CHAPTER FOUR: The Child Who Shifted the Air
The rain had not touched the battered skyline in three months, and when it finally fell, it did so with a strange heaviness, as if the sky itself exhaled after years of holding its breath. London's fractured landscape glowed under neon-blue emergency lights as the storm rolled across the Thames. Most people called it ordinary weather. A few older soldiers whispered that storms like this always came when someone significant was born into the world of the gifted.
In a quiet wing of St Bartholomew's Medical Facility for Enhanced Individuals, the doors slid open on command. The interior lights hummed to life. Only a handful of staff were cleared to work here. Even fewer were allowed to know who had reserved the entire building for the night.
Richard Kane sat beside the delivery chamber, the glow of the monitors reflecting off his sharp, storm-grey eyes. His presence alone carried a weight the walls seemed to respect. Ten years had passed since the Avalon–Saint War ended, but London still bore its scars. Power grids reconstructed. Roadways patched. Entire districts zoned as hazardous after Gifted clashes ripped open streets.
Richard had fought in that war. He had ended battles with single gestures and broken battalions with a whisper. He had shaped entire front lines by merely existing.
But none of that compared to the pressure coiled in his chest as he listened to Diane Kane's muted breathing beyond the reinforced glass.
The intercom chimed softly.
"Final checks complete. Everything is stable."
Richard exhaled once. Controlled. Steady. It was the first breath he had taken in hours.
The attending physician, Dr. Miriam Locke, approached him with measured steps. She was one of the few civilians Richard trusted, and even that trust was conditional.
"You're unusually quiet," she said.
Richard glanced at her. "You've delivered hundreds of Gifted children."
"And yet this is the only time your silence feels… dangerous." She folded her arms. "Are you nervous, Richard?"
His jaw tightened slightly. "No."
Locke smiled. "Then you're lying."
Before he could answer, a cry broke through the intercom. Not loud. Not weak. Sharp, like the crack in a stormcloud before lightning emerges. Richard stood instantly. The glass doors slid open, letting him walk inside.
Diane cradled a newborn wrapped in silver thermal sheets. Her eyes were tired but full of warmth that softened her usually reserved features.
"He's here," she whispered.
Richard approached slowly, as if afraid the sound of his footsteps might break the moment. He looked down at his son. The child stared back with unfocused eyes, tiny fingers curling as if trying to grasp something unseen.
"What will you name him?" Locke asked.
"Mason," Diane replied before Richard could speak.
The name settled in the air.
Richard's expression didn't change, but Dr. Locke felt something shift around him, as if invisible pressure rippled outward. She had seen him in war. She had seen him end men with a thought. But she had never seen him look genuinely still.
Diane brushed her thumb over the infant's cheek. "He's perfect."
Richard reached out. His hand hovered for a moment before he touched Mason's head. The child blinked and let out a small hum, almost curious.
Locke cleared her throat. "I'll give you three a moment. The announcement will go public soon, and the lines are already overwhelmed."
Richard's head lifted slightly. "Let them talk. The world will do what it always does."
"And what is that?"
"Fear. Speculate. Hope. It makes no difference."
Locke left quietly.
Diane smiled weakly. "You don't have to be so cold."
"It's not coldness," Richard said. "It's reality."
Diane adjusted Mason, wincing slightly. "He's more than reality. He's our son."
Richard didn't respond, but his hand stayed on Mason's head far longer than expected.
Outside, the storm grew stronger.
News didn't travel the old way. Not anymore. In the near-future landscape, information spread through hyperlinked feeds monitored by faction AI. Even with the chaos of post-war reconstruction, some headlines cut through everything.
The Kane heir had been born.
Within minutes, factions across Europe felt the tremor ripple through their networks.
In an underground facility east of Berlin, the Saint Faction Command Center pulled up biometric scans and old war reports tied to Richard's name. Generals sat stiffly, exchanging glances seasoned by years of conflict.
"Another Kane," one muttered. "After all this time."
"Not just another Kane," said Commander Spring. "The Kane. Richard Kane's offspring."
"You think the child will be like him?"
Spring inhaled sharply. "If he is even a fraction… the world is shifting again."
Across the ocean, Avalon's recovery council gathered in a fortified Seattle hub. They watched the same announcement with thin-lipped silence. Their chairwoman, Elena Graves, leaned forward.
"Monitor the situation," she said. "And pray the child never inherits Richard's gift."
Her advisor swallowed. "Do we need to prepare countermeasures?"
Graves closed her eyes. "Countermeasures? Against a Kane? We barely survived the last one."
Meanwhile, in a forgotten section of the Thames Barrier, the glow of ancient sconces flickered as backup generators hummed awake. Deep underground, a circular chamber emerged from shadows, revealing a polished obsidian table large enough for eight but occupied by only four.
Three men. One woman.
No faction insignias. No digital monitors. Only carved symbols older than the war.
The first man, tall and broad with a trimmed beard, leaned back in his seat. "So the child is finally born."
The second man didn't look up from the file in his hand. His eyes were pale, almost silver. "Mason Kane. Born at zero three twenty. No anomalies detected… yet."
The third man, younger and sharper, clicked his tongue. "You say that as if anomalies are optional for a Kane."
The woman crossed one leg over the other. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders like a curtain masking half her expression. "Richard has been quiet for years. Too quiet. This changes the balance."
The bearded man tapped the table slowly. "I told you. He was waiting."
"For what?" the younger man asked. "A child?"
"No." The woman's gaze sharpened. "A successor."
Silver-eyes closed the file. "The world barely stabilized after the war. If Richard decides to move, every continent will feel it."
"And if the child awakens with a gift similar to his?" the younger man murmured.
Silence stretched. Heavy. Predictive.
The woman finally spoke. "Then we will intervene."
The bearded man scoffed. "Intervene? Against a Kane? We don't even intervene against King."
The younger man shifted uncomfortably. "Speaking of him… how do you think King is taking the news?"
Silver-eyes let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Badly."
Somewhere far from the table, inside the ruins of an old academy, Mr William King sat alone in his office. The walls around him were covered with historical murals, portraits of Gifted pioneers, and plaques from the centuries he had outlived.
A data panel slid open beside him. The announcement glowed bright against the dim room.
He read it once.
Then again.
His lips curled into something between a smirk and irritation.
"So Richard's finally decided to add another piece to the board," he murmured. "And here I was hoping he'd retired."
King's fingers brushed the edge of his desk. The room vibrated softly. Energy coiled beneath his skin, ancient and familiar.
He turned off the announcement.
"He will become a problem," said a voice from the doorway.
King didn't look back. "Everything becomes a problem eventually. But the Kanes… they grow into catastrophes."
"Should we prepare?"
King stood, straightening his coat. "No. Not yet. Let the world celebrate. Let Richard bask. Let the child breathe."
He stepped into the hallway, hands clasped behind his back.
"But when the time comes, we'll see what this new Kane truly is."
Back at the hospital, Diane drifted into sleep. Richard remained awake, watching Mason breathe.
He didn't smile. He didn't soften.
He simply observed.
As if trying to read destiny in the rise and fall of a newborn's chest.
Mason squirmed lightly, fingers clenching as if reaching for something unseen in the air. Richard tilted his head, sensing the faintest ripple. Barely noticeable. Barely real. A newborn's unfocused senses.
Or something else entirely.
"Welcome to the world," Richard said quietly.
Mason's eyes fluttered open for a moment, reflecting a tiny shard of the overhead light.
The storm outside intensified.
The world shifted.
And a new chapter of fear, hope, and power began.