It began quietly, as most strange blessings do.
One morning, Shannon lifted Riven from his cradle and froze. The boy's limbs were longer. His fingers gripped with surprising strength. Lyra, in her basket beside him, rolled over, blinked, and sat up—without help.
By noon, both children had somehow learned to crawl.
By the next dawn, they were standing.
And by the end of the week, they were running laps around the cottage.
"By the Moon," Eira muttered, clutching her broom as Lyra darted past her ankles, giggling. "That one's faster than a pup on fire!"
Riven followed right after, determined to match his sister's pace. They zigzagged through the living room, their little feet pattering against the floorboards. Tristan had tried to block the hallway with a stool. It didn't work.
"They've learned to climb," Shannon said grimly as Riven scaled the stool with shocking agility.
Lyra applauded her brother with both hands. "Up! Up! Fly!"
