The valley lay quiet at dawn. Mist curled above the fields. A small farmhouse waited at the edge of a wood. This was where Vaelith grew up.
Vaelith did not know he was special. He knew only hunger and cold. He knew the ache of broken things. His mother, Mara, rose before sunrise each day. She drew water from the well. She lit the hearth fire with trembling hands. His father, Harin, worked the fields. He bent his back under the sun's glare. He never spoke much. He never smiled.
Vaelith woke before his mother. He watched her hands glow by the firelight. Sometimes the wood split before the flame took it. He learned to feed the fire. To cradle the embers. He learned that warmth could come from careful work.
When he was five, he asked his mother why the hearth flickered blue sometimes. She froze. Her eyes misted. She placed her hand on his cheek. "It is nothing," she said. "Just a trick of the light." He believed her. He wanted to believe her.
At six, he followed his father into the fields. Harin taught him how to plant seeds. He showed him how to pull weeds. He showed him how to bend the stalks low so they would stand straight later. Vaelith worked alongside him. He felt the soil's pulse in his hands. He felt hunger sharper than the sun. He felt a joy he could not name.
That winter, the river froze. The cattle starved. Harin returned home late each night. He carried nothing but grief. Mara sat by the fire. She rocked Vaelith back and forth. She hummed a song that sounded like distant thunder.
Vaelith wondered what thunder felt like. He wondered if he would one day stand in a storm. He wondered if he would someday make the ground shake.
When he turned eight, Vaelith found a bird with a broken wing in the yard. Its feathers were black as ash. Its eye was full of quiet fear. He picked it up with gentle hands. He carried it to his mother.
Mara wrapped the bird in cloth. She whispered to it like one might whisper to a child. She fed it bits of grain. She told Vaelith to sleep. She promised that if he woke before dawn, the bird might fly again.
Vaelith slept and dreamed of feathers and sky. He dreamed of two wings, one fire and one shadow, beating in his chest. He woke to find the bird gone. He looked at the hearth. He looked at the door. He looked at his mother's hands. They glowed blue.
He did not speak of this. He did not ask.
At ten, Vaelith began to see things in the night. He saw shapes hanging in the dark. He saw whispers gathered in the corners like flies. He saw the moon split in two. He saw a man wrapped in stars stand beyond the field fence.
One night, he followed the figure. The stars sang. The ground trembled. He walked until his feet bled. He reached the riverbank. He called out. The figure turned. Its face was hidden. It raised a hand. The river froze solid. Fish hung in the ice like jewels.
Vaelith stepped onto the river. The ice held him. He reached toward the mock figure. It faded. He slipped and fell into the cold water. He screamed.
He woke at home, covered in blankets. His mother sat by the hearth, unmoving. His father sat in a corner, his eyes empty.
They said nothing. They tended his fever. They did not speak of the river or the stars. Vaelith learned to ask no questions.
At eleven, Vaelith went to the village for the first time. It lay across a hill from the farm. He carried a basket of eggs his mother had laid out to barter.
The road was dusty. The sun beat down. He heard men shout from market stalls. He saw women laughing behind bolts of cloth. He felt a tug in his chest, like a sorrow he could not name.
A group of boys chased a dog. The dog whimpered. A boy kicked it. Vaelith stepped forward. He called out. The boys turned. They saw his fire-lit eyes. The ground cracked beneath the dog's feet. The dog vanished in a plume of smoke.
The boys ran. The villagers stared. Vaelith froze. He held the basket of eggs. The eggs cracked. Yolk ran down his legs. He bent to pick them up. The yolk turned to ash in his hands. He sobbed.
A woman knelt beside him. She took his hand. She whispered in his ear. She offered to pay twice for the basket. She led him away. He went without looking back.
That night, Harin beat him. Harin struck him for breaking the eggs. Harin struck him for being too different. Mara hid in the corner and wept. Vaelith did not cry. He learned that pain could be swallowed.
When he was twelve, Vaelith found an old book in the attic. Its pages were brittle. Its letters glowed in the dark. He read of heroes who carried stars in their veins. He read of gods who walked the earth. He read of prophecies sealed in stone.
He touched the words with trembling fingers. The letters shifted. They formed his name. He gasped. The attic door creaked. His father stood there. He saw the book. He snatched it. He tore out the pages. He threw them into the hearth.
Vaelith watched the pages burn blue. He felt sorrow. He felt relief. He realized some truths were too heavy for any child to bear.
At thirteen, Vaelith worked in the fields with his father again. The harvest was thin. They ate meager porridge. The wind cut through their clothes. They prayed for spring.
One morning, Vaelith awakened to find the fields alight. The stalks burned red and gold. The sun rose in a sky of ash and fire. The fields crackled like a forge.
His father wept. His mother held him. Vaelith felt a warmth in his chest. He closed his eyes. He thought of the river. He thought of the stars. He thought of the bird with the broken wing.
When he opened his eyes, the fire was gone. The fields lay untouched. Only a single stalk stood. It glowed blue.
Vaelith touched it. It sang under his fingers. He plucked a single grain. He ate it. The grain tasted of rain and thunder and hope.
He carried the grain to his mother. She tasted it. She wept. She told him to bury it. She told him to wait for the spring. She told him to be brave.
Vaelith buried the grain in the cold earth. He stood in the grave of a promise. He waited.
At fourteen, Vaelith's dreams turned dark. He saw the loom of the world unraveling. He saw gods dying. He saw stars falling into seas of blood. He saw himself on a battlefield, sword in hand, eyes glowing like embers.
He woke with sweat soaking his clothes. He ran to the attic. He rebuilt the fire. He took a scrap of parchment. He wrote his oath:
I will stand when the darkness comes. I will carry the flame. I will protect the world they made.
He did not know why. He only knew the words were true.
When he turned fifteen, Vaelith left home. He packed a small sack: bread, cheese, water, and the single grain from the blue stalk. He kissed his mother's cheek. He embraced his father's stiff shoulder. He walked away without looking back.
The road led him north. He passed villages that whispered his name. He passed forests where the trees bent toward him. He passed rivers that rippled in greeting. He passed ruins broken by war. He passed fields on fire and fields turned to ash.
He learned to sleep without fear. He learned to walk without pain. He learned to listen to the earth's heartbeat.
One day, he met a priest on a mossy bridge. The priest wore simple robes. He carried a lantern made of silver. He watched Vaelith approach.
"You carry the spark," the priest said.
Vaelith frowned. "What spark?"
"The spark that ignites fate," the priest replied. "The spark that can save or destroy."
Vaelith felt the grain stir in his sack. He reached inside. He pulled out the grain. It glowed like a star.
"This," he said.
"This," the priest repeated, "is hope."
The priest held out his hand. Vaelith gave him the grain. The priest closed his palm. The grain burned. The lantern flared brighter than the sun.
"Go now," the priest said, "and find the others. The world will need you soon."
Vaelith nodded. He walked on. He carried only his bare hands. He carried only his heartbeat. He carried only his promise.
He did not know where he would go. He did not know who he would meet. He did not know what awaited him.
But he knew one thing:
He would not fail.