It was a crisp autumn day in the village of Priscilla, nestled on the northern edge of Calanoid. A gentle breeze carried the scent of fallen leaves through the air, but the villagers' attention was fixed on the eastern side of the village, where a quiet excitement stirred.

  They had gathered for a celebration — the birth of a child.

  Inside the small, warmly lit chamber of the village healer, a woman cradled her newborn son in her arms. Her name was Melan?e, and her soft brown hair fell gently over her shoulders as she looked down with love in her deep, dark eyes. The child she held was small and delicate, his face peaceful. But what caught everyone’s attention were his eyes — one was a gleaming silver slit, like a dragon’s, while the other was a deep, earthy brown.

  At her feet stood her firstborn, a boy no older than nine. Reid, with his tousled brown hair and kind eyes that mirrored his mother’s warmth, stared up at the baby in wonder. One of his eyes, though, was different — golden and sharp, like the gaze of a jaguar hidden in the shadows.

  Melan?e leaned down slightly.

  “Say hello to your brother, Reid,” she said gently.

  Reid’s eyes sparkled. “He’s beautiful, Mom…” He paused, the joy in his face softening into curiosity. “Why does his left eye look like that?"

  Melan?e smiled softly. “That’s the Dragon Eye, Reid. It’s a rare gift. A little like one of your eyes… but something more.”

  Reid didn’t fully understand, but he nodded, his face still glowing with excitement.

  Outside, the villagers murmured among themselves, their voices low but laced with curiosity and unease.

  “He has that eye…”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “They say the prince of Tollia was born with one — but no one else ever has.”

  Despite the whispers, the crowd tried to remain composed, offering warm smiles and hesitant congratulations. From among them, a woman with long black hair stepped forward.

  “What will you name him, Melan?e?” she asked.

  Melan?e looked up, her voice calm and sure. “His name is Arttu.”

  The woman smiled. “What a strong name. Congratulations — and if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Thank you, Frigg. You’re always a great help.”

  Standing just behind Frigg was a quiet boy with downcast eyes. He looked like he was about Reid’s age. His hair was dark like his mother’s, and his face held a certain stillness, almost distant. His eyes, though — they were something else entirely. One was dark and ordinary. The other... the left — was unlike anything the villagers had seen. It was shaped with strange, almost geometric precision, as though a craftsman had carved it himself. And it pulsed faintly with a cool blue light.

  Frigg gently nudged him forward. “Go on, Lucius. Say congratulations to Ms. Melan?e and Reid.”

  Lucius spoke softly, barely above a whisper. “Congratulations, Ms. Melan?e… And you too, Reid.”

  Reid beamed. “Thanks, Lucius.”

  And in that small, glowing room — under flickering lamplight and a sky drifting into dusk — three boys stood together for the first time. Each one marked by something different. Each one carrying a secret written in their eyes.

  For days, the villagers came bearing gifts for Melan?e.

  “Here is a little gift from us, Melan?e. Please take it.”

  Basket after basket, trinket after trinket — tokens of goodwill piled at her door. Melan?e accepted each one with a soft smile, her gratitude genuine.

  Yet when the door closed and the murmurs faded, the house grew still — and in that silence, the warmth she’d worn like armor began to crack.

  Her hands trembled when she lifted Arttu from the cradle. The weight of him, though small, pressed against a weakness that had taken root deep inside her bones. It wasn’t pain exactly — more like a slow fading, a gentle unraveling of strength. Sometimes she felt as though her body was turning into mist, piece by piece, while her heart refused to let go of the world.

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  She sat by the window where the afternoon light spilled across the floorboards, watching Reid chase the wind outside. The sight filled her with joy — and a quiet ache. He will need me for only a little while longer, she thought. And the little one… Her gaze fell to Arttu’s silver-slit eye, reflecting the sun in strange patterns. He will need me most of all.

  A cough escaped her lips — small, but sharp enough to steal her breath. She pressed a hand to her chest and forced another smile, as though smiling might convince her body to believe it was fine. She had grown good at that — pretending that tiredness was nothing, that warmth could hide decay.

  No one noticed the way she gripped the chair to steady herself when standing. No one saw the nights when she stayed awake just to listen — to the rain, to her sons’ breathing, to the fading rhythm of her own heart.

  A quiet sickness lingered in her body, but she never let anyone see it. She held her pain alone.

  One afternoon, as she rested in bed with baby Arttu nestled at her side, Reid burst into the room, his voice bright with excitement.

  “Mom! Can I play with Arttu a little bit?”

