The village of Seabreeze was small, a scatter of clay houses with wooden roofs pressed close to the great forest of Kyros. People woke early here. Mothers carried water in clay jars that clicked softly against their hips, fathers split wood with steady strokes that echoed in the square, and children sprinted in dusty loops until the first voices called them back.
Ethan Gust was one of those children. Only five years old, he ran through the Whispergrass at the edge of the square, his feet brushing the tall stalks. The grass rattled as if it were trying out words. He laughed and answered with nonsense sounds, happy to pretend he understood.
One by one, the other children were gathered by their mothers and folded into doorways. Soon Ethan was alone. He didn't mind. Solitude felt like the world leaning closer to listen. He wandered along the narrow lane behind his cottage at the village's edge, where the ground lifted into a low rise.
Ethan followed the easy path a short way up, brushing through the Glassleaf ferns. Their clear leaves caught the last light of the two moons and chimed faintly against his legs. At the top of the rise the forest began—the tall black Ashspires, twisting like giant spears pointing into the sky, their bark resin-sweet in the cool air. This place felt like his own small kingdom balanced between village and wild.
He sat with his knees tucked close and looked up into the wide sky of Kyros. Two moons slid on their paths: one big and pale, patient as a watchful eye; the other smaller and blue, quick and eager, forever a little ahead. He liked to imagine they were playing a game only they knew.
A rustle sounded at the bottom of the rise. Ethan leaned forward and held his breath. A horned rabbit hopped out, tiny crystal horns catching moonlight in two bright points. It paused, ears pricked, and looked straight at him.
Ethan went very still. The rabbit didn't flee. Step by careful step, it came close until it settled beside him, close enough for him to see each fine whisker.
"Hello," he whispered, smiling.
He held out his right hand. The rabbit sniffed his fingers and pushed its head beneath them. Ethan laughed softly and scratched its ears, feeling a warm, quick life under the fur.
His gaze slid to his left hand. The glove. Black leather, runes pressed into the back like ripples on dark water. It had always fit, no matter how he grew—like it was remembering him and changing with him. His mother had told him to wear it always, and he never took it off.
He wanted to touch the rabbit with both hands, to cup its softness, but he didn't dare. The glove's familiar weight reminded him of the rule: never remove it.
After a while, the rabbit flicked its ears—as if satisfied—and hopped away into the hanging Loomvines. Ethan stood, brushed dust from his trousers, and trotted down the path toward home.
Their cottage rested where village met forest. Bundles of herbs and Moonpetals hung drying from the eaves, perfuming the air with a cool, floral bite. On the step, Lila sat with a wooden bowl and pestle, crushing leaves to a green paste that gleamed like wet moss. She looked up the moment he came near.
"Ethan, my little bird," she called, smiling. "Home just in time."
He ran into her, hugging with small, fierce arms. "Ma! A horned rabbit sat with me today! It let me pet it like we were friends."
Lila laughed, brushing back his messy copper hair. "You've always had a gift with beasts. Maybe the spirits of Kyros see something in you."
They went inside. The fire burned low, warming the clay walls until they glowed like baked bread. Lila set bowls of stew on the table—roots, herbs, and a hint of sweetness Ethan could never name. As he ate, she watched him with her usual quiet inventory: knees scuffed, elbows scratched, eyes bright. Then, as always, her gaze settled on his left hand.
"Remember, Ethan," she said softly but firm. "The glove stays on."
He sighed and rubbed the leather against the table's edge, feeling the grooves of the runes. "But why, Ma? I don't even know where it came from."
Her smile faded at the corners. For a moment her eyes went far past the room—past the walls and the lane and the first line of trees—then returned to him. "Some things must wait until the right time. It's for your safety, love. Trust me."
Ethan nodded, though the question burned brighter inside him, like a small coal under straw.
The door opened with a long, friendly creak. Cool night air slipped in, damp with resin and earth. Marlin Gust, his father, stepped through—tall and broad, cloak dusty at the hem, a sack of fresh game on his shoulder. He paused as if listening to the house breathe, then smiled.
"Welcome home, husband," Lila said warmly. "Dinner's ready."
Marlin set the sack near the door, shook dust from his boots, and sat beside Ethan, ruffling his hair until it stood up like fox fur. "What mischief today, lad?"
Ethan told the rabbit story, acting out the twitching nose and careful hops. Marlin's laughter filled the room and tucked itself into the rafters.
"Well then," Marlin said, crinkling at the eyes, "nature knows a kind heart when it sees one."
They ate together, warm and close, the simple music of spoons and fire. When the bowls emptied, Ethan tugged his father's sleeve. "Tell a story, Da. Please."
Marlin leaned back. Firelight walked across his face. "Have you heard of Vasuki?"
Ethan shook his head.
"Long ago," Marlin said, voice deep and even, "Vasuki was the great serpent of the sky. He was so large he could coil around mountains. His scales shone with starlight, and he guarded Kyros from the hungers that drift in the dark between worlds."
Ethan's eyes widened. "What happened to him?"
"One day, he slithered into the endless night and never came back. Some say he sleeps. Some say he still wanders the stars. That is why the people of Kyros look up and wonder if Vasuki still watches."
The fire popped; sparks leapt and faded. Shadows climbed the walls and slipped down again like quiet animals. Ethan leaned closer, caught and carried by his father's steady tide of words.
Lila watched from the side, hearthlight soft on her face, her expression woven of love and worry. When the story ended, a full, gentle silence settled—one that seemed to hold dreams in both hands.
Later, Lila tucked Ethan into bed. Moonlight fell through the small window and laid silver bars across the floor. She smoothed his hair and kissed his forehead.
"Ma," Ethan murmured, already drifting, "why do I wear the glove?"
Her hand paused the smallest moment. Then she whispered, "Because your hand is special, Ethan. And special things must be protected."
"Like Moonpetals," he yawned.
"Yes," she said. "Exactly like that."
He slipped toward sleep. Lila sat by the window and wove thin strands of Whispergrass, letting the pattern quiet her mind. Across from her, Marlin drew a whetstone along his knife—soft rasp, slow and careful.
"He asked again," she said without looking up.
"Mmm," Marlin grunted.
"I told him 'not yet.' " The words carried a weight that settled behind the ribs.
Marlin gazed into the coals. "Right."
Moonlight played over Ethan's face, soft as a whisper's end. His breath steadied into sleep, dreams coiling unseen inside his mind, like phosphorescent creatures gliding through dark waters. A slight smile curled his lips, as if in answer to the gentle pull of those dreams, lost but at peace.