Three days passed since the bandit raid, yet the echoes of that night lingered like embers refusing to die. The villagers had settled into a cautious rhythm, repairing what was broken, resuming their routines. But whispers clung to every doorstep, to every shared meal, to every late-night murmur over flickering lanterns.
The boy with silver eyes.
The lightning that came from his hands.
The way the bandits flew as though struck by a god's wrath.
Ardyn heard it all. He did not need to eavesdrop—the words carried easily, for few knew how to whisper quietly when speaking of fear and awe. He made no effort to silence them. In truth, he allowed them to spread. Words, once loosed, were like smoke. Impossible to catch, yet powerful when they reached the right eyes and ears.
Mira followed him often, her energy boundless, her questions endless. "When you fought… how did you move so fast? Was it magic? Or… or training? Or both?"
"Both," Ardyn replied simply as they walked the narrow dirt paths between homes. He gestured to her hands. "Magic alone is dangerous. Training alone is limited. Together, they can shape empires."
Her eyes widened at the word. "Empires?"
He glanced down at her, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "One day, perhaps. For now, start smaller. Heal without faltering. See without hesitation. And most importantly—listen."
She frowned, confused. "Listen?"
"Yes. Magic lives in the air, in the earth, in every heartbeat around you. Listen closely, and you'll find it speaks to those patient enough to hear."
Mira bit her lip, trying to understand, but nodded earnestly.
While Ardyn taught and the villagers rebuilt, rumors carried further than the forest edge. Traders traveling the southern roads reached the market town of Greystone, where guards overheard hushed tales of a village spared by a child's unnatural strength. Within days, the stories twisted, exaggerated as rumors always did.
Some claimed the boy was touched by angels. Others, cursed by demons. Some said he was ten feet tall, his voice shaking the earth. A few whispered of prophecy, of long-forgotten omens of silver eyes and storms of power.
And so the stories reached Lord Darius Velren, master of Greystone Keep.
In the candlelit hall of stone and banners, Darius leaned back in his chair, sipping dark wine as a messenger recounted the tale. His hair was streaked with grey, his frame thick from years of battle and feasting.
"A boy?" he said finally, his voice rough. "Barely ten summers, you say, and yet he slaughtered a band of raiders?"
The messenger bowed. "That is what the traders swear, my lord. The villagers too. They speak of lightning and power unnatural."
Darius tapped his fingers against the wooden arm of his chair. "Children with power are dangerous. If true, such a boy could be an asset… or a threat." His eyes narrowed, glinting with calculation. "Send riders. Quietly. I want eyes on this village. Learn the truth before rumor becomes rebellion."
Back in the village, Ardyn sensed none of this yet, though his instincts whispered that change was coming. For now, his focus remained on the people around him.
At dusk, as the village gathered near the central fire, Mira tugged at his sleeve. "They trust you more now," she whispered.
Ardyn glanced at the faces lit by firelight. Laughter, though still tentative, rose with the sparks into the night sky. Men who had once muttered against him now nodded with guarded respect. Women offered him food without hesitation. Children watched him with wide, awestruck eyes.
"Trust," Ardyn murmured, "is a seed. It must be watered carefully. Too much, and it drowns. Too little, and it withers. But if it grows…" His gaze shifted to the dark horizon, where distant torches marked the road. "…it can move mountains."
Mira tilted her head, puzzled. "Do you really think one person can move mountains?"
Ardyn's lips curved faintly. "No. But one person can make others believe it's possible. And that is far more dangerous."
Beyond the fields, unseen by all but the stars, riders moved silently under the cover of night, sent by Lord Darius. Their orders were simple: observe the boy with silver eyes.
But others watched too. The unseen figure in the forest still lingered, patient, waiting. Their voice whispered softly into the night, unheard by mortal ears:
"Good. Let the lords come. Let the boy be tested. The world grows restless, and so does fate."
And so the game of power began—not with kings and armies, but with a child and a village too small to mark on most maps. Yet from such sparks, fires that consume empires are born.