There was no record of his birth.
Not because it was destroyed.
Not because it was hidden.
But because the world had not yet learned how to remember people.
Time existed, but it had no discipline. It stretched, folded, lingered. Days arrived without announcement and left without meaning. The sky had no constellations yet, only drifting lights that refused to settle into patterns. Even the sun seemed uncertain of its duty, rising and setting as if testing the idea.
This was an age before gods.
Before prayers had words.
Before miracles learned how to answer.
The land shaped itself without intention. Stone cracked under its own weight. Forests grew wild and uneven, their trees twisted as if unsure which way was up. Rivers cut into the earth without destination, guided only by gravity and persistence.
Meaning had not yet been assigned.
At the edge of a collapsed stone structure—its walls half-swallowed by earth, its purpose long forgotten—a child sat alone.
He looked no older than ten, though age was a fragile concept then. His body was lean to the point of sharpness, ribs faintly visible beneath weather-worn skin. Old bruises stained his arms and legs, some yellowed with age, others newer and darker. His clothes were little more than layered scraps of fabric, stitched together unevenly, stained by dirt and dried blood.
His hair was dark, cut short not by care but by necessity. It grew unevenly, strands falling into his eyes no matter how often he pushed them aside. Those eyes were an unnatural gray—not bright, not dull, but steady. They reflected light without warmth, like stone polished by time.
He did not cry.
Crying required the belief that someone might respond.
His expression was neutral, almost vacant, yet nothing escaped his notice. He watched the way the wind bent the tall grass. He watched insects crawl across the cracked stone, memorizing their paths. He watched the sky change color, not with wonder, but with attention.
He had no name.
Names required someone to give them—and someone to care if they were spoken.
Sometimes others passed through these lands. Small bands of survivors, wrapped in hides and desperation. Their faces were gaunt, their eyes hollow. They carried crude weapons and moved quickly, always watching the horizon.
They never stayed.
When they saw the ruins, they turned away. When they saw the child, some slowed, some hesitated—but all eventually looked elsewhere.
Children died often in this age.
This one did not.
Not because he was blessed.
Not because he was strong.
He endured because he learned how to exist without expectation.
When hunger hollowed him out, he searched patiently, overturning stones, tracking small animals, eating roots others ignored. When cold set in, he pressed himself against sun-warmed stone or buried himself beneath debris. When pain came, he waited for it to pass.
The world did not reward him.
It simply did not finish him.
As the sun dipped low one evening, stretching long shadows across the broken land, the air changed.
Not sharply.
Not violently.
It became aware.
The child noticed first.
He rose to his feet, movements smooth and silent, and picked up a shard of stone from the ground. The edge was jagged, imperfect—but sharp enough. He held it loosely, not threateningly. Everything in this world was a tool before it was anything else.
Footsteps approached.
They were measured. Unhurried. Confident in a way that did not belong to predators or prey.
A man emerged from between the broken pillars.
He was tall, though not imposing, his posture straight without stiffness. His robes were layered and heavy, dyed in muted earth tones, reinforced at the seams with careful stitching. Symbols were embroidered along the hems and sleeves—marks that hinted at meaning but had not yet settled into language.
His skin was pale, untouched by long exposure, suggesting time spent indoors or underground. His face was narrow, sharp-boned, with a straight nose and a mouth that rarely formed full expressions. Streaks of silver ran through his dark hair, tied loosely at the back of his head. Despite this, his face held few lines.
His eyes were the most unsettling part.
They were deep, reflective, and unfocused—not because they were dull, but because they were looking past what stood in front of them. When they settled on the child, it felt less like being seen and more like being examined from multiple futures at once.
The man stopped several paces away.
He did not reach for a weapon.
He did not raise his hands.
He simply observed.
The child did not lower the stone.
Wind moved between them, tugging at the mage's robes, lifting dust from the ground.
"You are alive in a place that rejects life," the man said at last. His voice was calm, measured, carrying no threat. "That is unusual."
The child remained silent.
The man's gaze flicked briefly to the stone in the child's hand, then back to his eyes.
"You don't speak," he continued. "Or perhaps you simply don't see the purpose."
He stepped closer. The child's muscles tensed, ready to run or strike if necessary—but he did not move.
Most children fled.
Those who didn't were usually already broken.
"You are not recorded anywhere," the man said quietly. "I have searched."
The child tilted his head, just slightly. Not confusion. Recognition.
The man smiled—not warmly, but with restrained fascination.
"I am a mage," he said. "Though the word is… premature. I study what will be, not what is."
He crouched so they were eye to eye.
Up close, the child could see faint scars on the mage's hands—burns, cuts, marks left by experiments that had gone wrong. These were not the hands of a scholar alone.
"I look toward the future," the mage said softly. "And you…"
He paused, his eyes narrowing.
"You are not there."
The air trembled. Just barely.
The child felt a pressure behind his eyes—not fear, not pain—but the sensation of being weighed against something vast and unseen.
The mage straightened slowly.
"That," he said under his breath, "should not be possible."
He removed his cloak and held it out.
"Come with me," he said. "Not because you are special. But because the world has failed to acknowledge you—and that makes you dangerous."
The child looked at the cloak.
Then at the ruins.
Then at the endless, indifferent sky.
He stepped forward.
The stone shard slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground, forgotten.
Behind them, the ruins remained silent.
But far away—beyond where fear had learned its shape—
something old and patient took notice.
And the future shifted.