Snow fell quietly over the village of Hendrix Hollow, thick flakes drifting down like ash from a dying fire. The roofs were already buried, the paths packed tight by years of footsteps, and the wooden homes stood close together as if leaning on one another for warmth.
Winter never truly left this place.
The village sat at the edge of the mountain range, where the land rose sharply and the wind cut deeper than knives. Every family here lived with the same understanding: survival demanded strength, and strength demanded sacrifice.
Inside one of the sturdier homes near the eastern ridge, a boy sat on the floor with his back against the wall, arms crossed, and a scowl etched permanently into his young face.
Narkun Ka was eight years old.
And he was already in trouble.
The sound of wood cracking echoed through the house.
"Narkun."
Samantha Hendrix's voice carried authority, exhaustion, and something else beneath it—worry she refused to show. She stood in the doorway of the main room, her dark hair tied back tightly, her martial robes pulled snug against the cold.
Narkun didn't look at her.
"I didn't touch it," he muttered.
On the floor beside him lay what used to be a training staff, snapped clean in half as if struck by lightning instead of wood.
Ray Hendrix, tall for his age at thirteen, leaned against the opposite wall with his arms folded. His expression was a mix of annoyance and reluctant admiration.
"You sneezed," Ray said. "And it exploded."
"I didn't mean to," Narkun snapped back.
Rex, Ray's twin and slightly broader in build, crouched near the broken staff, inspecting the splintered grain. "This thing's reinforced," he said quietly. "Dad used it when he trained."
Max Hendrix stepped into the room behind Samantha, his broad shoulders nearly filling the doorway. His presence alone made the air feel heavier. Years of training had carved discipline into his posture, but his eyes—sharp and observant—were focused entirely on Narkun.
"Narkun," Max said calmly, "stand up."
The boy did.
Instantly, the temperature in the room shifted—not colder, not warmer, but tense. Narkun clenched his fists at his sides, jaw tight, eyes burning with frustration he didn't fully understand.
"I didn't try to break it," Narkun said. "It just… happened."
Samantha knelt and picked up the broken staff. The break was unnatural—no splintering resistance, no uneven tear. It looked like the wood had simply given up.
She exhaled slowly.
"This is the third time this week," she said.
"I'm not doing it on purpose!" Narkun shouted, then froze.
The walls creaked.
A cup on the table rattled.
Max stepped forward instantly, placing a firm hand on Narkun's shoulder.
"Breathe," he said quietly.
Narkun sucked in air, chest heaving. His eyes flickered—not glowing, not changing color, but focused, unnaturally so for a child. The pressure in the room eased.
Silence returned.
Ray let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Rex straightened.
Samantha closed her eyes briefly.
This had been happening more often lately.
Ever since Narkun had turned eight.Narkun didn't remember the mountains.
He didn't remember the snowstorm that should have killed him.
He didn't remember Samantha's trembling hands when she'd found him a year old, barely crying, eyes open and watching the storm like it was nothing more than weather.
But the mountains remembered him.
And sometimes, when the wind howled just right, Narkun felt something stir deep inside his chest—like a heartbeat that wasn't his own.Later that evening, Narkun sat on the edge of his bed, feet dangling above the wooden floor. The house was quieter now. Ray and Rex were outside helping Max reinforce the fencing, preparing for the coming weeks.
Tomorrow, Narkun would go out.
Not far. Not alone.
But still… out.
Samantha entered the room carrying a folded blanket. She set it down gently and sat beside him.
"You're thinking too loud," she said.
Narkun frowned. "I didn't say anything."
"I know."
She reached out and adjusted his collar, a simple, familiar gesture. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
"You remember when I found you?" she asked.
Narkun shook his head. "You always tell the story."
Samantha smiled faintly. "That doesn't mean it stops being important."
She stared at the far wall, memories surfacing whether she invited them or not.
"You were quiet," she continued. "Too quiet for a child that young. I thought you were… gone. But when I touched you, your eyes opened."
Narkun swallowed. "Was I scary?"
"Yes," she admitted softly. "But not because of you."
He looked up at her then. "Then why?"
"Because the storm moved around you," she said. "Like it didn't want to touch you."
Narkun didn't know what to say to that.
Instead, he asked the question that had been sitting in his chest all day.
"Why do I have to go tomorrow?"
Samantha sighed. "Because hiding you isn't protecting you anymore."
He clenched his fists. "Everyone stares."
"They stare because they don't understand," she said. "And because they're afraid."
"Of me?"
"Of what you might become."
That answer didn't comfort him.Outside the village, beyond the reinforced gates and watch posts, the land stretched wild and untamed. Beasts roamed freely—some small, some large, some intelligent enough to form bonds with humans.
The elders believed exposure was necessary.
Tomorrow would be Narkun's first sanctioned outing—a controlled trek beyond the village perimeter with Ray, Rex, and a group of older trainees. No real danger.
At least, that was the plan.That night, Narkun dreamed.
He stood alone in a vast, empty space—no ground, no sky, only darkness streaked with faint red lines like veins.
Something towered behind him.
Not touching.
Not speaking.
Watching.
When he turned, he saw a shape—humanoid, shadowed, with eyes like distant stars burning through fog.
You are late, a voice echoed—not loud, not quiet, but absolute.
"I don't know who you are," Narkun said in the dream, his voice steady despite the fear curling in his stomach.
You will.
The shadow reached forward—but stopped inches away.
Tomorrow is not the beginning, it said.It is the reminder.
Narkun woke with a sharp gasp.
The room was dark. His heart hammered in his chest. Frost clung faintly to the edges of the window, even though the fire in the main room was still burning.
He pressed a hand to his chest.
Something was wrong.
Something was waiting.Morning came too quickly.
The village stirred before sunrise. Smoke rose from chimneys. The clang of metal echoed faintly as early training began. Narkun sat at the table, poking at his food.
Ray adjusted his gloves, excitement barely hidden beneath his practiced calm. Rex checked their packs again and again.
Max watched Narkun carefully.
"You feel it, don't you?" Max said quietly.
Narkun nodded. "Like the air is tight."
Max placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then listen. Don't fight it. Control comes before strength."
Samantha knelt in front of Narkun and placed something into his hand.
A small card, worn at the edges.
A king symbol etched into its center.
"For luck?" Narkun asked.
"For grounding," she replied. "When things get loud inside you… hold it."
He closed his fingers around it.
Outside, the gates creaked open.
The world waited.
And Narkun Ka took his first step toward it—unaware that by tomorrow, nothing would remain the same.