Existence began not with a whisper, but with a fracture.
There was a Before—a suspended eternity of warm, fluid darkness, a rhythmic drumming that was the entire universe. And then, there was the After. The transition was violent, a sudden compression of velvet walls followed by a shocking, absolute cold.
He did not cry immediately. That was the instinct of a frightened animal, and while he was physically small, the consciousness flickering to life within the fragile vessel was vast, ancient in its capacity, if not its memory. He felt the rush of air invade his lungs, a sensation that burned like swallowing liquid fire. His chest heaved, a mechanical reflex, and he catalogued the pain not as suffering, but as function.
Expansion. Oxygenation. Life.
His eyes snapped open. The world was an assault.
Light, blinding and intrusive, stabbed at retinas that had known only shadow. But where another infant might see only a blur of white and gold, his mind—already racing, spinning gears that had no right to exist in a newborn's skull—began to dissect the spectrum. He saw the dust motes dancing in the shaft of sunlight, suspended like frozen galaxies. He perceived the depth of the room, the geometric sharp angles of the stone ceiling, and the softness of the fabrics that swaddled him.
He was being handled. Hands, vast and rough compared to his own skin, passed him through the air.
"A son, My Lady. The House of Myers has an heir."
The sounds washed over him. He did not know the language—the specific syntax and vocabulary of this realm were alien data—but he understood the structure. He perceived the vibration of the voice, the deep, resonant baritone of the speaker. He analyzed the cadence. It was a statement of triumph, heavy with relief.
Pattern recognized: Deference. Announcement. Importance.
He was lowered onto a surface that was softer, warmer. The smell hit him then—iron, sweat, and lavender. It was a complex, biological scent that triggered a primal recognition in his brain.
He looked up.
The blur resolved into a face. She was pale, her skin sheen with the exhaustion of the great labor. Strands of hair, dark as the void he had just left, plastered to her forehead. But it was her eyes that anchored him. They were tired, brimming with liquid, yet they held a ferocity that defied the weakness of her body.
He stared at her, and he did not blink. Most newborns gaze past their mothers, their focus wandering, their minds unable to grasp the concept of 'other.' But he looked at her. He studied the dilation of her pupils, the erratic, fluttering pulse in her neck. He understood, with a terrifying clarity, that he had come from her. She was the vessel. She was the Source.
The woman's breath hitched. She seemed to sense the weight of his gaze, the unnatural intelligence burning behind the slate-grey of his irises.
"He... he is so quiet," she whispered. Her voice was a broken melody, rasping but gentle.
"He is strong, My Lady," the deeper voice replied from the periphery. "Look at him. He holds his head up. It is unnatural strength."
The woman traced the curve of his cheek with a trembling finger. He analyzed the tactile sensation: calloused tip, warm skin, a tremor indicative of fatigue and overwhelming emotion. He leaned into the touch, not out of instinct, but out of a calculated decision. This connection is safe. This connection is vital.
"He looks... aware," she murmured, her brow furrowing slightly. "As if he has been here before."
She shifted, pulling the silk sheets closer around them. The fabric rustled—a sharp, sibilant sound. The room was cold, filled with the drafts of a large, stone chamber, but within the circle of her arms, the temperature was regulated. Perfect.
"What shall you name him?"
The question hung in the air, a suspended concept waiting for a label. The boy waited. He felt the significance of the moment. A name was a definition. A name was the first boundary drawn around the infinite potential of his mind.
The mother looked down at him, and for a moment, the room fell silent. She looked into his eyes, which were wide, reflecting the candlelight and the morning sun streaming through the high arched windows. In his eyes, she saw not just a child, but a vastness. She saw a mind that was already reaching out, grasping at the light, trying to swallow the world whole.
"He does not look like the earth," she said softly, a smile touching her lips for the first time. "He looks like the sky when the clouds break."
She kissed his forehead, a seal of possession and protection.
"Stars," she whispered. "His name is Stars." Stars.
The sound settled into his mind. It lacked the hard consonants of the other words spoken. It was sibilant, expansive. It implied distance, light, and multitude.
He accepted it.
The boy named Stars closed his eyes, finally allowing the fatigue of the body to overtake the racing of the mind. He had arrived. The data was overwhelming, the culture unknown, the rules of this House of Myers a mystery yet to be unraveled. But he had time.
He listened to the heartbeat of the woman holding him—lub-dub, lub-dub—and synchronized his breathing to it. He would learn this world. He would dissect it, understand it, and eventually, he knew with a certainty that terrified him, he would master it.
For now, he slept.