The morning started like any other.
Birdsong. Firewood crackling. The scent of dew and bread.
I almost forgot that the world had whispered my name last night.
But the peace didn't last.
A stranger came to our village.
He wore a crimson cloak, too fine for a traveler. His boots were spotless. His eyes—gray and cold—scanned everything like a hunter.
He said he was a scholar.
Looking for "unusual anomalies."
No one knew what he meant, but his words made the air feel heavier.
My adoptive father invited him for tea, like any good villager would. But I stayed hidden behind the door.
Listening.
---
"I heard there was a boy," the stranger said calmly. "One who survived the storm without a scratch."
My chest tightened.
"There was no storm," my father replied, nervous.
"Exactly," the man smiled. "And yet… someone survived it."
He pulled out something from his cloak—a small crystal sphere, glowing with faint blue threads.
It pulsed when he mentioned the word:
> "Grid."
---
I didn't wait.
I ran.
Not just from the stranger—but from what I already knew:
> They're looking for me.
And worse—
> He saw me.