Tiny fragments in the cosmos support each other.
They support life. They support death.
Fire, Water, Shadow, Light, threads woven into existence itself.
All created by the Creator, the one called Brahm, and watched over by the Watcher, whose silent duty is to keep the balance from tipping too far.
It was a dark, stormy night. Rain clawed at the chapel walls and the wind howled through broken stone like a restless spirit. I had stayed behind in the chapel to inspect the damaged roof, the smell of wet wood and old incense heavy in the air, when I saw a woman in a frantic state rush inside. Her cloak was soaked, her breath uneven. Without a word, she placed a basket near the altar, hesitated for the briefest moment, and then ran off, swallowed by the storm before I could call out.
The basket was heavy.
Inside, there was a baby wrapped in a small blanket, worn thin by use. Tiny fingers, pale and delicate like snowflakes, curled weakly against the cloth. Striking red hair crowned his head, though at the edges it darkened, as if touched by shadow or burned by some hidden flame.
I took him in, because that is what we do.
Near dawn, when the stormy night had finally given up and the rain softened into a distant whisper, I sat near the fireplace. The warmth crackled softly, chasing away the cold that clung to stone and bone alike. Sister Abigail and Sister Julia stood beside me, looking down at the boy, their faces softened and charmed by the small thing called life.
"So, Father Blake," Sister Abigail asked gently, "what should we call him?"
It was a question I did want to answer, and yet could not. My mind wished to call him Snowflakes, for his pale complexion and fragile fingers. My heart, however, burned with another name, Redflame, for the fire in his hair and something restless I could not explain.
I picked up the boy, his weight light but real in my arms, and asked softly, "What do you want to be called, boy?"
His eyes stirred open.
Shimmering silver eyes met mine, clear and unsettling, far too aware for a newborn. He searched the room, as if looking for someone he knew should be there, his mother perhaps, and when he did not find her, the dam broke. His cry filled the chapel, echoing off the stone walls and into the quiet morning.
"Sister Abigail," I said, holding him closer, "get the bottle of milk. We need to give Silver something to drink."
I still remember it like it was yesterday. The weight of him in my arms, the sound of his cry echoing through stone, the way the fire cracked softly as dawn crept in through the chapel windows. And yet today, he is leaving us, leaving our little rocky village that clings to the hills like an afterthought of the world.
The morning air is cool, carrying the smell of damp earth and smoke from dying hearths. The road beyond the village is quiet, but it leads far, toward stone walls, high towers, and a destiny no child should have to carry so young. Silver stands at the edge of it, taller now, stronger, his red hair catching the early light, those silver eyes steady but unreadable.
He is going to take the Magic Knight test in the Capital, Emberheaven, at the Grand Magic Academy. A place of marble halls, burning sigils, and judgment passed by strangers who do not know the boy we raised here. They will see only power, not the child who once slept beside a chapel fire.
I place a hand on his shoulder, feeling the warmth of life beneath cloth and armor, and offer the only blessing I truly have.
I wish you luck, my dear child.
May the gods' grace guide you, wherever this path leads.