The Sleeping Light

Roland rested in a stranger's arms, swaddled in a pale gold muslin blanket. His alabaster skin glowed softly in the moonlight, and platinum downy fuzz crowned his tiny head. Round caramel eyes blinked at the shadows of the Dark Forest, curious and unaware of the mystery surrounding him.

A faint pulse of light bent the darkness around the baby, as if sensing something special within him. The stranger hurried through twisted trees toward Ashenbrook Village, careful and silent. Roland cried once, then again, until the village's warm glow touched his face.

Gentle hands lifted him from the stranger's arms. The soft light reflecting off his skin danced on the cobblestones of the quiet village street. Though tiny, he already carried something extraordinary in his veins.

The Village Questions

Years passed. Roland grew into a ten-year-old boy with round caramel eyes and ear-length platinum hair that swirled softly around his face. He wore a pale gold blouse with pearl-white ruffles and beige trousers.

Light shimmered around his fingers when he concentrated, bending with his emotions. Today he explored the village market, watching colors dance through fruit displays.

"Another child missing," whispered Mrs. Bramble, the elderly shoemaker, to her neighbor. "Little Sarah from Mill Street. That makes three this week."

Roland's light flickered nervously. He stepped closer to listen.

"The Dark Forest keeps taking them," the neighbor replied. "No trace, no sounds. Just gone."

Roland's heart raced. He remembered those twisted trees from somewhere deep in his memory.