The morning cold always came first.
It nicked Mhari's skin before her eyes even opened, slipping through the thin walls of the small wooden house. The house was a gift, built by the villagers two years ago, after Lith started walking. Their little cottage was small, but they were their own. The house had become a safe haven for them to love without fear. For one fleeting second, she forgot everything—the falling empire, the breaking earth, Lithos disappearing in fire and light.
But memory was cruel.
A soft rustle beside her broke the heaviness in her chest.
"Ma...ma..." Little fingers tugged at her sleeve.
Lith.
Her son.
Her miracle.
Her greatest fear.
His white hair glowed faintly under the sunrise, and those golden eyes—Lithos' eyes—looked up at her with a trust she wasn't sure she deserved. He was three now, his small frame sturdy from running through the fields, his vocabulary growing daily.
"You're up early," she whispered, burahing his warm cheek. Inside her, something ached. She wasn't sure if it was love...or guilt. A smile stretched across her face, but her chest hammered against her ribs.
As long as they were with each other, she can accept all the things.
After they arrived, the villagers—poor farmers living outside the city—were the first to find her. Bleeding. Exhausted.
They should've been afraid. Instead, they wrapped her in blankets and prayed for her. They believed they had saved her. A beautiful lie.
But It was her own light magic, quietly mending her organs, that kept her alive through the night. She couldn't let anyone know, if the world know of her magic...they will find ways to used her. She learned in a tragic way.
In this world, strength was a curse, not a blessing.
Years passed quickly.
Lith grew.
Too quickly.
Too naturally.
That day, she remembered.
By his second year of his son, he could toddle behind Mhari as she worked the fields. By his third, he could babble phrases far too clearly. And by his fourth, he could already whisper to the wind.
It started with small things.
A breeze that always circled him, even on a still day. Soft gusts that cooled him when he cried. Leaves that danced whenever he laughed.
And Mhari noticed.
Of course did.
And then, one morning, as she hung fresh laundry outside, she heard a panicked gasp. Not hers.
"Lith?!"
She turned just in time to see her four-year-old son—floating.
His tiny feet barely skimmed the ground, but with each passing moment, the gap widened, his small legs kicking with glee as if soaring through the air was the most ordinary thing imaginable.
The wild held him up like gentle, invisible hands.
"Mama! Look! I'm—!"
Mhari dropped the bedsheets. THWIP! She sprinted across the yard—not clumsy farmer, but like a desperate predator.
Too visible. Too high!
Before a neighbor could get a glimpse, she shot across the yard, her heart leaping into her throat.
Instinctively, she reached out with a subtle tendril of wind magic, whispering a silent command to guide him closer. It wasn't a forcefully pull, just a gentle nudge to correct his trajector.
She snagged him mid-air, cradling hum against her chest, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat of fear. If anyone saw... everything she'd built would crumble.
"Lith," she whispered urgently, the sound raw. "No magic outside. Ever. Do you hear me?" He didn't understand the command, but he understood the way his mother trembled. The fear was universal.
"...Did I do something bad?" He asked softly.
"No," she whispered, pressing her forehead to his. "You did something extraordinary, too extraordinary for this world. And that is exactly why you must hide it. Do you understand? This has to be our secret."
And Lith, though confused, nodded.
Because his mother's fear always mattered more than his curiosity.
——
The Secret Garden
Just a little, she bargained with herself. Enough to give them a fighting chance. The villagers were kind and generous to take her in. If it means improving their harvest, it's enough for her.
Plants grew faster under her hands. Fruit trees bore out of season. Paddy stalks, unnaturally thick, defied any farmer's best efforts.
Lith saw her once.
He didn't speak. He simply stood at the edge of the field, his golden eyes wide with wonder as he watched her glowing hands dance over the earth. A breeze lifted his white hair, as if drawn to the source of the light.
Finally, he crept closer, his voice soft and hesitant. "Mama?"
