Morning sunlight spilled across Eldermere like honey, coating the thatched rooftops and weathered wooden beams in a golden glow. The village nestled perfectly between rolling emerald fields and the ancient forest that stood sentinel along the eastern border—a place where practicality and mysticism coexisted in surprising harmony.

Reid Ashford pressed his small palm against the window glass, his breath forming small clouds of condensation as he whispered the same word for the fifth time that morning.

"Unbelievable."

From his vantage point in his aunt's upper workshop, the five-year-old boy had an unobstructed view of the village square below. Unlike the other children who would have been captivated by the games and laughter, Reid's attention was fixed on the patterns—the systematic way villagers moved through their morning routines, the logical progression of market stalls opening, the predictable rhythm of the community awakening.

The square transformed with each passing hour. First came the merchants, unfolding tables and arranging their wares with practiced hands. Next, the hunters returned from dawn expeditions, game slung over shoulders and knives still wet with blood. Then the crafters emerged, setting up demonstrations that gathered crowds of fascinated onlookers.

But what made Eldermere different—what made it "unbelievable" to Reid's calculating mind—was how magic wove itself into these ordinary village scenes without anyone seeming to find it remarkable.

Children played knucklebones with stones that glowed different colors when tossed. A cloth merchant sprinkled her fabrics with powder that made the colors shift depending on who touched them. A blacksmith muttered words of binding over a horseshoe before plunging it into water, causing steam to rise in the shape of a galloping steed.

Reid leaned closer to the glass, his dark eyes reflecting none of the wonder a child his age should display—only intense curiosity and analysis.

Below, a group of children his age had gathered in a circle. They tossed enchanted pebbles that sparked with blue and green light, then erupted in peals of laughter when one stone turned bright pink, causing its thrower to blush furiously.

"Are you going to stare out that window all day, or make yourself useful?"

Reid didn't turn at his aunt's voice, continuing his observation of the village.

"I am being useful. I'm learning."

Sera Ashford's heavy footsteps crossed the wooden floor, stopping just behind him. Her shadow fell over his small frame, smelling of iron and woodsmoke.

"Learning what, exactly?"

Reid finally turned, his expression serious in a way that made most adults uncomfortable when they saw it on such a young face.

"Patterns. Behaviors. Inefficiencies."

Sera crossed her arms, her leather apron crinkling with the movement. A smile tugged at her lips despite her attempt to look stern.

"Well, Scholar Ashford, perhaps you could inefficiently help me carry some supplies to the forge before you continue your important research?"

Reid nodded once, straightening his simple linen shirt as he followed his aunt downstairs. He moved like a little adult—measured steps, shoulders squared, eyes constantly cataloging details that others missed. No one would guess he was only five unless they saw his height.

Outside, Eldermere's unique character became even more apparent. Above each doorway hung intricate tapestries, their threads catching the morning light. Reid paused briefly beneath the one marking their own home—a field of midnight blue with silver threads forming the constellation of the Hunter, the symbol of the Ashenborn clan. Woven into the corner, almost invisible unless you knew to look, were two small stars—representations of his parents, now gone.

"Reid! Reid Ashford!"

A small, wiry boy with wild brown hair came barreling across the square, nearly colliding with a water-carrier and shouting breathless apologies without slowing down.

"Calen," Reid acknowledged without enthusiasm as the older boy skidded to a stop before him.

"They're going to announce the Rite preparations today! Elder Varrow's putting up the name-cloths!" Calen bounced on his heels, his energy radiating like heat from a forge.

"Aren't you coming to see?"

Reid glanced at the bundle of iron rods in his arms.

"I have responsibilities."

Calen's face scrunched in confusion.

"You're five. Your only responsibility is to not eat dirt."

"I have to help my aunt."

"Oh."

Calen's disappointment lasted approximately two seconds before his face brightened again.

"Well, after then? Elira's gonna be there!"

At the mention of the elder's daughter, Reid's expression remained neutral, but he offered a small nod.

"Perhaps."

