For centuries, there were Gifts of Flame, Stone, Wind, and Blood.
There were Seers who bent time, Binders who commanded beasts, and Wielders who bent the elements to their will.
But the Dreamborn?
That was myth.
A fairy tale told to children before bed.
A Gift said to be too powerful to exist… or too dangerous to allow.
Until now.
When Angel stepped from the sacred circle, the world no longer looked at him the same way.
❖ ❖ ❖
The very next day, his name spread like wildfire.
From the floating academies of Virell to the underground archives of the Deep Scholars, whispers rose like smoke:
"Did you hear? A boy in Solendra awakened the Dreamborn Gift."
"They say he created a creature out of thin air."
"They say he bent the ceremonial flame to his will."
"They say… he's a reincarnated god."
Some saw wonder.
Others saw threat.
A week later, emissaries began to arrive—robed figures from forgotten clans, sorcerers with eyes like glass, knights in armor that glowed faintly even in darkness. They came not to speak, but to watch.
They watched Angel train.
They watched what he imagined into life—living books, inkblades, sparring dummies that fought back, miniature storms in bottles.
They watched, silently, cautiously. Some with curiosity. Some with fear.
Even the king's court sent a sealed letter:
"By order of the Crown, Angel Galván is hereby invited to attend the Academy of Arcanum as an honored ward. His Gift is to be studied, trained, and guarded."
But his mother grew pale when she read it.
And Cael, who had always been unshakeable, tightened his jaw and muttered, "They want to control him."
Angel didn't feel special.
He felt watched.
Weighed.
And beneath it all, targeted.
❖ ❖ ❖
That night, Angel sat beneath the silver trees outside his family's cottage, staring at the stars. He had drawn them into the dirt with a stick, recreating constellations from his old world.
His power hummed quietly inside him—not loud or explosive, but vast. Like an ocean under a thin sheet of ice.
"Are you afraid?" a voice asked.
It was Marina, now eight years old, walking barefoot across the grass with her glowing toy fox bouncing beside her—a gift Angel had imagined into existence on her birthday.
He thought for a moment, then nodded.
"A little. Everyone wants something from me now. I feel like… like I'm not a person anymore. Just a story."
She sat beside him. "You always liked stories."
"I liked writing them. Not being one."
She looked at the stars, then pointed. "Then write your own. You're the only one who can."
He smiled, not because it solved anything—but because she was right.
He wasn't just the Dreamborn.
He was the author now.
And stories don't end when people are afraid. That's when they get good.
From the treeline, far beyond their cottage, a shadow watched. Unmoving. Hooded. Its eyes, invisible beneath the mask, burned with quiet recognition.
"The Fall has begun," it whispered. "And with him… so rises the Rewrite."