Rinve learned one thing faster than he should have.
Crying was not an effective language.
Crying did make the people around him react, but those reactions were often excessive panicked, rushed, and sometimes misplaced. He quickly realized that the small sound escaping his throat could move the world around him, even when he did not want it to.
So he chose silence.
Not because he couldn't cry,
but because he didn't need to.
Levane was the first to notice.
The baby rarely cried. Too rarely. Even when he was hungry or uncomfortable, his cries were brief just enough to signal his needs, then gone. As if he understood that what he required would be provided without excess.
"Galor…"
Levane whispered one morning, as sunlight slipped through the gaps in the wooden window.
"Do you think… our child is strange?"
Galor, who was tying the strap of his sword, paused. He turned and looked at the baby resting calmly in his wife's arms. Those small eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling with an unnatural focus.
"Strange how?" Galor asked.
Levane let out a quiet breath.
"He's… watching. Not just seeing."
Galor didn't answer right away. He stepped closer and extended a finger. The baby Rinve immediately grasped it. His grip was strong for a newborn.
Too strong.
Galor fell silent for a few seconds.
"…Maybe he'll grow into a strong child," he finally said, though something in his chest felt unsettled.
Rinve heard everything.
He didn't fully understand the words yet, but the tone and emotions behind them were clear. Warmth, concern, and hope blended together.
They're… my parents now.
The thought surfaced without hesitation.
Days passed.
Rinve learned about this new world through small things. The sound of wind across the fields. The scent of wood and soil. The rhythm of his father's footsteps whenever he returned home. The gentle tone in his mother's voice, even when she wasn't speaking to him.
He began to recognize patterns.
If he stared at the door for too long, Levane would come closer.
If he clenched the fabric too tightly, Galor would smile faintly.
And if he smiled
The world around him seemed to soften.
His first mischief happened by accident.
One afternoon, Levane laid Rinve on a mat before stepping away to fetch water. Rinve, now strong enough to move slightly, focused on an object beside him a wooden spoon.
If I drop it…
The thought wasn't fully formed, but the intention was clear.
His hand moved slowly. Too coordinated for a baby his age. His fingertips brushed the spoon and nudged it toward the edge of the mat.
Tok.
The spoon fell.
Levane turned in surprise.
"Eh?"
Rinve looked up at his mother with innocent eyes, then smiled.
Not a reflex.
A conscious smile.
Levane froze.
"…Did he just smile?" she murmured.
Inside his mind, Rinve felt something strange.
That reaction… is funny.
And for the first time, he laughed quietly without sound.
Day by day, his oddities increased.
Rinve didn't roll around randomly. He chose directions.
He didn't reach for everything. He selected what interested him.
And what unsettled Levane the most
That gaze.
Too long.
Too focused.
Too… understanding.
One night, Levane sat beside Rinve's small bed. The oil lamp burned dimly, casting soft shadows on the walls.
"My child…" she whispered.
"You understand, don't you?"
Rinve couldn't answer. But his eyes met hers.
Not empty.
Not confused.
Levane swallowed.
"Galor," she said later when her husband entered.
"I feel like… this child isn't like other babies."
Galor exhaled softly and sat down.
"If he's different, let him be. As long as he's healthy."
Yet in his heart, Galor felt the same unease.
On certain nights, when the village slept, Rinve awakened.
Not from hunger.
Not from cold.
But from the feeling of being watched.
He saw nothing. Heard nothing. Yet the sensation remained subtle, constant, like distant eyes observing him.
This world… is watching me.
The thought came naturally.
He didn't know why, but his instincts told him something was waiting. Something not yet moving, but ready at any moment.
And far beyond the small village, the laws of the world remained still.
Waiting.
Rinve fell asleep again, his tiny fist slowly relaxing.
He didn't know that his awareness was abnormal.
Didn't know that his consciousness should not exist.
He was just a baby
Too aware,
too calm,
and too early for a world not ready to accept him.
Silence, however, is never truly empty.
Night after night, Rinve woke for no reason he could understand. His small body barely moved he only opened his eyes, stared into the darkness, and listened. There were no footsteps, no whispers, no strange lights.
And precisely because of that, something felt wrong.
This world… is too quiet.
He didn't yet have words to describe it, but his awareness sensed the difference. The silence of this village was unlike the emptiness he once drifted through. One was void; the other… restrained something.
Rinve felt it like a breath held too long.
Levane began to notice the habit.
Every night, when everyone else slept, the baby opened his eyes. He didn't cry. Didn't move. He only stared at the ceiling, as if contemplating something far beyond the limits of his body.
"Galor…" she whispered one night.
"Do you think… Rinve dreams?"
Galor, polishing his sword, glanced over.
"Babies always dream," he replied.
"But… not like this," Levane lowered her voice.
"That look… it's like an adult thinking."
Galor went silent.
He didn't want to admit it, but he had seen that gaze too too calm, too deep. A gaze that didn't ask, didn't fear, and didn't wander.
A gaze that… waited.
Rinve began to understand something about his new body.
It was weak.
Very weak.
Yet that weakness felt… temporary.
Like clothes too small for something far greater inside.
When he tried to move his hand, he felt resistance not from muscle, but from a boundary. Invisible, yet real.
I can't…
Not because he didn't know how.
But because he wasn't allowed.
That realization made him stop trying. His instincts told him resisting now would be pointless. This world had rules, and those rules did not yet permit him to step forward.
So he waited.
Days passed slowly.
Rinve observed everything. He learned from sounds, movements, and the small pauses between his parents' conversations. He began to understand emotions, even without names for them.
He knew when his mother was tired.
He knew when his father was worried.
And without realizing it, he adjusted.
When Levane looked anxious, Rinve stayed quiet longer.
When Galor returned with heavy steps, Rinve gripped his finger tighter.
Those small things kept the house warm.
But deep within himself, Rinve knew
This was only temporary.
One night, when the wind blew stronger than usual, Rinve woke again. This time, the feeling of being watched was clearer. Not a threat. Not malice.
More like… measurement.
As if something were confirming that he truly existed.
Rinve wasn't afraid.
He was only tired.
If this world wants to know…
I'm here.
There was no answer.
But the pressure slowly eased, as if a decision had been made not for now, but for later.
Rinve closed his eyes.
He didn't yet know what awaited him.
Didn't know that his new life would be filled with training, sacrifice, and encounters that would change everything.
He knew only one simple thing.
I will grow.
And when that day comes
whether the world is ready or not,
Rinve Pantrialevane
will stand before it.
He was not born to change the world today.
He was born… for the day when the world has no other choice.