Brother Benedictus had managed kitchen stores for twenty long years, through devastating famines and joyous festivals, through lean winters that tested faith and abundant harvests that renewed it. He prided himself on predicting the temple's needs down to the last grain of barley, the final drop of oil. His ledgers were works of art, precise calculations that had never failed him. Then came Aetos.
"Look at this," he said with barely controlled exasperation, spreading his meticulously kept ledgers before the assembled council. The normally jovial monk's round face showed genuine concern, his usually twinkling eyes shadowed with worry. "Three years old, barely reaching my waist, and he's eating more than our adult labourers who work the fields from dawn to dusk. My calculations for winter stores are utterly worthless. Every prediction I make, every careful estimate, he exceeds within a week."
The numbers were truly staggering, defying all logic and experience. Where a normal child might consume a small bowl of porridge for breakfast and be satisfied until midday, Aetos emptied the entire pot meant for six people. Lunch meant multiple servings of everything available in the kitchen. Dinner became an ongoing race between the kitchen's ability to produce food and the boy's seemingly infinite capacity to consume it.
"This morning," Benedictus continued, his voice rising with incredulity, "I watched him eat six eggs—six!—a full loaf of bread still warm from the ovens, a wheel of cheese that should have lasted the children's table three days, dried fruits meant for the week, and wash it all down with enough goat's milk to fill a ceremonial pitcher. Then—then!—he looked up with those storm-grey eyes and asked innocently what was planned for mid-morning meal."
Brother Alexei leaned forward, his scholarly interest piqued. "I've been researching parallel cases in the medical texts, searching through our oldest archives. There are scattered records of pneuma warriors with exceptional appetites, legendary figures who could eat entire roasted oxen. But they're all adults channeling massive amounts of energy in battle or intense training. For a child to require this much fuel..."
"His body is preparing," Master Zephyrus said quietly, his ancient voice carrying the weight of profound understanding. "Like a mighty tree growing deep, spreading roots before stretching toward sky. The oak that will touch clouds must first anchor itself to earth. We must trust the process and find a way to provide what nature demands."
Benedictus sighed deeply, rubbing his tired eyes. "I've already arranged expanded trades with three valley farms. Negotiated contracts they think are jokes until I pay in full. The temple will be extraordinarily busy with blessings and healing work to pay for it all. But master, what happens when he's ten? Fifteen? If his appetite grows proportionally with his body..."
"We'll face that challenge when it comes," Zephyrus replied with serene confidence. "For now, feed him what he needs. The divine wind that brought him will provide the means."
The kitchen underwent a complete transformation. Benedictus instituted new routines with military precision: bread baked in triple batches starting before midnight, goats milked twice daily instead of once, preservation techniques expanded dramatically to handle increased supplies. The other temple children quickly learned to fill their bowls expeditiously at communal meals, though Aetos never deliberately took their portions.
"He's not greedy," young Daphne explained patiently to a new arrival, a frightened orphan worried about going hungry. "He just... needs more. Like the big fireplace in the great hall needs more wood than our small braziers. It's not mean, it's just how he is."
Aetos himself seemed blissfully, completely unaware of his unusual consumption. He ate with focused contentment, each meal a meditation in itself, every bite received with gratitude. While other children played with their food, built castles from their porridge, or complained bitterly about vegetables, Aetos consumed everything with equal appreciation and attention.
"Watch this," Benedictus told Brother Matthias one evening, a mixture of amusement and bewilderment in his voice. He placed a bowl of bitter medicinal herbs—usually used as punishment for misbehaving children who'd stolen sweets—before Aetos alongside his regular meal.
The boy ate them without the slightest hesitation or complaint, the same focused attention given to bitter herbs as to honeyed cakes fresh from the oven.
"He doesn't eat for pleasure," Matthias observed with growing understanding. "He eats like breathing—necessary, natural, constant. Food is simply fuel for whatever fire burns within."
The strangest incident occurred during the Feast of Summer Solstice, the temple's most important celebration. The temple hosted villagers from all the mountain communities, tables groaning under festive foods that had taken weeks to prepare. Benedictus had prepared extra supplies, carefully calculating based on Aetos's typical consumption.
Halfway through the celebration, as music filled the air and children danced, a traveling merchant arrived late, dusty from the hard road and clearly famished from his journey. All the food had been consumed—a situation that should have been utterly impossible with Benedictus's extensive over-preparation.
"Where did it all go?" the kitchen master muttered in disbelief, surveying empty platters that should have fed twice the attendance with abundance to spare.
They found Aetos in the corner, contentedly patting his satisfyingly round belly, surrounded by a circle of amazed village children who stared at him like he was a miracle performer.
"Did you see?" one gap-toothed boy whispered. "He ate the whole roasted lamb himself!"
"And the bread mountain!" a girl added in awe.
Somehow, without anyone noticing in the festival's cheerful chaos, he had consumed enough food for a dozen hungry adults.
"I was hungry," he explained simply when asked, as if this clarified everything. "Big hungry today. Festival hungry."
Brother Alexei examined him immediately, fearing severe sickness from such dramatic overeating. Instead, he found the boy in perfect health, his pneuma circulation actually stronger and more vibrant than usual.
"It's as if," the healer reported to the concerned assembly, bewildered by his findings, "the food directly converts to pneuma energy with perfect efficiency. No waste, no excess—just pure fuel for whatever cosmic fire burns inside him."
That "whatever" showed itself more clearly as months passed. Aetos's energy never flagged, never dimmed. He could run, climb, and play from dawn to dusk without showing the slightest fatigue. During training sessions with Master Zephyrus, he outlasted adult students who had trained for years, his small form maintaining perfect breathing techniques while grown men gasped desperately for air.
"He doesn't tire," one visiting monk observed with amazement, stopping his own practice to watch. "I've watched him practice the same demanding form fifty times without degradation. If anything, he gets stronger as others weaken, as if effort feeds rather than drains him."
The connection became undeniable: food in, energy out, at rates that defied normal human physiology and challenged understanding. Yet Aetos remained a healthy, happy child, growing normally despite his exceptional consumption, his laughter ringing through temple halls.
Benedictus eventually developed a strange, fierce pride in meeting the unprecedented challenge. His kitchen became legendary throughout the region for its efficiency, his supply network stretched impressively across three valleys. When curious travelers asked how such a small mountain temple maintained such impressive stores, he would smile mysteriously and say, "We feed eagles here. They require substantial nests."
By his fourth birthday, Aetos's appetite had stabilized—at roughly four times normal consumption for a child his age. The temple had adapted remarkably, the community had accepted this peculiarity as they'd accepted the boy himself, and Benedictus had proven that even forces of nature could be fed with proper planning and dedication.
"Besides," the kitchen master admitted one evening, watching Aetos conscientiously help with dish washing after consuming another legendary meal, his small hands careful with the pottery, "he's worth every grain, every drop of oil. When he smiles after eating, it's like sunshine breaking through storm clouds on the mountain. How can you grudge sunshine its fuel?"
Brother Kyrios, laboriously counting the temple's increasingly strained finances by candlelight, could think of several practical ways. But even he, pragmatic to his core, had to admit: the storm's gift burned bright as the morning star. They just had to keep feeding the flame, no matter the cost.