Chapter One

A Birth Unlike Any Other

The dawn was slow to break over the village of Eldoria, as though hesitant to cast its light upon the moment that would forever alter the Realm of Magic. The small settlement, nestled beyond the protective rings of the castle, stirred with the quiet murmurings of early risers tending to morning rituals. There was nothing outwardly unusual about this day, no signs from the heavens, no omens whispered by the winds. And yet, the air carried an almost imperceptible charge—one that would soon manifest in the cries of a newborn unlike any before him.

Inside a modest cottage at the village’s heart, Alistair and Elira clung to each other with bated breath, the room around them dimly lit by the flickering glow of a single enchanted lantern. Elira, beads of sweat glistening against her pale skin, let out a final agonized cry as the midwife gently lifted the wailing infant from her arms. The old woman, her expression seasoned with the knowledge of countless births, gasped audibly, her voice a hushed tremor as she spoke.

“By the ancient stars…”

The infant, his tiny body wrapped in the essence of pure magic, was unlike any child she had ever delivered. Where most newborns came slick with the frailty of first breaths, this one radiated a soft glow, his skin almost pearlescent in the dim light. And upon his back, extending from delicate shoulder blades, were wings—magnificent and pure, their white feathers shimmering like liquid moonlight.

Elira, still trembling from the exertion of labor, turned her gaze toward the child she had longed for, expecting to see the same features every mother yearned to etch into memory. But as she beheld her son, the elation in her expression twisted into something bordering on fear.

“Alistair,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “He has wings.”

Her husband, a man of strong hands and quiet endurance, stepped forward cautiously. His eyes, the same warm brown as those of his newborn son, widened with a mix of awe and trepidation. The midwife, still cradling the infant, looked between them, her wrinkled face pinched in thought before she gently placed the baby into Elira’s arms.

“This…this is unheard of,” she murmured. “No child of wingless parents has ever been born with wings.”

A shudder passed through the room, as though the very walls held their breath in response to the gravity of her words. Outside, the village was already awakening to the rumors that spread faster than wildfire. First, it was the sound of the baby’s cry that caught the attention of a passing neighbor. Then, the hushed whispers carried from door to door, reaching ears that strained to confirm the truth. By the time the midwife had left the cottage, it was as though the entire village had been caught in a silent storm, their eyes turning toward the home of Alistair and Elira with a mixture of awe, suspicion, and even fear.

It did not take long for word to travel beyond Eldoria’s borders.

By midday, a messenger clad in the silver and blue of the royal crest rode swiftly through the village square, his steed kicking up dust as he passed. Those who had gathered in clusters near the well stepped aside, their murmurs intensifying. The King had heard. The Queen had heard. And the summons had been issued.

Renaldo, not yet named, not yet aware of the weight of his existence, would be brought before the throne before he had even taken his first steps.

The Castle of Lumora stood as the heart of the Realm of Magic, its towering spires shimmering beneath the midday sun. Unlike the quaint simplicity of Eldoria, the castle was a monument to power, a stronghold of ancient enchantments that pulsed through its very stones. At its gates, Alistair and Elira arrived, their newborn son swaddled tightly in Elira’s arms. Flanked by royal guards, they were ushered past the iron-wrought entrance and into the vast halls that smelled of aged parchment, burning incense, and something else—an underlying tension that came with standing before those who decided the fate of many.

The Great Hall was already filled with an air of hushed curiosity. The court was assembled, noblemen and scholars alike gathered in cautious anticipation. The King and Queen sat upon their thrones, their expressions unreadable beneath the golden glow of enchanted torches. Beside them, standing in regal poise, was the young Prince Brendan, his sharp eyes studying the newcomers with an intensity beyond his years.

As the family approached the throne, Elira clutched Renaldo a little tighter, her fingers pressing into the fine fabric of his swaddling. Alistair, ever the protector, took a half-step forward, his voice steady despite the unease in his chest.

“You summoned us, Your Majesty.”

King Alden leaned forward slightly, his gaze settling upon the child. “We did,” he acknowledged. His voice was neither cruel nor kind, but measured, calculated. “We have heard of the child born with wings. Show him to us.”

Elira hesitated only a moment before peeling back the soft linen, revealing the tiny form nestled against her. The Great Hall seemed to exhale as collective gasps filled the space. The Queen, her silver-white hair cascading over her shoulders, narrowed her eyes in thought. The scholars at the side of the hall exchanged hurried whispers, some frantically scribbling notes onto enchanted scrolls that wrote of their own accord.

Prince Brendan, no older than seven, stepped closer, his curiosity evident. Unlike the rest of the court, his face held neither fear nor suspicion—only wonder.

“He’s like us,” the young prince whispered, his voice breaking through the murmurs of the chamber.

King Alden steepled his fingers. “And yet, his parents bear no wings.” He turned his sharp gaze to the scholars. “How is this possible?”

One of the elder scholars, a man with robes woven with sigils of wisdom, stepped forward with a deep bow. “Majesty, there has not been an occurrence such as this in recorded history. Winged descendants have always come from winged ancestors. The loss of wings over generations has never reversed itself.”

A quiet but growing sense of unease threaded through the chamber. If magic had faded over time, if wings were a sign of power now reserved for the elite, then how had this child been born as something… more?

The Queen, her expression now one of contemplation rather than judgment, leaned toward her husband. “Perhaps we should have him studied. His very existence may hold answers to questions we have long since stopped asking.”

King Alden gave a slow nod. “Very well.” His gaze met Alistair’s, then Elira’s. “Your son will remain under our watch within the castle for a time. He will be cared for, educated, and observed.” A pause. “For the good of the realm.”

Elira’s grip on Renaldo tightened, but Alistair placed a steadying hand on her arm. They had no choice. This was the King’s will.

And so, on the day of his birth, Renaldo was not only named but claimed by fate itself.