Three years had carved their passage across the twin moons of Kyros, and Ethan Gust had grown with them. At eight, his limbs had shed their childish softness, his stride carried purpose, and his laugh still rang like wind through Whispergrass—but something deeper stirred beneath the surface now, like dark water moving under ice.
The glove remained. Black leather worn smooth by countless days, runes etched deep as old scars, it clung to his left hand as if grown there. No matter how his fingers lengthened or his palm broadened, the glove adapted, reshaping itself with an intelligence that made Lila's eyes narrow each morning when she checked the fit.
"Still secure," she would murmur, tugging the leather edge with practiced worry. "Good. That's good."
"But why—" Ethan began one morning, the question he'd asked a hundred times before.
"Because some forces," Lila cut him off, her voice carrying steel beneath silk, "are meant to stay contained."
The word contained followed him through his days like a shadow with teeth.
It started as fire.
Ethan was racing Mira through the market square, her braids streaming behind her as she shrieked with laughter. Jasper shouted rules they all ignored, his voice cracking with the effort. The sun hung fat and golden above the clay rooftops, and for a moment, Ethan felt purely, simply happy.
Then lightning struck inside his skull.
The pain wasn't gradual—it arrived complete and vicious, a white-hot spike driving through his left temple. The world tilted sideways. Colors bled into each other like wet paint, and the cheerful chaos of the market became a distant roar.
"Ethan!" Mira's voice sounded underwater. "What's—oh gods, what's wrong with you?"
He couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. The agony pulsed with his heartbeat, each throb sending fresh waves of nausea through his gut. He waved frantically at his friends and stumbled away, fighting not to vomit in front of half the village.
The walk home stretched into eternity. Every step jarred his skull. By the time he reached their cottage, sweat had soaked through his shirt despite the cool autumn air.
Lila was grinding moonpetal seeds on the front step, her hands stained purple to the wrists. She looked up at his approach and the wooden mortar slipped from her fingers.
"Ethan—"
He collapsed onto the step beside her. "Something's wrong," he gasped. "My head... it feels like it's splitting open."
Her fingers found his hair, parting the copper strands with trembling gentleness. When she touched his left temple, she went rigid.
There was a swelling there. Small but firm, hot to the touch. As her finger traced its edge, it pulsed—a rhythmic throb that matched his racing heart.
"Ma?" Ethan whispered, watching terror and love war across her face. "What is it?"
She pulled him inside without answering, settling him by the window where autumn light painted everything gold. Her hands moved over his scalp with healer's precision, mapping the strange growth that hadn't been there at sunrise.
"Will it go away?" he asked.
Lila's smile was paper-thin. "Rest now, little bird. These things... they take time to understand."
That night, lying in his narrow bed, Ethan felt the thing beneath his skin move. Not like muscle or bone, but like something growing, pushing outward with patient determination. And the glove—the glove began to hum.
Not sound, but sensation. A vibration that traveled up his arm and settled in his chest like a second heartbeat. When he pressed his right hand over the leather, the humming stopped.
He slept clutching his own wrist, as if holding himself together.
Days crawled past, and the swelling grew.
What began as a tender bump hardened into something sharp-edged and alien. Ethan's mother checked it each morning, her fingers growing more worried with each examination. By the end of the first week, even he could feel its true nature when he ran his fingertips across his temple.
A horn. Small as a child's thumb, but unmistakably a horn.
When he pushed his hair back to see his reflection in their water basin, a stranger stared back. Still Ethan—still messy copper hair and bright blue eyes—but marked now. Changed. The horn gleamed pale as moonlight, curved and sharp-pointed.
What am I becoming? he wondered, and found no comfort in the silence that answered.
The beasts noticed first.
Ethan had always drawn animals—horned rabbits had lounged beside him, whistlebirds had sung from his shoulders—but this was different. They came in numbers now, as if summoned by some signal only they could hear.
