The sound of metal being struck echoed again—sharp, rhythmic, steady. Like a heartbeat made of iron.
Each clang rippled through the quiet little house, through the smoke-warmed walls, and up to the open window where a boy sat, legs crossed, eyes lowered into a book that looked too worn for its age.
The pages whispered as he turned them. Slowly.
Caelum sat in silence, leaning slightly forward, the warm amber light from the window stretching across his dark tunic and dust-flecked hair. His eyes, a deep gray with an oddly calm intensity, flicked over the lines of a handwritten text on elemental resonance—though anyone watching wouldn't be able to tell if he was reading or merely staring.
Below him, the forge crackled with life.
And the man who raised him—Dain Varian, broad-shouldered, flame-scarred, and always shirtless when he worked—lifted his hammer again.
Clang.
Caelum didn't flinch. He never did.
He simply blinked, shifted slightly, and underlined a word with a bit of charcoal.
---
The Varian household sat at the edge of Veredale, a quiet, working-class village tucked between emerald valleys and worn trade roads. It wasn't poor, but no one here was rich. Blacksmiths, potters, healers, and tool merchants made up most of the town—and in Veredale, the Varians were trusted, respected. Even admired.
It was a small world. But for Caelum, it had been a quiet one.
He was not born here. No one talked about that—not in front of him.
He had been found in the woods nine years ago, blood on his clothes, empty eyes staring at the darkened sky. A boy with no voice for weeks, and no memories that made sense. Just fragments.
But Dain and Elara—his adoptive mother, soft-spoken and sharper than any blade Dain forged—had taken him in.
They raised him like their own.
Fed him.
Held him when the night terrors came.
And never asked for anything in return.
Except, perhaps, for this one thing.
---
Downstairs, the forge hissed as Dain dipped a newly shaped blade into the barrel.
Steam bloomed like breath on a winter morning.
"Cael!" his voice boomed.
"Hmm?" the boy answered, without looking up.
"Elara says you're to wear something decent today. We're expecting visitors."
Caelum's eyes lifted, brow arching slightly. He tilted his head toward the window.
Through it, in the far-off path beyond the market, a man in a green courier cloak rode toward their home—his sigil pouch fluttering against his hip.
Caelum's book shut with a soft thump.
---
By noon, half the village had heard.
The Varians were hosting a celebration. A real one.
For the boy who had passed the entrance exam to Argent Vale Academy.
Of course, there were whispers.
"Didn't think he had it in him."
"Quiet boy like that?"
"Must've studied like a madman…"
They weren't wrong.
Caelum hadn't passed the exam because he had natural talent.
He had passed because he had memorized every book the town library had on basic mana theory.
Because Elara had told him once, gently, that "it would make her proud."
Because Dain had bought him a carved wooden pendant and said, "Wear this when you become someone."
He hadn't wanted to go.
But he had passed. So he would go.
Not for ambition.
Not for revenge.
Not for fate.
But for the only two people who had ever called him son.
---
The celebration was modest, but bright. A few lanterns, some stringed music, and warm stew in every bowl. Elara wore her hair braided, smiling more than usual. Dain, half-tipsy, clapped Caelum's shoulder with calloused hands and barked laughter across the tables.
Elira—his sister in everything but blood—sat across from him, cheeks puffed with cake and eyes bright with pride.
"You better write me letters, you know," she said, mouth full.
Caelum nodded once, the corners of his lips twitching.
"You're really going," she added, quieter. "To Argent Vale."
He didn't answer.
He just looked up at the stars.
---
And somewhere deep beneath the celebration—deeper than even the Varians could know—something stirred.
An old seal.
An ancient breath.
And a mark, hidden within the name Caelum… waiting to awaken.