Gavric took the infant like he’d just been handed the core of the world. He stepped to the center of the chamber, beneath the moons’ twin glow now pouring in through the tall slitted windows, and raised the boy high.
"Welco—" he shouted, loud enough for the stone walls to rember it.
"Welco to House Kaelithar!"
The child’s lungs fought back imdiately. Another shrill cry filled the chamber, piercing and defiant.
And sowhere, buried under that voice—under the soft, pale skin and tiny, clenched hands—Elias’s soul cracked open.
He didn’t see the moons.
He didn’t see Gavric or Seraphine.
What he felt was the cold.
What he heard was his own heartbeat in soone else’s body, thudding out of rhythm.
Sothing scratched at his ribs. Sothing foreign, humming gently in the dark.
And then he heard it—
Veyren.
They called him Veyren Kaelithar.
He didn’t know that na. Didn’t want it.
What the actual fuck is going on?
The thought echoed through the quiet between heartbeats.
He tried to scream—couldn’t.
Tried to move—couldn’t.
Everything was too sharp. Too loud. Too slow.
The air pressed down. The shard in his shoulder pulsed once, cold and asured, like it was syncing to the new body around it. A second later, Dot’s light flared just faintly inside his mind—barely present, but there.
And then... stillness.
The cries faded.
The air thinned.
Elias—no, Veyren—sank beneath it all, the weight of two worlds folding over him.
Sleep took him before he could ask another question.
Elias opened his eyes.
Or maybe Veyren did.
The two thoughts sat on top of each other, indistinguishable. Blurred edges filled the world—shapes bleeding together like paint soaked too long in water. A calendar hung above him, nailed unevenly to a crooked wooden beam. Thirty-one numbers filled its surface in tight, deliberate strokes. At the top, the words High Sun curved across a faded yellow patch, the edges quilted in peeling fabric. The number 1 was circled in red. Everything after was marked out—six heavy Xs running straight to the 6th.
Six days.
Since what?
The answer should’ve been there. Just out of reach. His thoughts pushed toward it, but they slipped too easily. Like water. Like nothing.
The air tasted like warm linen. Beneath that, sothing sharper—bitter and green, crushed beneath soone’s heel, maybe herbs left out too long. His head rolled sideways, neck loose and unfamiliar, like it hadn’t carried weight in a while. The ceiling pressed in overhead. Wooden planks ran across it, old and dark, with knots set deep into the grain. They stared back at him without blinking.
His chest drew in a shallow breath. Not fear exactly. Just weight. Pressure. The heaviness of existing in a body that wasn’t quite his yet. Or maybe it was. He couldn’t tell.
I barely rember anything.
The thought drifted in, slow and shapeless. Words forming behind a fogged-up pane. His brain felt unfinished, like it was still stitching itself together in the background. Half-ford ideas tangled at the edges. Nothing settled. Nothing familiar.
Maybe it was still... developing.
A voice hit him first.
Loud. Too loud for how small his chest felt. His ribs rattled like they’d been made of glass.
"Veyren Kaelithar! Look at that grip already!"
The man’s face leaned in, all beard and booming grin. Broad nose. Green eyes. Pride bleeding through every edge of his expression. Elias blinked, trying to make sense of it, but the image swam—edges drifting. Gavric. That was his na. His father, apparently.
The man shifted him with one thick arm, the leather of his armor creaking as it bent. Sothing about the movent made Elias’s vision stutter again. He caught a glimpse of a crest—two moons etched into steel, crusted with dried mud. The shoulder pauldron caught the light from a slatted window above them, and for a mont, the whole scene tilted.
Then a hand ca up.
Rough, warm fingers brushed along his arm and shoulder. They stopped. Paused.
Sothing small and sharp stuck out from just beneath the skin.
It caught the light—a diamond-shaped shard, like crystal pressed into bone. It didn’t belong there. It shouldn’t have been there.
"This is strange, though, son..."
Gavric’s voice dropped. The pride didn’t fade, but sothing else crept in behind it. Caution. Curiosity. His thumb skimd across the shard without pushing down.
"How’d you get sothing like this? Never seen it on a babe before."
His eyes shifted toward the window. Sunlight poured in across the rooftops of Kenosha Shibuya—warm gold bleeding into the edges of pink. Elias watched him squint against it, voice low and steady.
"Makes wonder about that teor last week. News says it wasn’t Vorak, or those blue-faced bastards. No energy signatures. No follow-up scans. Nothing."
A laugh. Deep and amused, almost casual.
"Swear it nearly clipped my nose when I looked out."
teor.
The word hit sothing in him. Lit a spark. His mind churned, slow but uneven. That had been him, hadn’t it? Shooting through the stars like a bullet. That observatory. That roar. Being fired through space like—
It faded.
He tried to speak. Lips moved. A sound ca out, weak and wet. Barely a gurgle. The frustration ca faster than the noise.
This isn’t right.
His lungs pulled in tight. Muscles didn’t respond the way they should. Every attempt at control ended in shaking.
Maybe I could just... black out for a while.
Before the thought could settle, a sharper voice cut in.
"Father, why’re you talking to the baby like he understands? He can’t even speak!"
Elias’s head lolled sideways again, neck muscles twitching as he tried to follow the sound. A shape filled the doorway. Small fra. Wiry limbs. The boy couldn’t have been more than four, but stood tall for his age, chin angled like he thought height made him older.
His tunic looked expensive—deep green with silver embroidery worked into the seams—but the hem was tattered, ripped from whatever he’d been doing outside. His dark hair hung low across his brow. One hand pushed it back, fingers raking hard enough to tug. Behind the fringe, a freckled face glared at them both.
The frown wasn’t playful. It was set. Heavy.
Gavric laughed, full-bodied and warm. It filled the room with weight.
"I speak to everyone this way, Torren. No need to hold back for a child. I’m sure Veyren knows my intentions well enough."
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