Glowmice emerged from their burrows to carpet the ground around his feet, their bellies pulsing soft green in the shadows. Cloud moths descended from the Ashspire canopy like living snowflakes, settling on his arms until he looked wrapped in silver wings. A family of fawncats took up residence near his bedroom window, their spotted forms curled together in a pile of purring contentment.
Even stranger creatures appeared. A crystal-backed beetle that sang in harmonics when touched. A tiny drake with scales like scattered gems, no bigger than his fist but ancient in its golden eyes. Tree sprites—beings he'd only heard about in his father's stories—began leaving offerings of polished stones and sweet berries on their windowsill.
The other children watched in fascination.
"Look!" Mira squealed one evening as a constellation of glowmice danced around Ethan's ankles. "They're like little stars!"
"Can I pet one?" Jasper breathed, his eyes wide with wonder.
Ethan scooped up the nearest mouse, feeling its tiny heart flutter against his palm. The creature's glow brightened at his touch, casting shifting patterns of light across his skin. When Jasper stroked its head with one careful finger, it chimed—a sound like distant bells.
Soon a crowd gathered. Children reached for the moths, giggled when the fawncats licked their hands, gasped when the tiny drake perched on their shoulders. For precious moments, Ethan felt like himself again—just a boy sharing something magical with his friends.
Then the parents arrived.
"Kessa, step away from that... that thing," a woman snapped, dragging her daughter back by the arm.
"But Mama, it's just Ethan—"
"Just Ethan?" The woman's voice rose sharp enough to send the cloud moths scattering. "Look at him! Look at what follows him!"
Other parents materialized as if summoned, pulling their children away despite protests and tears. Within minutes, Ethan stood alone in the square, surrounded by his animal companions and watched by hostile adult eyes.
"It's not natural," someone muttered.
"Mark of something dark," another voice agreed.
Ethan's chest felt hollow. The glowmice pressed closer to his legs as if sensing his distress, but their comfort couldn't fill the sudden absence of human friendship.
The whispers spread like plague.
"He's more beast than boy now."
"No child should command creatures like that."
"The spirits don't bless children—they mark them."
Ethan heard every word, even when the speakers thought him out of earshot. At the market, conversations died when he approached. Mothers herded their children to the opposite side of the square. Men made warding signs and spat in the dirt after he passed.
The morning his horn grew long enough to show despite his hair, everything got worse.
He was drawing water from the village well when Gareth the blacksmith pointed directly at his head. "Look there," the man announced to anyone within hearing. "Horn on a human boy. What manner of abomination is that?"
Every eye in the square turned to stare. Ethan's hand flew to his temple, trying uselessly to cover the gleaming protrusion. His face burned with shame and anger in equal measure.
"He's still just Ethan," Mira said, appearing at his side with fierce loyalty. "The horn doesn't change who he is."
Gareth shook his head. "Child, that's where you're wrong. He is changing. Into what, we'll have to wait and see."
The blacksmith's words followed Ethan home like hunting hounds.
That evening, Lila found him staring into the fire, untouched supper growing cold beside him.
"Not hungry?" she asked, settling into the chair across from him.
He shook his head.
She studied his face for a long moment, then rose and fetched a leather pouch from the mantelpiece. River stones spilled across the wooden table—smooth, colorful, perfect for the game they'd played since he was small.
"Winner tells a secret," she announced, arranging the stones with exaggerated care.
"You always cheat," Ethan muttered, but his lips twitched toward a smile.
"Naturally," she said with mock solemnity. "How else would I win?"
They played until his brooding broke under her deliberate silliness. She cheated outrageously, moving stones when she thought he wasn't looking, and when he caught her, she dissolved into laughter so infectious that even the fawncats stirred from their perch on the windowsill.
When the final stone was played, Lila reached across the table and captured his right hand in both of hers.
"The world fears what it doesn't understand," she said softly. "But you are not wrong for being what you are, Ethan. You are mine, and you are precious, and that is all that matters."
