light, tracked the smoke patterns from the braziers with uncanny focus, following spirals and eddies that existed at the very edge of mortal perception.
"By what name shall this child be known?" Zephyrus intoned, his voice carrying the weight of tradition stretching back to the temple's founding.
"Aetos," Matthias responded, the name feeling right and inevitable on his tongue, as if it had been waiting to be spoken. "For he reached always toward the sky, even in his first hours among us, as if the heavens themselves called to him."
The master anointed the baby's forehead with precious oil pressed from olives grown in the temple's highest grove, where the ancient trees stretched closest to heaven and their fruit carried the essence of cloud and wind. "Aetos of Mount Helicon, may your breath join the eternal wind. May your spirit soar on currents of destiny. May you find your place between earth and sky, and may the storm that brought you guide your path."
As if understanding the solemnity of the moment, little Aetos cooed softly—and every flame in the chamber bent toward him in perfect unison, just for a heartbeat, before resuming their normal dance. The monks exchanged meaningful glances but said nothing, filing out in contemplative silence.
The days following the ceremony quickly established patterns that would define Aetos's early years. Most prominent and immediately challenging was his appetite, which had Brother Benedictus performing increasingly creative calculations in the kitchen stores, his ledgers becoming complex documents filled with projections and concerns.
"He's done it again," the kitchen master announced at morning assembly, carrying an empty bowl that had contained enough goat's milk for three healthy infants. "Drained it completely dry and looked at me with those storm-cloud eyes like I was starving him. At this rate, we'll need our own herd, possibly two."
It wasn't just the staggering quantity that concerned the brothers—it was the peculiar way Aetos ate. Where other babies were naturally messy, easily distracted, or fussy about feeding times, he consumed food with a focused efficiency that seemed almost meditative, almost reverent. He never cried for meals, but his storm-coloured eyes would track anyone carrying food with unwavering, unblinking attention that some brothers found unsettling.
"Perhaps," Brother Alexei suggested during one evening meal, absently stirring his own modest portion of soup, "his body requires more fuel because it's preparing for something extraordinary. Some pneuma users burn through energy at tremendous rates during their practices."
"He's three months old," Kyrios pointed out acidly, his perpetual skepticism sharpening his tone. "Rather young for pneuma use, wouldn't you say?"
But the signs were already there, multiplying daily for those with eyes to see. Aetos slept peacefully only during windy nights, when mountain breezes whistled through the temple corridors like lullabies from the sky itself. On still nights, he fussed and turned restlessly, as if the absence of moving air physically discomforted him. Brother Matthias, ever adaptive, took to moving the infant's crib near windows, where curtains could flutter and wind chimes could sing their metallic songs.
More concerning were the subtle but undeniable effects on other children in the temple's care. The monks occasionally sheltered orphans or children whose families couldn't feed them through the harsh mountain winters. These youngsters, ranging from two to ten years old, all reported the same phenomenon without prompting: when Aetos was upset, they felt inexplicably short of breath. When he was happy, breathing became easier than normal, as if the air itself had become lighter.
"It's like he pulls the air toward himself," seven-year-old Daphne explained earnestly to Matthias, her young face serious with the effort of describing something beyond her vocabulary. "Not mean-like. Just... the air wants to be near him, like flowers turn to sun."
The first true, undeniable manifestation came during the fourth month. Brother Matthias had placed Aetos in his carved wooden crib for an afternoon nap and stepped out briefly to fetch fresh water from the well. He returned to find every small object in the room—wooden prayer beads, meditation cushions, even loose scrolls—arranged in a perfect, geometrically precise circle around the crib. The baby lay in the centre, giggling with pure delight at dust motes that danced in impossibly complex patterns above him.
"Did you...?" Matthias asked Brother Dimitri, who had been passing in the corridor and stood frozen in the doorway.
"I heard laughter and looked in," Dimitri replied, his usually steady voice hushed with awe. "Everything was already moving when I arrived. Slowly, gently, like leaves on a summer breeze. But Brother, there is no breeze in that room. The windows are closed."
They watched together, transfixed, as Aetos reached chubby fingers toward the dust motes. The particles swirled faster, forming a tiny but perfect cyclone above his grasping hands. When the baby laughed—a sound like silver bells—the miniature whirlwind dispersed, and the circling objects settled gently to the floor as if laid down by invisible hands.
Master Zephyrus, summoned urgently to observe, stroked his long beard thoughtfully, his ancient eyes bright with scholarly interest. "Begin documenting everything immediately. Every manifestation, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant. We are witnessing something unprecedented—an infant naturally manifesting pneuma abilities. The texts speak of prodigies showing signs by age five or six at the earliest. But months old? This rewrites our entire understanding of pneuma development."
The documentation became Brother Matthias's secondary occupation, consuming hours each day. He filled scroll after scroll with meticulous observations:
"Fifth month, third day: Aetos's breathing synchronises perfectly with wind patterns outside. When mountain winds gust, his inhalations deepen proportionally. During calm periods, his breath becomes so shallow as to seem stopped entirely, though he shows no distress. Rather, he seems most content during these moments."
"Fifth month, twelfth day: Candle flames throughout the nursery bend toward him during feeding times. The angle increases dramatically with his hunger—nearly horizontal when Brother Benedictus was late with evening meal. Flames return to vertical immediately upon feeding completion."
"Sixth month, first day: First word spoken: 'Ane' (wind). Not 'mama' or 'papa' as other children typically vocalise. He points at window and repeats insistently until taken outside, where he immediately calms."
Brother Benedictus, meanwhile, had negotiated with increasingly bemused local farmers for additional supplies. The temple would provide extensive healing services and blessing ceremonies in exchange for extra milk, grain, and produce. Even so, he warned the council in grave tones that Aetos's consumption continued to accelerate beyond all reasonable predictions.
"He eats like he's storing up for a decade-long winter," the kitchen master grumbled, showing his ever-expanding ledgers. "Except it's always winter in that boy's stomach. I've seen grown warriors eat less after three days of battle."
Yet despite the enormous intake that would have made any normal infant ill, Aetos remained perfectly proportioned for his age—neither fat nor thin, but solid with a density that surprised anyone who lifted him. Brother Alexei, who had trained in the healing arts at the capital before taking vows, examined the child regularly and declared him in perfect, even exceptional health.
"His pneuma circulation," the healer reported to the assembled council with barely contained excitement, "is unlike anything in the medical texts. Where normal infants have weak, unfocused life energy that flickers like candle flames, his flows in patterns I'd expect from a trained adult. It's as if he was born knowing how to breathe, as if the knowledge was written in his very soul."
As winter approached with its harsh mountain winds and Aetos neared his first birthday, the manifestations grew dramatically stronger. Wind chimes throughout the temple rang in his presence even in perfectly still air. His crib would rock itself gently when he was restless, without any hand touching it. Most dramatically, during a particularly fierce winter storm that had the brothers securing shutters and checking roof tiles, they found him floating three inches above his mattress, fast asleep and perfectly stable, as if the air itself had decided to cradle him through the night.
Kyrios, observing this impossible sight, shook his head grimly. "We're raising a force of nature, not a mere child. I only pray we have the wisdom to guide what we've chosen to nurture. The texts warn of those who flew too high."
But Matthias, watching Aetos sleep suspended in air while snow swirled in complex patterns outside the windows, felt only wonder and a strange, protective love. Whatever cosmic forces had brought this child to them, whatever destiny awaited, the storm's gift had found a home on their mountain. The eagle had begun to test his wings, and they would teach him to soar.