  Melan?e chuckled weakly. “Reid, he’s just a baby. You’ll have to wait until he’s grown.”

  Reid sighed, his shoulders drooping. “Okay… then can I at least show him around the village?”

  She hesitated, then relented with a faint smile. “Be careful, Reid. Promise me.”

  “I promise!” he beamed, scooping up his little brother, swaddled in a blanket.

  The sun was high that day, glowing as if it had just been born. Clouds drifted lazily, and the breeze carried the warmth of autumn. Reid walked proudly through the village, Arttu in his arms. The people greeted them with wide smiles.

  “Oh, Reid,” one villager called, “is that little Arttu?”

  “Yes, sir!” Reid said, puffing his chest. “This is my little brother.”

  The man chuckled. “So cute. You were just like this once, Reid.”

  Reid scratched the back of his neck, tilting his head with a playful grin spreading across his face. “Was I? Hehehe…”

  Whispers of joy followed them as Reid carried Arttu toward a tall, crooked-roofed building — the House of the Mage. Its attic twisted like a witch’s hat, looming over the village. Reid knocked three times, sharp and certain.

  The door creaked open to reveal a tall, black-haired woman. Frigg smiled warmly. “Oh, Reid — you came with your little brother.”

  “Yes, Ms. Frigg,” Reid said cheerfully. “Is Lucius here?”

  “Of course. Let me call him.” She turned her head and shouted. “Lucius! Reid is here!”

  Heavy footsteps echoed down the stairwell. Lucius descended slowly, a large black cloak draped over his small frame.

  Frigg frowned. “Lucius, what are you wearing? Change into proper clothes — that cloak is too big for you.”

  Lucius’ shoulders sank. Wordlessly, he began to slip the cloak off. Reid, unable to contain himself, burst out laughing.

  Lucius glanced at him — and though he tried to hide it, the corner of his mouth curved into the faintest smile.

  Frigg sighed and waved them off. “Go on, then. But don’t get into trouble.”

  The two boys walked past tall trees, over streams, beneath buzzing bees and darting squirrels, until at last they reached the lake.

  “Fight me, Reid,” Lucius said suddenly.

  “I can’t. Arttu’s here,” Reid answered, tightening his hold on the baby.

  “Just put him near the tree. He’ll be fine. Come on.”

  Reid hesitated, then sighed. “Alright, fine.” He set Arttu gently against the roots of a tree, wrapping the blanket securely.

  Then he turned back, his golden Beast Eye flashing. With a burst of speed, he lunged.

  Lucius’ own eye ignited — pale, geometric, the light of an Angel. At the last instant, he sidestepped, raising his wand. A fireball blossomed, massive, far too large for a child to conjure. Heat rippled in the air.

  Reid’s eye flared brighter. He dashed forward faster than before, striking Lucius squarely in the chest before the spell could release. Lucius crashed to the ground, coughing.

  Frustration twisted his face. His wand shook as he whispered words of forbidden power.

  “Faa-XIOOOLAA”

  Darkness pooled in his hand — a black sphere, void and hunger incarnate.

  Reid’s eyes widened. He grabbed Lucius’ wrist and shouted, furious:

  “What are you doing, Lucius?! Why are you using cursed magic?”

  Lucius’ voice cracked, almost breaking into tears.

  “Because you’re always stronger than me! I can’t win against you, Reid! I never can! And if cursed magic is the only way I stand a chance… why shouldn’t I use it?!”

  Reid’s anger froze into dread. He felt something dark, something ominous. His gaze snapped to the tree where Arttu lay.

  A monstrous hog, massive and dripping with black aura, loomed over the infant. Its tusks glistened with corruption, and every breath carried the stench of decay.

  “Arttu!” Reid cried.

  He charged, his Beast Eye blazing. His strike met only air — the beast twisted its head and slammed him aside. Reid hit the ground hard, agony bursting through his body.

  The beast turned its snout back toward the baby. Sniffed. Snorted. And, strangely, turned away, as though losing interest.

  Lucius stumbled to Reid’s side, panic flooding his face. “Reid, are you—”

  “Don’t care about me,” Reid gasped, blood seeping from his side. “Get Arttu… now.”

  Lucius nodded frantically, scooping up Arttu in his arms. Together, he and Reid staggered back toward the healer’s court.

  The healer worked quickly. The wounds, though bloody, were not fatal. Relief washed through the room — but when Melan?e and Frigg arrived and saw the boys, their relief turned to fury.

  “You are not going to the lake again!” they shouted in unison.

  Both boys lowered their heads, guilty, silent.