The floorboards of the Kaelithar manor settled as the evening cooled. Elias lay flat on his back beneath the quilted wool blanket, tracking the rhythmic clatter of the market square outside the high, narrow window. The twin moons cast a pale geometric shape across the nursery floor, illuminating dust motes drifting lazily through the draft.
He focused on the sensation of his own tiny hands. He had spent the last week mastering the simple act of curling his fingers into a fist without his forearm shaking. The infant biology demanded constant, exhausting repetition just to build baseline motor control.
The hundred and twenty-second day arrived.
An invisible hook caught the absolute center of his consciousness. It yanked backward.
