Morning came slowly to Greyhaven, March.

  Mist clung low over the Velmora River, turning the world pale and quiet. The storm from the night before had left broken branches along the banks, and bits of reeds floated near the shore like forgotten offerings.

  Lord Garrick Valecrest rode alone beside the river.

  He did this often after heavy rain. The Velmora had a habit of swelling too far and carrying strange things from upstream, broken carts, driftwood, sometimes worse. Greyhaven March stood on the outer edge of the Eryndor Kingdom, far from the bright capital of Aeloria. Borderlands were always the first to feel trouble and the last to receive help.

  Garrick preferred to see things himself.

  He slowed his horse near a bend in the river where the current grew gentle. Something had caught in the reeds.

  At first, he thought it was debris.

  Then it moved.

  The cradle was simple wood, damp from the river, wedged between stones and tangled grass. Inside it lay a child wrapped tightly in dark cloth.

  The boy was awake.

  Not crying. Not trembling.

  Watching.

  Garrick dismounted without speaking. His boots sank slightly into the mud as he stepped closer. The river water still lapped softly at the cradle's side.

  The boy's eyes were silver.

  Not the pale grey of mist. Brighter. Clearer.

  Garrick crouched.

  "Well," he murmured, almost to himself, "you're far from home."

  The child blinked once, as if unimpressed.

  Garrick lifted the cradle carefully and carried it back toward his horse. He did not look around for parents. No footprints marked the wet soil except his own. Whatever had sent the child downriver had done so with intention.

  The Velmora River flowed from lands far beyond Greyhaven. From mountains. From cities. From places that did not concern small border houses like his.

  Yet here the river had left this child.

  Garrick mounted and rode back toward Valecrest Keep.

  Greyhaven March was not a wealthy land.

  Wide plains stretched beyond the river, broken by patches of forest and old watchtowers that had not seen real war in decades. Farmers worked the steady soil. Fishermen rose before dawn. The people were practical and proud.

  Above the village of Brindleford stood Valecrest Keep.

  It was not a grand castle. Its stone walls bore weather stains and repaired cracks. Old banners hung inside its hall, faded symbols of past battles. The Valecrest crest, a simple silver blade over a dark shield, marked the gate.

  House Valecrest had once led knights in service of the Eryndor crown.

  Now they guarded a quiet border and managed fields.

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  Honor remained.

  Influence did not.

  Garrick rode through the gates. Stable hands bowed lightly. One of them frowned when he saw the cradle.

  "My lord?"

  "Call Lady Seraphine," Garrick said. "And Rowan."

  Inside the main hall, a fire burned low despite the morning light. Lady Seraphine Valecrest stood near the long table, speaking with a steward about grain storage when Garrick entered.

  She stopped mid-sentence.

  The steward's eyes widened.

  Garrick set the cradle on the table.

  Seraphine stepped forward slowly.

  "A child?" she asked quietly.

  "From the river."

  She pulled back the cloth gently.

  The boy looked up at her without fear.

  Seraphine's expression softened at once. Not with surprise, with something closer to recognition. As if she had expected this moment without knowing why.

  Rowan Valecrest burst into the hall seconds later, hair half-combed and boots unlaced.

  "What is it? Did the river flood again?"

  He stopped when he saw the cradle.

  "…Oh."

  He circled the table once, leaning in.

  "Is he dead?"

  The boy reached out suddenly and grabbed Rowan's finger.

  Rowan blinked.

  "No," he said after a moment. "Definitely not dead."

  Seraphine gave Rowan a look.

  Rowan straightened slightly. "I meant he looks fine."

  Garrick removed his gloves slowly.

  "There were no tracks," he said. "No sign of anyone nearby."

  Seraphine noticed something around the child's neck, a small pendant, half-shaped, carved with a faint symbol that looked almost like a jagged line.

  She did not comment on it.

  "Brindleford will talk," she said instead. "They always do."

  "They already talk," Rowan muttered.

  Garrick rested one hand on the table.

  "If we send him to the capital, he becomes someone else's burden. Or someone's experiment."

  Rowan tilted his head. "Experiment?"

  "People with influence grow curious about unknown things," Garrick replied calmly.

  Seraphine looked at the child again. The boy had not cried once.

  He simply observed each of them in turn.

  "What would you call him?" Rowan asked suddenly.

  Garrick did not answer at once.

  Outside, the last rumble of distant thunder rolled across the plains. Not loud. Just enough to remind them the storm had not fully left.

  Seraphine brushed a thumb lightly across the boy's cheek.

  "He needs a name," she said.

  Garrick studied the child's steady gaze.

  "Rael," he said finally.

  Rowan blinked. "Rael?"

  "It suits him."

  Rowan shrugged. "Better than 'River.'"

  Seraphine almost smiled.

  "Rael Valecrest," she said softly, as if testing the sound.

  The boy's fingers tightened faintly around Rowan's hand.

  Rowan stared down at him.

  "…He's strong."

  "He's a baby," Seraphine said.

  "Still."

  Later that evening, the storm returned briefly, only as wind.

  Rael lay in a small cradle near the hearth. The fire crackled gently, casting shadows along the stone walls.

  Garrick stood by the window, watching the fields darken.

  Seraphine adjusted the blanket around the child.

  Rowan sat cross-legged nearby, pretending not to watch too closely.

  The wind rattled the shutters once.

  Then again.

  Rael's hand shifted near his chest.

  The pendant at his neck caught the firelight.

  For a heartbeat, the air in the room felt tight.

  The candle flame nearest the cradle flickered sideways, though no breeze touched it.

  Rowan frowned.

  "Did you..."

  A faint spark snapped softly between Rael's fingers. Quick. Thin. Gone.

  Seraphine froze.

  Garrick turned sharply but did not speak.

  Rael yawned.

  The tension dissolved as quickly as it had formed.

  Rowan stared at his own hand as if expecting it to spark too.

  "…I didn't imagine that," he said quietly.

  Garrick walked closer to the cradle. He knelt, studying the child.

  Rael's breathing was calm. Steady.

  Not frightened.

  Garrick extended a finger carefully toward the boy's hand.

  A small prickling sensation brushed his skin like the air before lightning strikes far away.

  Very faint.

  Very real.

  Garrick did not pull back.

  Seraphine looked between them.

  "He's just a child," she whispered.

  "Yes," Garrick replied.

  He stood slowly.

  Outside, the wind finally settled. Clouds thinned enough for a pale moon to show.

  From the courtyard, a guard laughed about something trivial. A horse stamped in its stall. The keep continued its quiet routines, unaware that anything unusual had happened.

  Rowan leaned closer to the cradle again.

  "Rael," he said experimentally.

  The boy opened one eye.

  Rowan snorted softly. "You're strange."

  Rael blinked once more, then drifted back to sleep.

  Garrick looked toward the distant plains beyond the walls of Valecrest Keep.

  Greyhaven March had seen long years of peace.

  Fields had replaced battle lines.

  Old towers stood empty.

  House Valecrest guarded land that few envied.

  He rested a hand lightly on the stone window frame.

  A child from the river now bore their name.

  A child who carried quiet sparks in his fingers.

  Garrick did not smile.

  He only watched the horizon until the moon climbed higher, and the wind carried no more storms.