You were seven the night they led you into the plain where no flowers dared bloom.

The village came in silence, torches flickering like dying stars. They dressed you in red and gold, the robes heavy with tradition, a wreath of brittle vines pressed into your tangled hair. No one held your hand. No one looked at you. Not even your mother.

They placed you at the center of the barren earth—the sky above low and starless. The elders circled you, whispering words from the old tongue, voices shaking as they painted ash across your cheeks. One leaned close, breath stale with age and guilt.

“Be still. Be quiet. Be worthy.”

You weren’t still.

You tore the wreath from your head.

You screamed. Kicked. Spat.

“I’m not yours to give!”

The wind stilled. The torches shivered.

The earth pulsed beneath your feet.

The sky split like torn cloth.

And from the darkness came him.

Lord Zephyr.

Tall, pale, wrapped in shadows that moved like smoke. His face was almost human—except for his eyes: wide, pale, endless.

He did not look at you.

He looked at the elders.

“Which one of you chose this child?”

No one answered. They all bowed lower.

“How old?”

“Seven, my lord,” came a shaky voice.

“Seven,” Zephyr repeated softly. “Still soft. Still stubborn.”

Finally, he stepped toward you.

His robes whispered over the dead soil. You had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze.

And you did.

He stared down into your eyes—eyes filled not with fear, but with anger and stubbornness. Your jaw clenched. Your fists balled at your sides. You refused to bow.

His gaze lingered, not surprised. Not impressed. Cold.

He waits. And waits. For you to come and take his hand.