Orion read by moonlight.

  Mostly because that was when the library was empty. But also, because the spell lux parvos was just enough light to read by and not enough to wake his father.

  A tiny globe of soft white hovered above the pages, casting a glow on old ink and dog-eared corners. His lips moved as he read, but no sound escaped.

  Not that anyone would hear him. The rest of the village had gone to bed hours ago.

  Orion never slept early.

  Too many books unread for that.

  The library of Stillmere wasn’t large, but it was old. Built into the roots of a hollowed tree, the whole place smelled of bark, parchment, and candlewax. He liked it here. Books didn’t interrupt. Books didn’t mock you when you corrected them.

  People did.

  He turned a page, then caught the edge of a tome as it tumbled from the stack beside him.

  “Ventis pulvinus,” he muttered.

  A cushion of wind caught the book mid-air, slowing its fall until it hovered gently above the floor. He reached down and grabbed it.

  Perfect memory had its perks.

  He could recall every spell diagram he’d ever seen, every footnote, every warning about unstable incantation layering.

  He just couldn’t remember the last time someone smiled when he opened his mouth.

  Orion was only half-elf, but that was enough to make him strange in a human-majority town. Taller than most kids his age, with pointed ears and sharp eyes that saw more than people liked. He was pale, quiet, and too smart for his own good.

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  He didn’t mean to make people uncomfortable.

  He just hated being wrong.

  And hated watching other people be wrong even more.

  Once, during a village history lesson, the teacher had claimed the founding date of Stillmere was 417 A.E.

  Orion had corrected her: 412.

  Cited his source.

  Got detention.

  He’d learned not to speak up after that.

  At least, not out loud.

  Books didn’t need convincing.

  Books listened.

  He wasn’t lonely, not really.

  He just preferred being alone.

  There was always another chapter to read. Another spell formula to diagram. Another question to answer.

  And every time he found something new, something hidden in plain text that no one else had pieced together, it felt like winning a game only he knew he was playing.

  That was enough.

  The spell structure system was his favourite.

  Modular, elegant, and brutally logical.

  Every spell was a sentence.

  Every effect, a clause.

  A simple light? Lux parvos.

  A gust of wind? Ventis brevis.

  Need both at once? Just combine them. Layered syntax with strict word order. One mistake and it fizzled. Two, and it could explode in your face.

  Or worse—summon a duck.

  He chuckled to himself at the memory.

  That had been a long afternoon.

  He sat back, rubbing his eyes, the orb of light bobbing above his head.

  Tomorrow, the village festival would begin.

  He wouldn’t go. Too many people. Too many questions.

  “Why don’t you have any friends, Orion?”

  “Why are you always in the library?”

  “Why can’t you just be normal?”

  He sighed.

  Normal didn’t come with perfect recall.

  Or a constant pressure behind his eyes like someone was watching, waiting.

  He’d felt it since he was born.

  A quiet pull, like the air shifted when he entered a room. Like the world was holding its breath.

  He thought maybe everyone felt that.

  Maybe they just ignored it better.

  He closed the book, whispered lux terminare, and watched the orb blink out.

  Silence returned.

  The stars outside the library windows burned steady and cold.

  He stared at them for a long time.

  He didn’t know it yet.

  But one of them had been watching back.

  For it had chosen him.

  For wisdom.

  For discipline.

  For truth.

  And his story, one of logic and light, was about to unfold.