Rain crashed like shattered glass against the roofs of Aelwyn Village, and thunder rolled across the valley as if the heavens themselves were at war. The river Vareen swelled beyond its banks, flooding the wheat fields and tearing through fences. People said the storm came without warning — no clouds, no omen — just a scream of lightning that split the sky in two.
Inside a small cottage at the edge of the village, a single candle struggled to stay alive. Sera, pale and trembling, gripped the sheets as the midwife barked orders. Marek, her husband, stood helpless beside her, clutching her hand as though he could keep her from slipping away with the storm.
"By the Flow, Marek, hold her steady!" the midwife shouted.
"I am," he said, voice shaking. "Sera, breathe. Just breathe."
"I am breathing!" she snapped between cries. "He's coming—"
And then the thunder answered her.
A blinding flash filled the room. The candle went out. For a moment, there was only darkness — and then a cry.
A child's cry.
Everything stopped.
The wind fell silent. The rain froze against the window. Even the roaring sky seemed to hold its breath.
Then, somewhere far beyond mortal ears, something ancient stirred — a hum that rippled through the unseen veins of creation. The Flow shivered. A whisper passed through the storm:
"The Bridge returns."
And just as quickly as it began, the storm was gone. The air turned calm. The candle flickered back to life.
The baby — small, dark-haired, and quiet now — blinked at the world as though he had seen it all before.
Sera laughed weakly and said "He's… he's perfect."
Marek looked at the window, where the rain had stopped in an instant. His heart pounded. "A storm like that for a child like this," he muttered. "You'll bring trouble, little one. Ender, your name shall be called Ender"
And he smiled all the same.
---
Twelve Years Later
Morning came soft and golden to Aelwyn. The village had forgotten the storm that marked Ender's birth — mostly. Only the oldest folks still muttered that it meant something, though none could say what.
Ender woke before dawn, as he always did. The rooster had barely begun its noisy sermon when he rolled out of bed and tied his boots. From outside came the smell of baking bread and the distant chatter of farmers heading to the fields.
"Ender!" his mother called. "Fetch water before your father starts the plowing!"
"I'm going!" he shouted back, snatching up a wooden bucket.
The air outside was crisp. Mist coiled through the village paths like soft smoke. He waved to the old innkeeper sweeping his porch.
"Morning, Master Dren!"
"Morning, lad. Off to the river again? Don't let it swallow you this time!" the man laughed.
Ender grinned. "Not planning to!"
He jogged down the dirt path, passing the blacksmith's forge where the smell of iron and smoke filled the air, and the fisher's hut where nets lay drying in the sun. The villagers called greetings, teasing him about chores, asking after Marek's crops. It was an ordinary morning — the kind Ender loved most.
By the riverbank, two figures were already waiting. Lira, with her braid and bright eyes, skipped stones across the surface while Dante, lanky and mischievous, tried and failed to outdo her.
"You're late," Dante said.
"I'm early," Ender replied, lowering his bucket into the river. "You just can't tell time."
Lira giggled. "He's right. You'd be late to your own funeral, Dante."
Dante threw another stone that bounced twice before sinking. "If I'm late, at least I'll make an entrance."
The three of them laughed, the sound mixing with birdsong. But as Ender knelt by the water, he paused. The river's surface had stilled completely — like glass. Not a ripple. Not even a breeze.
He blinked. Then, as if realizing it was being watched, the water began to move again.
"Ender?" Lira tilted her head. "You okay?"
"Yeah. Just… thought I saw something."
"What, a fish?"
"Maybe." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
They filled the bucket and headed back toward the village, trading jokes along the way. But as they passed the old oak at the crossroads, Bran and his friends stepped out.
"Well, if it isn't the storm brat," Bran sneered.
Ender's jaw tightened. "Move, Bran. We're busy."
"Busy dreaming?" Bran mocked. "My father says you talk in your sleep. Says you whisper to the wind."
Lira frowned. "Leave him alone."
Bran ignored her, stepping closer. "You think you're special, don't you? Storms stop for you, rivers stare back — maybe you should go live with the gods."
Ender stared at him for a heartbeat, then smiled faintly. "Maybe I will."
Bran blinked. "What did you say?"
"I said maybe I will. When you're done talking, I'll tell them you said hi."
Dante burst out laughing, and even Lira snorted. Bran's face went red, but before he could answer, a shout came from the fields — Marek calling Ender home.
"See you later, Bran," Ender said, brushing past.
Bran muttered under his breath, but didn't follow. Something in Ender's tone made him uneasy — like hearing thunder on a clear day.
---
That evening, as the sun dipped low, Ender sat by the hearth while Sera served stew. Marek's hands were rough and tired, his eyes soft.
"You handled yourself well today," Marek said. "Bran's father came by. Says his boy needs a lesson in manners."
Ender shrugged. "He'll grow out of it."
Sera smiled. "You always say that (wondering why her son spoke like an old man sometimes)."
"I mean it." He poked at his stew. "He's just… loud."
They ate in companionable silence. Outside, crickets began their nightly chorus. The world felt still, safe.
"Mama," Ender said suddenly, "do you ever wonder what's beyond the hills?"
Sera glanced toward the window. "The world beyond Tharos belongs to kings and gods, not to us."
He looked down, stirring his food. "Then maybe they'll make room someday."
Marek chuckled softly. "If they do, boy, you'd be the first to find it."
But later that night, when the fire had burned low and the house was quiet, Ender sat awake by his window. The moonlight touched his face.
And for a moment — just a breath — he thought he saw the reflection of two moons where there should have been one.
He blinked. It was gone.