One month had passed since the birth of Caelen Thorns, the boy born beneath the falling star.
In the quiet home of Lucy and Braten, nestled among fields of golden grain and wildflowers swaying with the breeze, peace had lingered—until now.
It began with a laugh.
Not the delicate giggle of an infant, but a sound strange and hearty—like something older, deeper. Lucy had just stepped into the kitchen when she heard a crash behind her. She turned swiftly, only to find Caelen—barely able to sit up—gripping the edge of his wooden cradle.
And then, before her eyes, he lifted it.
The cradle, heavy enough that Braten had needed help assembling it, rose above the child's head with unnatural ease. Lucy gasped. Caelen giggled.
And then, with a playful shriek, he threw it across the room.
The cradle smashed against the wall, splintering into jagged pieces. Bookshelves toppled. Clay pots shattered. The very table cracked in half under a careless swipe of his tiny hand. Everything Caelen touched, he broke—joyfully, effortlessly.
Outside, neighbors gathering for their afternoon routines froze in place. Through the window, they witnessed the destruction and the toddler at its center. One woman dropped her water jug. Another stumbled back, eyes wide with fear.
"He's… he's not normal," someone whispered.
Lucy rushed forward, tears welling in her eyes. "Caelen! Stop!" She wrapped him in her arms, trying to calm him, trying to understand. The boy nestled into her, smiling as if he hadn't just reduced their home to rubble.
Not long after, Braten returned from the fields, sweat on his brow and calluses on his hands. But the moment he neared their cottage, his breath caught.
Half the home looked like it had been hit by a storm.
Panic seized him. "Lucy? Caelen?!"
He burst through the door, heart pounding—only to find them both safe, sitting amid the debris. Lucy looked up with weary eyes and gave a slow nod. They were unharmed. Relief washed over him, but the worry remained.
"What… happened here?" he asked quietly, kneeling beside her.
Lucy took a deep breath. "It's Caelen," she said, her voice shaking. "He… he lifted the cradle, Braten. Threw it. Broke everything he touched. With ease. He's not like other children…"
She glanced down at her son, who now dozed peacefully in her arms. "There's something inside him. Something powerful. I don't want him to grow up alone… feared… hated."
Braten said nothing for a long time. His eyes scanned the broken room, the wide-eyed neighbors still watching from afar, and the unconscious strength slumbering in his son's tiny body.
The words of the village elder echoed in his mind:
"That boy is touched by the sky. He may be the blessing this world needs… or the curse it cannot endure."
Finally, he stood.
"I know someone," he said, reaching for parchment and ink. "An old friend. Someone who can help us understand what Caelen truly is."
He penned the letter carefully, every word measured.
To His Grace, Alaric Vaelstrome—Duke of Luna and my former commander,
I write not as a soldier, but as a father…