They said the boy learned faster than the wind moved.
At the Monastery of Vael, nestled in the jagged embrace of the Windspine Mountains, the sun never quite rose the same way twice. Sometimes it climbed slow and golden, like a prayer answered; other times it burst over the peaks like a blade drawn too fast but one constant remained—Aurin, standing in the frost-laced courtyard at dawn, sword in hand and body still as stone.
He was seven years old when Master Thalen chose him.
The old warrior-monk observed the novices from the shade of a cypress tree, one calloused hand wrapped around a chipped goblet of herbal wine. He watched them clash wooden blades, recite chants, stumble through ancient forms with the wobble of colts then, his eyes fell on Aurin.
The boy moved differently—not just with grace, but with awareness. Every step landed as if preordained. Every block followed a blow, every breath aligned with intention. It was not brilliance, It was familiarity. The kind a person has with a memory but they didn't know they carried.
Thalen took a slow sip and murmured, "He fights like, he's read the ending already."
Aurin's training began at sunrise the next day.
Thalen did not greet him but struck him first.
Aurin blocked the blow without flinching.
"Good," Thalen said. "You were expecting it."
"No," Aurin replied. "But it made sense."
They trained in silence for days wordlessly, Thalen demonstrated a movement, and Aurin imitated it with eerie precision. What took others weeks, Aurin mastered in days. What required instruction, Aurin absorbed by watching once.
He advanced beyond the first level of martial discipline within a month, beyond the second by the end of the season.
By the time he turned nine, the monks had no more forms to teach him. It was the same with magic.
The art of spellcraft, spoken in the old tongue of fire and wind was a discipline that most monks feared to teach. Words shaped the world, and carelessness could bring ruin but Aurin spoke the incantations as if born to them. Flames obeyed him like tame animals. Winds danced around his fingers. Water hardened under his feet like glass.
"Words are not enough," cautioned Brother Halvar, the monastery's arcane keeper. "You must mean them."
"I do," Aurin replied. "Because I've already seen what happens when I don't."
The monks began to whisper.
That the boy saw things, he Knew things that he dreamed in glyphs and woke quoting forgotten prophecies. That he never bled, even when wounded. That he once walked through the Whispering Caverns without hearing a single voice.
They wondered whether he was blessed—or prewritten.
The Author's hand moved quickly.
"In a mere ten years, Aurin became what others took decades to master. He surpassed his peers. He outshone his mentors. He humbled the proud and inspired the meek. He was, in every sense, the ideal hero untouchable, unbreakable. Same as foretold."
Time passed in controlled paragraphs. Events condensed to convenient summaries. Winter melted into summer without pause and festivals occurred, yet no faces were named. Aurin fought bandits in the pass. He healed the sick with a single prayer. He read every book in the monastery library and left no footnote unchecked.
But none of it lingered.
The scenes flashed and blurred—memories formed of dust and narration.
Until, one day, he descended the mountain.
The village of Kareth was nothing special.
A cluster of stone cottages, a lazy stream, a worn plaza with a crooked fountain and Sheep outnumbered people. Stories outnumbered sheep. The only interesting place was the library—built of blackwood and blue-tile roofing, maintained with obsessive precision by its solitary keeper 'Loren, the librarian.'
Aurin had passed through Kareth before, but this time felt different. The story seemed… slower here, as though the Author's quill had paused between strokes. Villagers moved with more variance. The air hummed with something unpredictable. A moment not quite following the template.
He entered the library in search of a bestiary detailing the beasts of the Eastern Wastes. The door creaked like a breath being held too long. Inside, air smelled of ink, old paper, and smoke-touched lavender.
Rows upon rows of books greeted him, most bound in cracked leather or stamped with sigils no longer used in the capital archives. The walls leaned ever so slightly, and some bookshelves looked one bad storm away from collapse—but everything was meticulously clean.
Loren stood on a stepladder, balancing a thick volume titled Architectures of Ether. His long coat dusted the edge of the shelves as he moved, placing the book precisely.
He didn't turn around when Aurin entered Instead, he said without looking:
"You're early."
Aurin paused. "Early for what?"
"For this scene."
Loren climbed down, finally facing him. His features were unremarkable—clean-shaven, plain brown eyes, tired but not unkind. He looked like the kind of person who existed in the margins. The kind you forget until they speak again.
"I need a book," Aurin said.
"I know," Loren replied, already moving. "You're headed east soon. Something about monsters and prophecy. Third shelf on the left, red binding, silver lettering. Don't open it near a fire."
Aurin followed slowly, eyeing the man. "You know me?"
"Of course," Loren said. "You're the hero."
"And you are…?"
"No one," he replied. "Just the one who files away all the parts people skip."
He handed Aurin the book without another word.
Aurin stared at it. The title read: Beasts of Unfinished Lands.
He frowned. "I've never seen this book before."
"You wouldn't have," Loren said. "It's not supposed to be in this part of the story."
That gave pause Aurin.
"What does that mean?"
But Loren didn't answer. He just watched Aurin too closely—lips moving silently, like he was reading something the boy couldn't hear. His gaze lingered not just on Aurin, but through him, as if tracing the words beneath his skin.
Aurin felt for the first time, something uncertain.
There was something off about the librarian. He is not threatening, but misaligned like a page inserted from another book.
"I… should go," Aurin muttered.
"Yes," Loren replied. "Before the scene forgets what it's supposed to do."
The words chilled Aurin more than they should have.
He stepped out of the library. The door creaked shut behind him like punctuation.
That night, by the riverbank outside Kareth, Aurin read by firelight. The beasts described in the book were unlike any he'd studied before. They didn't follow taxonomy or magical classification. Some were unfinished—sketched only in concept. Others had names, but no forms still others had notes in the margins that didn't match the handwriting of the rest.
"Do not write it into existence unless prepared to fight it."
"Deleted in Draft Six."
" It's too powerful. Now cut for balance."
Aurin closed the book. He looked back toward the village toward the crooked-roofed library and the strange man inside it.
He felt the first real unease he'd felt in years—not from darkness or prophecy, but from something far more alien.
An inconsistency. A moment that story didn't control.
Up in the library tower, Loren sat by candlelight, scribbling into a worn journal with a frayed quill. The journal's pages were filled not with dates or names—but lines, Dialogues, scene descriptions and fragments of narration.
He read from one:
"Aurin enters the library and Loren hands him the book."
He crossed it out and wrote instead:
"Aurin enters the library and Loren questions the scene."
He smiled faintly, not from joy—but from the bitter relief of noticing something that wasn't supposed to be noticed.
Then he whispered, as if addressing the rafters. "…And now he remembers."
The candle flickered violently, then went still.
The book in Aurin's lap, miles away, twitched and a word on the page erased itself.
Not by ink, not by fire but by intent.
Back at the monastery, Master Thalen watched the sky darken.
He stood at the cliff's edge, wind carving lines into his face, and muttered to himself.
"It's moving faster than it should. We skipped the rite and the third trial. Even the northern scouts."
He turned toward the temple bells, which had not rung in a fortnight.
He saw no monks in the courtyard. No fires in the braziers. It was as if time had skipped several days forward without permission.
"Author…" Thalen whispered, eyes narrowed. "What are you doing?"
Then, a second later. "…Or who else is writing?"
To be continued…