This is a story that starts with a star. One so beautiful and bright, seen throughout the galaxy. Then one day, the light begins to fade… then brighten… then collapse.
A star once radiant, now dying.
Unending silence followed. Then—folding like petals toward a single point—not death, but birth. In the vacuum of space, something stirred.
A dream, maybe a mirage. Something not seen by eyes. Moving silently through the void. For four years it drifted unnoticed—a sphere cradled in violet light, streaking between planets, wrapped in the Myhn and time itself. The vacuum did not want to let it go, like a mother's reluctance to part with her child.
A violet streak passed through the atmosphere of the planet Cytrix.
The sphere, guided by the Myhn, descended in silence into the forest of a life-filled world. Trees turned their leaves toward it. Air shimmered. As it passed overhead, the canopy shifted—branches curled, petals bloomed then withered. In its wake, leaves turned violet and the very breath of the forest stilled.
In a clearing where no roots reached and no birds sang, the sphere gently touched down. It made no sound. It left no scar. The shell unraveled into motes of light that vanished into the mist. And in the soft grass at the center, a child—a boy—lay sleeping. Quiet. Breath steady. Eyes closed.
Thus, the world began to change.
Suhra had already been stirring before the streak lit the sky. A Weaver long removed from city and council, she lived among trees older than memory, in a home not built but grown—twisting roots and vines forming warm hollows and listening walls. The Myhn here was gentle, aged, respectful.
But this night, it screamed.
She felt the pull of something unfamiliar. A tremble in the weave. She wrapped herself in bark-woven robes and followed it, bare feet treading soft ground as the forest whispered warnings.
When she reached the clearing, she froze.
Violet light clung to the edges of trees. The air itself seemed thick with Myhn—coiled, waiting, watching.
And at its center… the boy.
She did not speak. She only listened—to the threads in the ground, the shimmer in the air, the breath of the forest holding itself still. She stepped closer. Her fingers hovered above him.
The Myhn responded.
Not like a threat. Like a memory. A recognition.
Her eyes caught the mark on his chest—clear and delicate, shaped like the unfolding petals of a star. It glowed faintly with violet hue, the same color that danced in the air around him.
She knelt beside him in disbelief.
No one was born with a mark. They were earned. Formed only when someone had truly mastered a form of Myhn, shaped by years of will, practice, and depth of understanding. Even among the Weavers, only a few lived long enough or deep enough to bear one.
And yet, this boy…
"Ashai," she whispered.
A word from the old tongue. Echo.
She wrapped him in her cloak and turned back through the trees.
She did not sleep that night.
The child was placed beside the central hearth of her dwelling. The fire did not flicker. It bowed. Threads of Myhn curled from the walls, gathering slowly near the boy, drifting close like curious insects.
Suhra sat beside him, watching the mark as it pulsed with his breath. She traced its shape in the air—petal by petal—trying to understand its structure. The Myhn around it bent strangely, not bound to a single element, but something deeper. Broader.
Not elemental. Not spiritual. Not divine.
Something else.
He slept for most of the first day. She wove protections around him—not to trap, but to contain. His presence pulled at everything. Her garden bloomed overnight. Her loom's patterns frayed without touch.
The forest outside grew quiet. Listening.
On the second day, he awoke.
He opened his eyes without fear. He looked at her as if he already knew her. When she reached for him, the threads between them shimmered faintly. She touched his skin—warm, smooth, humming faintly with unseen power.
She fed him root milk and boiled mash. He took it in calmly, as if this were all expected.
That night, she sang an old lullaby from her youth, one not sung in decades. As her voice drifted, tiny blossoms opened along the wooden walls. Moss shifted into spirals.
When she stopped, the blossoms closed. He smiled.
She didn't.
On the third day, he sat upright on his own.
Suhra tried a simple weave in front of him—a light in her palm, a floating ember spell. His eyes tracked every motion. Then, as if reaching for a memory rather than mimicking a lesson, he lifted his hand.
A brilliant thread formed in the air.
Not raw. Not wild. Perfect.
It hovered, dancing like a feather caught in breath, then vanished as he laughed.
Suhra's heart skipped. No training. No words. No effort. The Myhn bent to his will as if it had always been part of him.
That night, she wove barriers around her dwelling. Then reinforced them. And again.
By the fourth day, it was clear the forest was reacting.
Animals no longer came close. Myhn pooled in thick ribbons outside her door. Even the Singing Tree, an ancient oak that hummed only when rain neared, had grown silent.
Ashai did not cry. He did not babble. He simply watched. Listened. Reached, now and then, to touch threads in the air as if they whispered to him alone.
Suhra began recording her observations in the old Weaving tongue. Symbols of resonance. Disruption. Harmony. But the mark on his chest did not match anything she knew. It wasn't a symbol of a mastered discipline.
It was something older. Or newer. A truth the Myhn had never spoken before.
On the fifth day, she found herself holding him longer than needed. He had fallen asleep beside the hearth, curled under a robe too large. His breath was calm. Myhn no longer surged around him—but it responded to him. Like leaves follow the wind.
She brushed a strand of hair from his face and whispered, "You weren't meant to be here, were you?"
But he was.
Of that, she was now certain.
Whatever he was, wherever he came from… the threads of Cytrix had already begun to change around him.
And when the world noticed, when others who studied the weave came to question the ripple in the fabric—what then?
She held him tighter.
Not yet. Not now.
Let the world sleep a little longer.
Let the stars forget what they sent.
Let Ashai just… be a child.