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T he salt-laced wind, a constant companion to Rosendale, was the very reason for its older, truer name: Windrest. It was a gentle current, born of the sea, that swept over the rolling hills and their carpets of wildflowers, whispering through the village with a promise of peace.

From the grounds of the manor where he served, Elias often paused his work to watch the beautiful panoramic view. The endless turquoise expanse, crowned with white foam where it met the stretch of golden sand, was a sight that could soothe the most troubled heart. To the right of the village, a taller hill rose, its slopes dotted with striking white rocks. The sea had carved a magnificent arch through its base—the villagers called it the Needle's Eye—which framed the setting sun in fiery glory.

Below the manor, the village itself huddled: a cozy cluster of cottages built from the land. Walls of cool, grey stone were braced with dark timber, their roofs a patchwork of thick thatch and, on the more prominent buildings like the tavern, heavy slate. A single cobblestone road wound up from the simple wooden port where the fishing boats bobbed at their moorings. The air here was thicker, alive with the cries of gulls, the rhythmic creak of timbers, and the shouts of fishermen hauling their catches.

It had been three summers since a different, colder wind had found him. Elias would never forget it: the clear, hot sky, and then the sudden, alien chill that drew his gaze from the backyard to the deep, verdant shadows where the manor grounds met the untamed forest. A shimmering, ethereal light had pulsed softly from within the trees.

Drawn by a force he couldn't name, he had pushed through the curtain of ferns and tangled undergrowth. There, nestled on a bed of impossible green moss, lay the infant.

Now, that infant was a whirlwind named Rhylen.

"Careful now, little hawk!" Elias chuckled, his voice a low rumble.

Rhylen, nearly four years old, was attempting to scale the ancient oak at the edge of the lawn, his small, surprisingly nimble limbs finding purchase on the rough bark. His raven-black hair, thick and already showing a will of its own, was a dark smudge against the tree's grey trunk, constantly falling into his large, obsidian-dark eyes. He let out a triumphant squeal as he reached a low branch, his small face alight with achievement.

The triumph was short-lived. With a sharp crack, the dead branch gave way. Rhylen yelped, tumbling to the ground and landing with a soft thud on his bottom. The shock, more than the pain, brought a fresh wave of tears.

"Rhylen!" Elias dropped his rake and hurried over, his heart giving a familiar lurch of worry. He knelt, checking the boy for scrapes. "By the seas, I told you that branch was weak! Are you alright?" His tone was sharp with concern. "Lady Lyra will have my hide if you break your neck before supper!"

He lifted the still-sniffling boy and set him firmly on the flat stump of a long-felled tree. "You will sit here," Elias instructed, pointing a stern finger. "And you will not move until I'm finished. Think about listening for a change."

Before returning to his rake, Elias let his gaze sweep across the wide lawn, a silent headcount of his charges. Not far away, Elara, six years old, sat peacefully in the grass, her back resting against a slender birch tree. Her head, crowned with braids the color of spun gold, was bowed over a thick book, her small finger tracing the lines of a story she was lost in. Closer to the edge of the woods, Kaelen, now a practical boy of eight, was crouched by a patch of wild berry bushes, carefully inspecting the small, dark fruit with the serious focus of a budding scholar.

Satisfied, Elias glanced back at the stump. It was empty.

His eyes snapped instantly to the oak tree. Halfway up the trunk, the small figure was stubbornly climbing again. Elias drew a sharp breath, his mouth opening to unleash a reprimand, but before a single word could escape, a familiar voice broke the evening peace.

"Rhylen! Kaelen! Elara! Supper will be soon!"

Lady Lyra's voice, warm and carrying, came from the open doorway of the manor's rear entrance that faced the forest. She stood framed there, a welcoming silhouette against the warm light from within, a gentle smile on her face as she waited. The mansion behind her, with its smooth, cut-stone walls and glass-paned windows, stood as a refined guardian over the village. Its back gave way directly to the great forest, which stretched for miles before ending abruptly at the feet of the jagged mountains that sealed Windrest in its serene, isolated pocket of the world.

Hearing his mother, Rhylen scrambled down the tree with more haste than grace, tumbling the last few feet into a dusty heap. This time, there were no tears. He quickly patted the dirt from his trousers, a sheepish laugh escaping him, and then took off at a full run.

The three children converged in a flurry of joyful energy, swarming their mother at the door. Kaelen and Elara each took one of her hands, beaming up at her. Rhylen, too small to reach, simply wrapped his arms around her leg in a tight hug. Lady Lyra laughed, a sound as warm as her voice, and ruffled Rhylen's dark hair before ushering her happy flock inside.

As the heavy door closed, Elias leaned on his rake, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. As Rhylen had run, the setting sun caught his arm at just the right angle. For a half-second, Elias thought he saw a faint, silvery tracing on the skin, like a sun-bleached scar. He blinked, and it was gone. Just another trick of the light.