***

The village square had transformed by midday. Colorful banners now adorned the central oak tree, and three distinct sections had been marked with stones painted in clan colors—crimson for the Ashenborn, emerald for the Verdantweavers, and amber for the Emberforged.

Reid stood at the edge of the gathering crowd, watching as Elder Varrow, a tall woman with silver-streaked hair woven with tiny bells, raised her hands for silence.

"Today marks seven days until the Rite of Second Names,"

she called, her voice carrying across the square without effort.

"Our children of twelve summers will stand before the Sacred Flame and receive the names that will guide their paths forward."

The crowd murmured appreciatively. Reid noticed how the adults placed their hands over the embroidered sigils on their clothes—symbols of their own Second Names, earned long ago.

"As is tradition." Elder Varrow continued, "The name-cloths will hang in the Remembrance Hall for seven days. Each family may add the thread of their lineage, so our children step into their future carrying the strength of their past."

A small hand tugged at Reid's sleeve. He turned to find Elira Varrow, the elder's daughter, looking up at him with solemn eyes that seemed too knowing for her six years.

"Hello, Reid Ashford."

Reid nodded in acknowledgment.

"Elira."

She tilted her head, studying him with the same intensity he usually reserved for examining forge techniques or hunting patterns.

"You're not watching the ceremony. You're watching the people watching the ceremony."

Reid blinked, surprised by her observation.

"It's more informative."

Elira smiled slightly.

"That's what I think too."

Before Reid could respond, Calen appeared between them, throwing an arm around each of their shoulders and nearly toppling all three of them over.

"Come on! They're opening the hall doors. If we hurry, we can see them hang the cloths!"

Reid extracted himself from Calen's grasp with practiced ease.

"I should return to the forge."

"No you shouldn't," Calen countered.

"Your aunt is right there." He pointed toward where Sera stood with the other Ashenborn warriors, her tall frame easily visible.

"She's busy for at least an hour. Come on!"

With Calen pushing from behind and Elira's quiet presence somehow making refusal seem impolite, Reid found himself swept toward the Remembrance Hall—a circular building constructed of ancient timbers and stone, with windows of colored glass that cast rainbow patterns across the floor.

Inside, the walls were covered with hundreds of tapestries—family histories woven in thread and symbol, dating back generations. Some were faded with age, others vibrant with recent additions. The Tapestries of Blood and Sun, they were called—blood for lineage, sun for the days yet to come.

Elder Varrow stood at the center of the hall, where three white cloths hung suspended from the ceiling. These would become the name-cloths for this year's Rite, gradually filling with color as family members added their threads throughout the week.

"The Ashenborn," she called, and a boy of twelve stepped forward, his red-tinged hair marking him clearly as belonging to Reid's clan.

"Tomas, son of Keelan Flamewatcher and Meera Swiftblade. May your ancestors guide your Second Name."

The boy bowed, touching his forehead to the white cloth. His parents came forward, each carrying a crimson thread which they pressed against the fabric. Where they touched, the threads sank into the cloth as if absorbed, leaving behind faint red lines.

"That'll be us someday," Calen whispered, though his someday was considerably closer than Reid's. "I bet my Second Name will be something amazing, like Stormcaller or Beasttamer."

"That's not how it works," Elira whispered back. "The name chooses you based on your deeds and heart. My sister thought she'd be called Stargazer, but the flame named her Truthseeker instead."

Reid observed the ritual with scientific interest, noting how each family approached differently—the Verdantweavers with reverent steps and whispered prayers, the Emberforged with confident strides and open palms. His own clan, the Ashenborn, moved like hunters approaching prey—careful, measured, respectful of power greater than themselves.

"Where are your threads, Reid?" Calen asked suddenly, his voice dropping to an unusually gentle tone.

Reid didn't respond immediately, his eyes fixed on the crimson section of the hall where his family's tapestry hung—smaller than most, with two prominent threads abruptly cut short.

"My aunt keeps them," he finally said.

"For when you're twelve," Elira added, understanding in her voice.

Reid nodded once, though something in his expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced he would live to see that day.