He wanted desperately to believe her. The glove on his left hand seemed to pulse with warmth, as if responding to her words.
Marlin Gust took a different approach. The next morning, he loaded his pack with hunting supplies and gestured for Ethan to follow.
"The forest will teach you things the village cannot," he said as they walked beneath the towering Ashspires. "Out here, difference means survival."
Among the great trees, the air hung thick with resin and ancient magic. Marlin taught him to move without disturbing the undergrowth, to read stories in broken twigs and pressed earth, to wait with the patience of stones until even the wariest creatures forgot his presence.
When Marlin handed him a short hunting bow, Ethan's first dozen arrows went wild, disappearing into the canopy or thudding uselessly into tree trunks.
"Breathe with the bow," his father advised. "Let the string go like releasing a held breath."
On his thirteenth try, the arrow passed clean through the center of the woven-grass target Marlin had hung between two saplings.
"There," Marlin said, his hand heavy and proud on Ethan's shoulder. "Steady."
For the first time in weeks, Ethan felt something other than shame. Not wrong. Not cursed. Capable.
But the village waited beyond the trees, unchanged by his small triumph.
The confrontation came on a grey afternoon when autumn mist hung between the houses like ghostly fingers.
Ethan was returning from the baker's shop, a loaf of seed-bread tucked under his arm, when Soren and his gang of older boys blocked his path near the fountain.
"Well, well," Soren drawled, his sixteen-year-old frame towering over Ethan's smaller form. "If it isn't the beast-boy."
Kael flanked him on the left, Jorik on the right. All three wore expressions of practiced cruelty.
"I'm just going home," Ethan said quietly.
"Are you?" Soren tilted his head, studying Ethan's horn like an interesting insect. "Funny thing—we've been wondering what you really are. That's no human feature sprouting from your skull."
"I'm the same person I've always been."
Kael snorted. "Same person? You walk around followed by creatures that flee from normal folk. You've grown a horn like some forest demon. Face it, freak—you're not one of us anymore."
Heat flashed through Ethan's chest. "I never asked for this!"
"Doesn't matter what you asked for," Jorik said with ugly satisfaction. "Matters what you are. And what you are is trouble waiting to happen."
Before any of them could say more, Lila's voice cut through the mist like a blade.
"Find better games, boys. This one is finished."
She materialized from the grey air, her healer's robes making her seem larger than her slight frame. The three older boys shuffled backward, suddenly uncertain.
Soren tried to salvage his dignity. "We're just talking, Mistress Lila. No harm meant."
"I'm sure," she said dryly. "Run along now. I believe your mothers are looking for you."
They melted away into the mist, but not before Soren shot Ethan a look that promised future trouble.
Lila turned to her son, brushing imaginary dust from his cheek with gentle fingers. "Come. Help me harvest the last Moonpetals before the frost takes them."
They worked in comfortable silence until the light began to fade, but that night Ethan lay awake long past his usual bedtime. The horn pressed warm against his pillow, and the glove seemed heavier than ever, weighted with secrets he couldn't name.
Outside his window, his animal companions had gathered for their nightly vigil. A horned rabbit crouched in the herb garden. Glowmice traced lazy patterns through the grass, their bodies pulsing like scattered stars. The tiny drake perched on the windowsill itself, watching him with ancient golden eyes.
They looked more like family than the humans who shared his blood.
"Why me?" he whispered to the darkness. "What am I supposed to become?"
The silence offered no answers, but the creatures outside settled closer to the cottage walls, standing guard through the long night like an army of loyal friends.
And deep in his chest, beneath the confusion and hurt, a seed of determination took root. Whatever he was becoming, whatever power slept beneath the black leather glove, he would find the truth of it. The village could whisper and point and drive him away, but they could not steal his will to understand.
One day, he promised himself, I will know what I am. And I will decide what that means.
The twin moons wheeled overhead, patient as time itself, while below a boy with a horn and a magical glove began his journey toward a destiny none of them could imagine.