(Kael, Age 7 — Elyndria)
⸻
Morning air draped the Varos homestead in crisp, cool stillness. The scent of wet grass mingled with river mist, drifting from the valley below. Beneath the lone cedar tree—its branches arched protectively over the hilltop—a grown man and a barefoot child stood facing one another on dew-silvered earth.
Taren Varos lifted his wooden practice sword and settled into a stance that fit him like an old memory.
"Again," he said.
Kael mirrored him—not perfectly, but with unsettling precision for someone only seven years old. His feet spaced just right. Shoulders squared. Chin tucked. Spine poised. No wobble. No hesitation. No childish looseness.
Even Taren—who had once commanded Elyndria's eastern battalions—had never seen a child move like this.
Their wooden blades snapped together with a sharp crack.
Kael pushed forward immediately, his wrists rolling with practiced control as he redirected Taren's strike using a parry too clean, too disciplined for a boy his age. Taren stepped back, swept low, aiming to break Kael's balance.
Kael didn't fall.
He jumped—fluid, wind-light—twisting over the sweep and landing silently behind his father before Taren's foot had even touched down.
Taren blinked at him. "Where did you learn that?"
Kael shrugged lightly. "I just… knew it."
No seven-year-old should "just know" advanced combat footwork.
Taren slowly lowered his blade. "Kael… you're copying my movements exactly. Not just the ones I teach you. The ones I used years ago—techniques you've never seen."
Kael's stomach tightened.
He wasn't copying.He was remembering.
From another life, another battlefield, another death.
But he could never say that.
So he kept his voice steady. "You move the same way every morning. I watch."
Taren studied him with a mixture of pride and something heavier—concern, maybe even fear. Before he could speak again, Mira's voice drifted from the house.
"Kael! Taren! Breakfast in ten minutes!"
Taren shook his head, chuckling. "Your mother thinks we're just 'sparring lightly' out here."
Kael's laughter escaped before he could stop it.
He lowered his practice blade—
—and a gentle breeze curled across the yard, brushing his hair, circling his hands like a curious spirit.
Kael's heartbeat stumbled.
The Source stirred—not Body or Mind, but Soul. The one that had slipped through his fingers his entire past life. The one tied to wind, movement, breath.
Behind Taren's back, Kael lifted his palm just slightly.
The air shivered.
A thin coil of wind spiraled around his hand—delicate, playful, invisible unless someone knew exactly where to look.
Kael breathed with it, guiding it without moving a muscle.
Easy… stay small… don't call attention…
The breeze obeyed, circling his wrist once before dissolving into the morning air.
He dropped his hand as Taren turned back.
"Ready for another round?" Taren asked.
Kael nodded quickly, hiding the warmth of exhilaration rising in his chest.
He had been practicing every night.
Wind. Pressure. Motion.
Not enough to rouse suspicion. Never enough to draw the attention of whatever watched him from above.
But enough to grow.
⸻
Later That Day
The village training yard buzzed with heat and noise. Wooden swords clacked. Dust puffed under running feet. Children from ages seven to twelve moved in uneven pairs, sparring under the eyes of supervising adults.
Kael stood at the edge of the yard, hands folded behind him. His posture was calm—too calm. His eyes tracked every pair of fighters, analyzing stances, timing, breathing.
Most seven-year-olds fidgeted.
Kael calculated.
Several mothers whispered nearby, assuming he couldn't hear.
"That Varos boy is strange."
"Strange? He's gifted."
"But the way he watches people… it's like—"
"—like he's older than he should be."
Kael pretended not to notice.
He always noticed.
A bright voice cut through the noise.
"Kael! There you are!"
He turned just in time for a girl to race toward him—barefoot, braid bouncing, face bright with unrestrained excitement.
Lyria Saren.
His closest friend.
"You disappeared again," she said, planting hands on her hips. "I've been looking for you."
Kael gave her a soft smile. "Training with my father."
"You always are." She groaned dramatically. "You're going to leave the rest of us behind."
Kael blinked. "You can train with us."
"I tried once." She shuddered. "Your father made me run laps until I saw three suns."
Kael laughed before he could stop himself. Lyria lit up.
"You should smile more," she said gently.
"Why?"
"Because it makes you look your age."
Kael stared at her longer than any child should stare at anything. Something warm rose in his chest—complicated, unfamiliar.
Before he could respond, a sharp voice sliced through the air.
"Taren Varos."
Every adult in the yard stiffened.
A tall man approached—a lean frame, gray hair tied back, eyes sharp as cut steel. He carried no weapon, yet his presence filled the yard like someone who no longer needed one.
Taren straightened instantly. "Master Eiran Thalos."
Kael's pulse tightened.
Eiran Thalos.Taren's former commander.The man who once oversaw the elite Eastern Guard.
Taren bowed deeply.
Eiran motioned him up with a flick of his fingers. "Word travels fast when unusual talent appears. A seven-year-old, mastering Eastern forms faster than his father can keep up."
Taren exhaled through his nose. "That would be my son."
Kael held his breath.
Eiran's gaze shifted to him—piercing, not unkind, but impossibly discerning.
"Show me your stance," Eiran said.
Kael obeyed.
He grounded his feet. Relaxed his shoulders. Angled his wooden blade to cut away incoming force.
The old master's brows lifted slightly.
"Again."
Kael shifted seamlessly into another stance.
Then another.
Then another.
He flowed through them with disciplined precision—stances meant for grown fighters, executed by a seven-year-old with the memory of a thirty-year-old soldier.
Lyria watched, wide-eyed.The other children whispered.Taren stood silent, torn between pride and disbelief.
Eiran studied Kael with a stillness that made Kael's spine tighten.
When Kael finished the final stance, the old master stepped closer.
"How long has he trained?" Eiran asked.
Taren hesitated. "…Two years."
Eiran didn't look away from Kael.
"No," he murmured. "This is not two years' work."
Kael's stomach twisted.
Had he seen too much?
Eiran crouched until they were eye-level.
"Kael," he said quietly, "how do you know what you know?"
Kael opened his mouth—
—and the wind rustled behind him, swirling around his ankle like a warning.
Not yet.
He lowered his gaze.
"I watch," he said softly."I learn fast."
Eiran held his eyes for a long, slow moment.
Then he nodded.
"Taren," he said, standing, "your son needs a teacher beyond what this village can provide."
Taren's jaw tightened. "I know."
"I can train him," Eiran said. "But you understand what comes with that."
Kael looked between them.
A moment that would change everything.
Eiran turned fully to Kael.
"There is power in you," he said. "Too much to ignore. Too much to leave unshaped. If no one guides you, the world will—and the world is far less gentle than I."
Lyria slipped her hand into Kael's without thinking.
"Kael… say yes."
He lifted his eyes to the sky.
The wind brushed his cheek—soft, encouraging.Something ancient watched from above, waiting.
Kael lowered his gaze.
"I want to learn," he said.
For the first time, Eiran smiled.
"Then the storm has chosen its path."
As Kael followed his new master onto the training grounds, a breeze spiraled around his wrist—faint, almost proud.
And Kael whispered into the wind:
Soon. I'll open the Soul Gate soon.And when I do… the world will hear me.