Agos 1704>>
Two thousand years before names were carved into history, before kingdoms learned to fear time, Anthian rode through the mountain passes where the sky felt close enough to touch.
The rain did not fall softly. It poured in ruthless torrents, hammering stone and soil as though the heavens themselves mourned something already lost. Water streamed down the jagged cliffs, carving silver paths through ancient rock. Clouds pressed low against the peaks, heavy and swollen, choking the world in mist and thunder.
Anthian sat tall upon his horse, a massive black stallion bred in the highlands — a creature of endurance and quiet fury. Its mane clung darkly to its neck, muscles shifting beneath rain-slick skin as its hooves struck the narrow mountain path with measured strength. Leather reins creaked beneath Anthian's gloved hands, and the ancient saddle bore symbols long forgotten by mortal tongues.
He had been riding from the High Stone Assembly, a sacred gathering held beyond the eastern ridges where rulers, guardians, and watchers of the realms convened under oath. It was a place no ordinary man could reach — a place where destiny was spoken aloud and sealed in silence.
Now, he returned home.
The mountain realm of Veloria rose around him — vast, untamed, eternal. Towering pines lined the slopes, their trunks thick with age, their branches swaying under the storm like mourners dressed in green. The forest breathed with an ancient life, aware of him, responding to his presence. The air was cold, sharp, almost sentient, as if it recognized him and held its breath.
Lightning clawed across the sky, tearing open the darkness in violent streaks of silver. Thunder followed, rolling through the valleys like the voice of the earth itself — deep, endless, commanding.
And through it all, Anthian rode.
His dark cloak — woven from threads blessed long before his reign — clung heavily to his tall frame, plastered by rain. Beneath it, his armor bore faint etchings that glowed only when the storm flared, responding to the power that lived within him. His eyes shone faintly — not with mortal fire, but with something older, something forged beyond flesh.
He was no ordinary being.
Anthian was the Heaven-Chosen King, protector and ruler of the mountain crown, a sovereign whose authority did not rest upon blood alone, but upon the will of forces unseen. His name was spoken in reverence in distant lands, whispered in fear by enemies, and remembered in prayers by those who would never meet him.
Yet tonight, even his power felt small beneath the storm's fury.
As he urged his horse forward, a strange unease settled in his chest. The air around him pulsed, thick with tension — the kind that came before change, before destiny bent and refused to return to its former shape.
Then he heard it.
A sound — thin, fragile — nearly swallowed by the rain.
Anthian pulled the reins sharply. The stallion halted, snorting, hooves skidding slightly against wet stone.
The cry came again.
Sharper this time.
Desperate.
It was not the sound of an animal.
It was the unmistakable wail of a child.
Anthian's heart — ancient, disciplined, unyielding through centuries of war and duty — skipped.
Slowly, he dismounted, securing his horse to a twisted pine whose roots clutched the mountain like fingers. The rain soaked into his boots as he turned toward the sound, pushing through dripping undergrowth. Thorns brushed his cloak, yet none dared tear it. The storm raged around him, but the cry pulled him onward — guiding him, summoning him.
The forest seemed to part for him.
Beneath the gnarled branches of a dying oak, half-split by lightning long ago, he saw it.
A small, trembling bundle lay in the mud, wrapped in soaked white linen.
A baby.
For a breathless moment, the storm seemed to hush.
Anthian knelt, the mud staining his knees as he lifted the child into his arms with reverent care. The infant's skin was icy, breath shallow, lips tinged faintly blue — abandoned to the mountain's mercy.
As Anthian's fingers brushed the child's chest, something stirred.
A pulse.
But not a mortal one.
Energy rippled outward — subtle, restrained, yet powerful enough to make the rain hesitate in midair. The storm shuddered, thunder stuttering as though the heavens themselves had taken notice.
Anthian inhaled sharply.
He felt it instantly.
A presence deep and familiar — ancient, divine, unmistakable.
This child was no orphan.
Within him burned the mark of the celestial bloodline, an essence older than stars, older than the mountain itself. A power thought lost to time, abandoned by the heavens… now cradled in fragile flesh.
For the first time in centuries, Anthian's composure cracked.
"Who would leave you here…" he whispered, rain streaking down his face like tears he would never claim.
"Child of light."
Thunder rumbled in response — not in anger, but warning.
Cradling the infant close, Anthian rose and returned to his horse. As he mounted, his aura flared faintly around him — invisible to mortal eyes, yet strong enough to calm the winds in his path. The storm bent, unwillingly parting before him.
Behind him, the rain fell harder, as though reluctant to release what it had delivered.
---
The mountain dwelling emerged from the mist — carved into living stone, its walls ancient and weathered, guarded by cliffs and silence. It was not merely a home, but a sanctuary — a place hidden from the world by both distance and design. Below it, far beyond the edge of the cliffs, a vast river wound through the land like a silver serpent, singing softly even through the storm.
Inside, Angelo stood by the narrow window, oil lamp trembling in her hands.
She had long given up on miracles.
Her days were filled with prayers that went unanswered, her nights with the hollow quiet of a home that had never known a child's laughter. Though she lived among mountains and kingship, her heart carried a private grief — one no crown could ease.
When the door burst open, wind and rain rushed inside.
"Anthian?" she gasped, clutching her shawl tighter around her.
Her husband stood in the doorway — soaked, imposing, eyes glowing like captured lightning.
And in his arms lay a baby.
Angelo's breath caught. "What… what have you brought?"
Anthian said nothing. He stepped forward and gently placed the child into her trembling arms.
The moment her skin touched the infant, the air shifted.
The rain softened.
The wind stilled.
The flickering candle steadied, burning brighter.
Something inside Angelo broke — or healed — she could not tell. Tears spilled freely as she held the child close, warmth blooming in a place long cold.
"Whose child is this?" she whispered.
Anthian's voice came low, reverent, uncertain.
"Not ours by blood," he murmured, "but perhaps… ours by destiny."
The baby stirred.
His eyes fluttered open — and for a brief, breathtaking moment, a soft violet light shimmered within them, glowing like a hidden star.
Angelo gasped. "Anthian… did you see—"
"I did." He turned his gaze toward the window. The rain had stopped.
"The mark of the divine," he whispered. "He is not meant for this world alone."
Silence filled the chamber, broken only by the baby's soft breaths.
Anthian lifted his eyes toward the unseen heavens.
"I shall name him… Anthonio."
The name fell like a vow.
Outside, the storm finally broke.
Peace settled over the mountains.
But far above the clouds, unseen eyes watched.
And deep within the forest, shadows stirred — whispering among themselves.
They had seen the light that fell from heaven.