As a child, Kairo carried the kind of stillness that made even the winds pause—breezes dying mid-gust, whoooosh… halt.
His eyes—molten amber, flecked with a faint blue glow—seemed to see through things rather than at them, pupils dilating like twin horizons swallowing secrets.
Where other children stumbled through the early forms of Aura breathing, chests heaving in ragged huff-huff, Kairo instinctively fell into rhythm with the world—his tiny form rising and falling in perfect sync, inhale… pause… exhale.
When he practiced the "Breath of Balance," the grass around him leaned, blades bending in green waves toward his pulse; the dust settled, particles drifting down like obedient stars; and the light itself bent slightly toward him, rays curving in gentle arcs.
It wasn't a trick—it was harmony. Pure, unfiltered harmony.
The elders called him "Mwana wa Nuru"—the Child of Light—their chants swelling like dawn chorus.
And yet… behind every blessing came a shadow.
In every marketplace, every gathering, whispers followed him—sibilant hiss-hiss slithering through crowds.
"They said the same of Azar once."
"Power like that doesn't belong to men."
"What if the prophecy was never meant for us to fulfill, but to warn us?"
Even as a boy, Kairo could feel it—the way eyes lingered too long, pupils narrowing like wary blades; the way elders smiled but never too warmly, lips twitching in forced curves.
When he passed through the training fields, some bowed, palms pressing earth with thud. Others turned away, shoulders hunching like shields.
And though he was young, he noticed something most would miss—that the ground itself carried unease when he walked too close to the borders of the dunes, soil trembling faintly tremble-tremble, as if roots recoiled from buried memory.
By the age of seven, his name was both a song and a curse.
Children of the Jua tribe followed him in awe—they wanted to see him call light from the air, golden motes blooming at his fingertips; to make water shimmer, surfaces swirling into laughing faces; to draw warmth from stone, rocks steaming gently under his palms.
But the adults whispered stories in the shadows of their huts, voices muffled behind woven flaps—"Azar smiled like that once." "His shadow bent the wrong way too." "Maybe the prophecy isn't rebirth… maybe it's repetition."
Even the elders disagreed. Elder Raha, now aged but still sharp, watched the boy closely, torn between wonder and dread—eyes flickering gold then gray. Lady Halima of Imani prayed every sunrise that Kairo would not be tested as Azar was, lunar beads clink-clink in trembling hands. And in Kivuli, the tribe of the grasslands, some had already begun to prepare countermeasures—scrolls with seals glowing crimson, forbidden runes etched in scratch-scratch—"just in case the boy turned."
The prophecy had become a blade with two edges: hope for the tribes, and fear of history's return.
Despite the love his parents gave him—Sahra's white hair brushing his brow like moonlight, Rion's sun-marked chest rumbling with lullabies—Kairo's world was lined with distance.
When he laughed, others went quiet—as if the sound reminded them of something ancient, bright peals echoing too long, "ha-haaa"… silence.
When he cried, the rain followed him—as if Ishara herself wept alongside him, clouds gathering with rumble-plink, tears pattering in sync with his sobs.
There were nights when he stood at the cliffs overlooking the valley of Jua, watching the horizon fade into the Obsidian Dunes—the same dunes where Azar had been cast out centuries before, black expanse swallowing stars.
He could feel something stirring there.
Not a sound, not a voice—but a memory.
The dunes whispered without words, the way old wounds whisper through scars—shhh… pulse… shhh.
And though Kairo did not yet understand, part of him knew:
The same light that blessed him was the one that once burned Azar.
At ten, he was already training among the Shujaa Adepts—warriors twice his age, their forms scarred and towering.
His movements were quiet, exact, unnervingly graceful—feet gliding over sand without a crunch, strikes flowing like water.
But when he struck, there was a weight in his aura that made even masters falter, knees buckling mid-block.
One day, during a sparring session, his aura flared too brightly—a wave of radiance pulsing outward like a heartbeat, THRUM-BOOM.
It shattered the wooden poles around him, CRACK-SPLINTER; seared the sand into glass, hiss-melt, molten pools reflecting his wide eyes.
The others recoiled in silence, breaths held like frozen mist.
No one spoke, but every eye said the same thing:
"Azar has returned."
Kairo saw it—the fear, the doubt, the distrust—and for the first time, his light dimmed from within, golden veins fading to ashen glow.
From that day on, he trained alone.
In the mornings, he practiced with Elder Raha near the Dawn Pillar, learning to soften his light, to control it—rays dimming at his whispered "easy… easy", palms glowing faint instead of blaze.
At night, he sat under the moon's pale gaze, staring toward the Dunes, wondering why his name carried both salvation and curse—lunar light silvering his bronze skin, eyes tracing black horizon.
And though he could not hear Nuru's voice yet, the Echo Beast's presence lingered in his dreams—a low hum beneath the wind, a warmth that wrapped around him when he wept, golden haze cradling his sleep.
By the time he turned twelve, the balance of Ishara had already begun to tremble.
Tribal alliances that had stood for generations started to strain under suspicion—borders patrolled with clang-clang spears, councils ending in slam of fists.
Old myths about the Dunes resurfaced—tales hissed by fireside, "the Shadow remembers…".
And across the black horizon of that cursed desert, faint flickers of light began to shimmer again—as if something remembered Azar's name, golden veins threading the void.
The people feared the prophecy might come true.
Kairo feared it already was.