The town of Lumeria was a place where nothing ever happened. It lay nestled between rolling hills and patches of thick forest, its narrow cobbled streets winding like veins through clusters of modest homes. People here lived simple lives, content with hard work and small joys. Yet on this day, Luxis 24th, 2003 NWC, the light of the sun seemed brighter, the air clearer, and the earth somehow quieter—waiting.

Inside a small stone house at the edge of town, Elena labored in agony, sweat beading on her brow as the afternoon sunlight poured through the single window. The cries of a mother in childbirth were nothing new in Lumeria, but for Marlen, pacing the floorboards in the next room, each sound sent a spear of dread through his heart.

"You're doing fine, Elena," the midwife's voice drifted through the door. "Almost there. Just one more…"

Marlen stopped mid-step, his hands clenched into fists. He had carved tables and tools, fitted doors and beams his whole life, but no craft could steady his trembling hands now. He turned toward the window, staring out at the golden landscape that stretched toward the distant forests. The fifth month of Luxis was a beautiful time. It was a month of light—warm, clear days when the crops flourished and the rivers ran full.

And on this day, his first child would be born.

Then silence.

Marlen froze, his breath catching in his throat. The quiet stretched on for what felt like an eternity until, finally, he heard it: a single, sharp cry. Short, not frantic like most newborns. The sound was small, as if testing itself against the stillness.

Marlen stumbled toward the door as it creaked open. The midwife stepped out, wiping her hands on her apron, a strange look on her face. She said nothing, only gestured him in.

The room smelled of sweat and warmth and new life. The first thing he saw was Elena, pale and exhausted but smiling through her tears. In her arms was their child, bundled tightly in a soft wool blanket.

"Is he…" Marlen could barely find the words.

"He's perfect," Elena whispered, her voice a mix of wonder and relief.

Marlen approached slowly, his boots creaking against the wooden floor. And then he saw him. A boy—his son—lay nestled against his mother, his face serene, his breathing even. But it wasn't his peaceful nature that stopped Marlen cold.

It was his eyes.

The child's eyes were wide open—golden—gazing at the room with a quiet, piercing awareness. Even newborns with the sharpest cries and loudest lungs would flail or wail, their faces red and scrunched in confusion. But not this boy.

Silver, as he would come to be known, was watching.

Marlen knelt beside the bed, his rough hands trembling as he reached out to brush his son's cheek. "Elena…" he murmured, his voice breaking. "His eyes."

Elena looked down at the boy and saw it too. His gaze was steady, sharp even, as if he were studying the shapes and sounds around him. The light from the window touched his soft features, and that was when they noticed his hair. Fine strands of silver framed his small face, not gray or dull but pure—brilliant, shimmering silver.

"Silver," Elena whispered without thinking. "That's his name. Like the light."

"Silver," Marlen repeated, stunned.

The boy blinked once, as if accepting the name, and continued to stare at them—his parents, his first connection to the world.

The midwife had left soon after, muttering something about "strange children born under the light." Marlen didn't hear her. He couldn't. All he could focus on was his son, resting now in Elena's arms, his small chest rising and falling in sleep.

That night, as darkness settled over Lumeria, Marlen sat by the hearth, carving a small wooden toy for his newborn son. The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows across the walls, but he hardly noticed. His thoughts raced like the streams beyond the fields.

"Marlen?"

He turned to see Elena standing at the doorway, Silver wrapped in her arms. She was still pale, but there was a glow to her face now, something serene.

"Couldn't sleep," she said softly.

Marlen set the small knife down and motioned for her to sit. She lowered herself into the rocking chair by the fire, cradling Silver carefully.

"He's not like other children," Marlen said after a long silence. "I've never seen eyes like that."

"He's special," Elena replied, brushing her fingers over Silver's soft hair. "I can feel it. Like… like he was born with a purpose."

Marlen looked into the flames, his face troubled. "I don't want that for him. Not here. Lumeria's a good town. A safe town. He shouldn't have to carry anything more than his own happiness."

Elena smiled faintly. "We don't decide what he carries, Marlen. We only give him the love to bear it."

Marlen turned to look at her and felt his heart settle, as it always did when Elena spoke. She had a way of making sense of things, of seeing the beauty in moments he might miss. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees.

"What do you think he sees?" he asked quietly.

Elena looked down at Silver, still awake, his golden eyes fixed on the flames.

"Everything," she whispered.

The weeks that followed were strange ones for Marlen and Elena. Silver was not a fussy child. He didn't wail in hunger or cry through sleepless nights. Instead, he watched. When Marlen worked in his shop, Silver would sit nearby in a cradle, his golden eyes following the movement of the tools, the fall of wood shavings, the rhythm of his father's hands.

Marlen often caught himself staring back at his son. "It's like he knows what I'm doing," he told Elena one evening.

Elena only smiled. "Maybe he does."

Silver's gaze seemed to unsettle others. Visitors who came to see the boy often left uneasy, whispering about his eyes, about how quiet he was. "Babies are supposed to cry," they would say. "Supposed to act like babies."

But Silver was not like other children.

By the time he was six months old, he had learned to recognize voices and faces, responding to his parents with small smiles or the faintest tilt of his head. His gaze lingered longest on his mother when she sang to him. Elena would cradle him close and hum soft melodies from her childhood, her voice filling the small house like sunlight spilling through cracks.

And Silver would stare at her, as though the notes themselves were flowing into him, stitching themselves into his mind.

For Marlen, the workshop became their place. He would talk to Silver while he worked, laughing at himself for speaking to an infant who couldn't possibly understand. "One day, I'll teach you this," he'd say, holding up a chisel. "We'll make something grand, just you and me."

Silver would blink at him, calm and curious.

And in those quiet moments, Marlen would forget his worries. He would forget the strange feeling in his chest when he looked into his son's golden eyes. He would forget that Silver was different. Because at the end of the day, he was their boy—their pride, their joy, their light.

At night, when the world was still, Silver would lie in his cradle, staring up at the beams of the ceiling. His mind was alive with questions he couldn't yet form. He didn't know what he was, or why he was, but he could feel it—deep inside, like a fire waiting to burn.

One day, he would understand. One day, he would find the answers to the questions that filled his mind.

But for now, he was content to watch, to listen, to learn.

And so, the legend of Silver began—not with cries or fanfare, but with a boy who simply opened his eyes to the world and wondered.