The days in Whistlehollow passed with quiet grace.
It was a modest village nestled in a cradle of mossy hills, where clouds drifted low and the rivers moved unhurried. Farmers greeted each morning with bowed heads and calloused hands. Children played with stones and sticks. And in a cottage on the edge of town, Rina lived with a child who had become... normal.
Aleron still cooed and cried like any child. His limbs moved with infant clumsiness. The spark—the unnerving awareness that once lingered behind his gaze—was no longer there. He laughed more now, smiled freely, but it was the innocence of a boy untouched by another life.
Rina noticed.
She never said it aloud. But she watched him. When he napped too long. When he stared too long at nothing. When the brilliance behind his eyes had dimmed to gentleness.
She didn't know what had changed, only that it had. But she didn't stop loving him. In fact, she became gentler, quieter—protective in a way that seemed almost sacred.
Life in Whistlehollow moved on.
The neighbors came by. The baker's wife brought bread, the shepherd left wool by the door. And Rina tended to the fields with quiet discipline. But sometimes, when night fell and Aleron was asleep, she would slip out. Disappear into the woods. Not for long. Just enough time to summon something in silence—or light a spell that faded before it was seen.
The result was unspoken but undeniable: the village thrived.
Crops grew stronger. The river stayed full. Stray monsters never came too close. Whistlehollow, a humble D-rank village, became safer and more prosperous than many C-rank towns. People began to speak of good fortune and blessings—but no one asked why.
She was more than she seemed.
One evening, a merchant passed through town. He spoke of unrest in the south, of noble lines falling, and soldiers conscripted for strange missions. Rina asked no questions, but her lips tightened.
Later that night, she stood at the hearth with a letter in her hands. The paper burned quickly, her expression unreadable.
Aleron slept soundly through it all.
And in the still of that simple life, no one noticed the faint shimmer that sometimes pulsed behind the child's closed eyes.
At the edge of the woods, a man in a grey cloak watched the village with pale eyes.
He wore the robes of a minor priest from the northern temple, his words sweet, his smile hollow. He had come with blessings. With stories. With promises.
But he stayed too long.
He watched the children too closely.
He lingered at Rina's door longer than courtesy allowed.
He would send a report—nothing more. A vague mention of a village with unusual mana stability. Enough to keep the higher ranks interested, but far from alarming.
Far from Whistlehollow, in a sanctum deep beneath the earth, a figure knelt before an obsidian altar. Incense coiled through the air, and candles burned with unnatural flame.
A voice—measured, ancient—chanted softly, recording signs and signals that would someday draw attention.
But not yet.
The fire remained low. The name of the child was unknown.
Only the faintest curiosity had been sparked.
In a quiet cradle, the child named Aleron twitched in his sleep.
The system, buried deep within his soul, stirred.
[Stasis Recovery: 14% Complete]
The flame had not gone out.
It only slept.