Mhari startled, quickly extinguishing the light. "Lith! What are you doing up? You should be sleeping."
He shuffled his small feet, his gaze fixed on the patch of vibrant green where her magic had touched the soil. "It's... pretty," he whispered, his voice filled with awe.
Mhari knelt, her heart pounding. He sees too much. He's too sensitive. She brushed a stray stand of hair from his forehead, forcing a smile. "It's just...the sunlight, sweetie. It helps things grow."
Lith tilted his head, his brow furrowed in confusion. "But...your hands were glowing, like the stars." His gaze was unwavering.
Innocence. So pure.
Mhari's heart ached. She had to protect that innocence, even if it meant lying. "Silly," she said, gently pinching his cheek. "You mishihave been dreaming. Come on, let's get you back to bed."
But the next day, Mhari found Lith trying to copy her. He sat in the same spot, a blade of grass cupped in his small hands, whispering to the soil with fierce concentration.
"Grow, please," he said softly, his tiny face scrunched up in effort.
But he failed. The grass remained stubbornly unmoving.
Mhari watched from the shadows, her throat tight with emotion. She wanted to tell him the truth, to share her secrets, but she couldn't. Not yet.
But a week later, a single sprout TCHHHK— burst from the ground where he had sat, giggling into the soil.
Mhari gasped. He did it. He had inherited both of them: Her light. His father's wind.
And that terrified her more than anything.
Because this world did not spare the gifted. It devoured them. And she would do everything to protect her son from that fate.
At five years old, Lith stopped being "gifted."
He became dangerous.
He could summon wind blades without realizing it, the air around him shimmering with unseen force. He could snuff out a flame simply by being near it, pulling the oxygen from a room as if by accident. He could push, lift, or topple objects too heavy for any child to move, his small brow furrowed in concentration as he unwittingly bent the world to his will.
He was out of control.
Once. Mhari found a dead fox near the fields—no wounds, no blood. Its eyes were wide with terror, its fur matted and lifeless.
Just... suffocated.
Lith stood beside it, confused and shaking.
"Mom... I didn't mean to," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "I just wanted it to stop growling at me."
Mhari knelt slowly, gently taking his hands even though her own were trembling.
What have I done? What have we become?
She looked into his golden eyes, searching for answers. Searching for Lithos.
"It's not your fault," she whispered, her voice tight with fear. "But you must listen to me. Don't use wind magic without me. Ever. Promise me."
She watched as he processed her words, his innocent face clouding with understanding. He was still so young, yet he already carried the weight of a world he didn't understand.
Lith swallowed hard, his throat bobbing.
"...I promise."
He hugged her, clinging to her skirt as if she were the only thing keeping him grounded.
And in that moment she realized—he wasn't afraid of his power.
He was afraid of himself. Of what he could do without meaning to. And if their town will soon discover it, they will be force to leave, making her plan to remain hidden will soon be ruin.
Mhari held him tightly, her heart breaking. This innocent boy, destined for greatness, was being crushed by a world that would never accept him. She had to do something. And she had to do it soon.
When Lith turned six, the cottage began to receive a quiet but constant visitor.
Rhei Alder, the farmer's son.
Tall, broad-shouldered, gentle—everything Mhari wished the world had been to her.
He was always knocked twice before entering. He always smiled at Lith as if the boy were his own nephew. And he never once questioned why a woman like Mhari lived alone, raising a child with eyes too sharp and features too perfect for a commoner.
He only helped.
"Soup for the evening," he would say, placing a basket on her table.
"Let me carry that, Mhari."
"I can sharpen your tools if you want."
Lith adored him. Followed him. Asked endless questions.
And Rhei answered everything with patience.
But one afternoon, everything changed.
As Lith turned sever years old, everything changed.
One afternoon, Rhei was outside practicing sword forms with a simple stick. He didn't think anyone watched him; it was merely a habit taught by his late father—a way to keep his body disciplined, a small act of defiance against a world that saw humans as weak.
