They were born during storms.
Under eclipses.
During silences so deep, even the wind forgot to howl.
And each one bore the same mark.
Not branded.
Not carved.
But glowing.
A silver spiral, faint on the skin of their palms, or over their hearts, or behind their eyes.
They were not cursed.
They were not chosen.
They were born remembering.
---
These were the Dreamers.
Children of the Tenth Flame.
---
In the fishing village of Mareth's Reach, a boy named Lior walked into the sea at dawn and spoke to the waves.
By noon, the entire bay had stilled, as if listening.
At nightfall, every net returned full — even those left empty.
---
In the mountain temple of Syros, a girl named Velien stood before a dead tree and whispered a single word:
"Wake."
The tree bloomed.
And has not stopped blooming since.
---
None of these children had ever seen Vel'thera.
None had ever met Isen, or Darian, or Nima.
But they knew them.
In dreams.
In whispers.
