The storm over Lesternam that night didn't bring rain; it brought a heavy, unnatural fog that tasted of ozone and old metal.
On a narrow cobblestone street in the Lower Tier, a figure moved like a ripple in water. They were draped in a heavy, charcoal-colored cloak that seemed to swallow the dim light of the streetlamps.
In their arms, tucked away from the biting wind, was a bundle wrapped in cloth so fine it shimmered even in the dark.
The figure stopped before a modest wooden door. Above it hung a weathered sign: The Hearth. Inside, Iris and her husband, Silas, were likely dousing the last of the candles, unaware that their lives were about to change. The cloaked figure knelt, placing the child gently on the stone step.
For a moment, a gloved hand lingered on the baby's forehead. A faint, low hum vibrated in the air—not a song, but a command—and a single silver thread from the cloak snagged on the doorframe, glowing white for a heartbeat before turning dull.
The figure didn't knock. They didn't need to. As they turned and vanished back into the fog, the door creaked open as if pushed by an invisible hand.
Iris stood there, a lamp held high. She looked down at the infant Eirene, then out into the empty, misty street.
"Silas," she whispered, her voice trembling not with fear, but with a strange sense of recognition. "Silas, come quickly. The stars have sent us another."