Lith sat on the doorstep, his small legs dangling, eyes bright with fascination.
Mhari was inside preparing soup, humming softly as she stirred the pot.
Then—
A dull thud. A grunt of pain. A vibration in the air.
Mhari froze. "Rhei...?"
She rushed outside. What she saw made her blood run cold.
Rhei lay on his back in the dirt, shock written across his face. And Lith—her tiny, seven-year-old boy—stood above him with the wooden stick pointed directly at Rhei's throat. Not a mimicry. This was a flawless, lethal stance. His posture was perfect. Too perfect. And he was smiling. Not innocently—but with detached pride.
His posture was perfect. Too perfect.
And he was smiling.not innocently—buy proudly.
"Uncle Rhei jumped so high," Lith said brightly, tilting his head with a puzzled expression. "I didn't even push hard! Was it because he was tired?"
Rhei have a pale, trembling laugh.
"M-Mhari..." He whispered. "Your son..." His eyes met hers.
She could tell he understood.
Not everything. Not the bloodline. Not the kingdom she fled. Not the man she loved and lost. He only knew that he has some ability that other can do.
But he understood enough: Lith was not a normal child. And that meant danger.
For the boy. For Mhari. For everyone. Because once the city finds out, people will come and use Lith.
Mhari's heart clenched painfully. Her past, her fears, the chains she had run from—they all rose again like ghosts gripping her throat.
She stepped toward her son, knelt, and gently lowered his hand holding the stick.
"Lith," she said softly, her voice firm despite the tremor in her heart. "Put it down. Swordplay is never for children."
He blinked at her, confused by her strained voice, but obeyed. "But Mama, why? Uncle Rhei is adult. And I always hear people saying Humans are weak... So, I thought helping Uncle Rhei get stronger is good. He looks so fragile that even a little wind can blow him off to another place. Maybe this training will help."
Mhari's mind swirled with panic, the words and gaze that her son are giving, it was too matured. She may have failed this time..
Rhei gave a nervous chuckle, but his eyes were serious. "Maybe I'm just having an off day."
Lith studied Rhei with an intensity that made Mhari's skin crawl. "Hmm, maybe," he said, his voice surprisingly mature for a seven-year-old. "Are you not feeling well, Uncle Rhei?"
She forced a smile and hoped to change the topic. "That's enough Lith, maybe Uncle Rhei needs to rest. So you should not bother him more so he can go back to his strength."
Behind him, the wind stirred. Always listening. Always protecting him. Always ready to obey.
Rhei stood carefully, brushing dirt from his clothes. His hands shook. Not from fear of Lith—never that. But from weight of what this meant.
"Mhari," he said quietly, his voice low and serious. "Someone will notice him sooner or later."
She met his gaze, her expression unyielding. "I know." She would fight anyone for his freedom.
"The nobles... If they find out a human child is that strong, with such magic... they'll take him. Use him."
Mhari's jaw tightened. "They won't get near him." Her voice was low threat.
Rhei looked at her, his eyes filled with concern. "Mhari, you can't fight them all."
"Then I'll make sure they never find him," she said, her voice resolute. She'll run if she has to.
Rhei sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You've been carrying this alon, haven't you?"
Mhari's gaze softened slightly. She appreciates Rhei so much, but she couldn't reveal her powers. The guilt was too much for her. "I have to keep Lith Safe," she said.
Rhei placed a hand on her shoulder—gntle, careful, respectful. "You're not alone," he murmured. "Not anymore. I won't let anyone hurt him."
Mhari met his gaze, her heart filled a mixture of gratitude and fear. "Please don't. I won't lose another i love again," she will be everything.
The wind pulled at Lith's hair, swirling around his small frame like a vow.
And Mhari—a woman who once carried the expectations of an entire kingdom—realized she would now do anything to keep her child free.
Even if the world came for him. She'll be a sword to protect him. A mother above everything.