The Shattered Sky: Only I Do What the Gods Can't

The day began like so many others in Riverstone. Gentle hills stretched across the horizon, dotted with fields of wheat and barley that shimmered under a thin blanket of morning mist. The air was cool and smelled of damp earth, carrying the quiet promise of a new day.

Riverstone was a farming village, and its people had worked the land for generations.

The fields were carefully tended, with patches of vegetables, rows of fruit trees, and small grazing pastures spread among the crops.

The villagers now relied not just on tradition but also on fragments—small pieces of stars fallen from the sky that had become part of their tools and routines.

These fragments made life easier. They powered irrigation channels that kept water flowing to thirsty plants and gave plows the strength to cut through tough soil. 

At this early hour, the village was quiet, save for the rustling of leaves in the breeze and the distant songs of waking birds. It was a peaceful scene, as familiar and comforting as the rising sun.

Kael was already up before the first light crept across the fields. He always rose early, just like his father, Marcus, had taught him. By the time Kael stepped outside, Marcus was waiting, tools in hand.

"Ready?" Marcus asked, his voice low but steady.

Kael nodded, grabbing a hoe from the shed. Together, they walked to the wheat field.

The morning's work began with checking the irrigation channels. Water flowed smoothly through narrow ditches, guided by fragment-powered pumps. Kael knelt to pull out a few stubborn weeds, his fingers cool and damp from the soil.

"South end's looking dry," Marcus said. "Check it out while I finish here."

Kael moved to the far side of the field, where the wheat swayed lightly in the breeze. The channels needed clearing, and Kael worked quickly, his movements practiced from years of the same routine.

As the sun rose higher, their tasks shifted to inspecting the barley crop. Marcus showed Kael how to spot signs of pests and disease. The two worked quietly, but there was a natural ease in their rhythm.

"We've got errands to run later," Marcus said, breaking the silence.

Kael smirked. "Don't we always?"

Marcus chuckled. "Keeps us in line."

By the time they finished, Kael's arms ached from the work, but it was a good kind of tired.

Marcus wasn't always a farmer. Though he rarely spoke of it, Kael knew his father had once been a soldier.

There were hints in the way he moved—calculated and steady—and the way his sharp eyes seemed to notice everything.

After the Border Wars ended, Marcus had traded his armor for simple tools, settling in Riverstone to raise a family.

He didn't talk about those years, but Kael could sense they still weighed on him. Though Kael was convinced that there was to why he quit.

In the village, Marcus was well-respected. He had a quiet authority, and people often sought his advice. Whether it was about repairing tools or resolving a disagreement, Marcus always seemed to have the right answer.

When Kael and Marcus returned to the farmhouse, the smell of breakfast greeted them. Lira, Kael's two years younger sister, stood by the stove, her apron dusted with flour.

"Sit down, both of you," she said, setting steaming plates of eggs and bread on the table.

Kael and Marcus sat, the warmth of the kitchen a welcome contrast to the crisp morning air.

"Market day," Lira said as she poured tea. "Dad, I need you to carry the preserves. Kael, make sure the cart's packed properly this time. Last week we nearly lost the hammer."

Kael gave a small grunt, focused on his food.

Kael noticed the way his sister's hands fidgeted as she spoke, a nervous energy she tried to hide. His father, too, seemed quieter than usual. There was something unspoken between them, a worry they weren't ready to share.

"You all right, Lira?" Kael asked gently.

"Of course," Lira replied quickly, offering a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Just busy, that's all."

Kael didn't press her, but he could feel the tension lingering in the air.

The village of Riverstone was small but lively. Its cobblestone streets wound between houses with thatched roofs and neatly kept gardens.

At the center was the market square, where villagers gathered to trade goods and catch up on the latest news.

Riverstone thrived on trade. Farmers brought fresh produce, craftsmen sold tools and wares, and merchants from nearby towns came looking for the region's prized grains.

It was a simple but efficient system, and everyone had their role to play.

But today, the usual energy of the market felt off. People whispered in hushed tones, their faces shadowed with unease.

"Did you hear about Eron's cows?" a woman murmured to her friend as Kael passed by. "Wandered off during the night. Found them miles away, like they were spooked."

Strange things had been happening lately. Birds flew in odd patterns, their flocks scattering without reason. Animals behaved skittishly, and the air itself felt heavier, carrying a faint vibration Kael couldn't explain.

Farmers muttered about patches of crops growing unevenly, despite perfect conditions.

Kael frowned as he listened to the villagers talk, their nervous whispers painting a picture of a community on edge.

Kael couldn't help but notice the little changes. He'd always been observant—more so than most boys his age. While others shrugged off the strange happenings, Kael saw the connections.

As he stood by his mother's stall, helping her arrange jars of preserves, he watched the villagers carefully. They moved differently today, their steps hurried and cautious.

"There's something wrong," Kael muttered under his breath.

"What's that?" Lira asked, catching his tone.

"Nothing," Kael replied quickly, forcing a smile. "Just thinking."

But the feeling stuck with him, like a pebble in his shoe.

Kael's unease deepened as he thought about the signs. Animals were restless, crops didn't grow right, and the fragments were acting strange.

Even the sunsets had changed, their colors sharper and more vivid, as if the sky itself was uneasy.

The villagers tried to adapt, tweaking their tools and routines to account for the disruptions. But Kael couldn't shake the feeling that these were just temporary fixes for a larger problem.

That evening, the family gathered around the table for dinner. The meal was simple but filling—stew, fresh bread, and roasted vegetables.

Conversation came in fits and starts. Marcus talked about the day's work, his words brief and clipped. Lira spoke of the market, her tone cheerful but strained. Kael listened quietly, his thoughts elsewhere.

As someone who claimed to have learnt the secret technique taught to her by the Gods called, "Gymnastics" Lira was quite flexible and quick.

"You've been awfully quiet," Lira said, looking at Kael.

"Just tired," Kael replied, though he knew that wasn't the whole truth.

The meal ended with Marcus excusing himself early, heading outside to check the barn. Kael stayed behind to help Lira clear the table.

"You're worried," she said softly, her voice low enough that only he could hear.

Kael hesitated, then nodded. "Something feels... wrong. Like things are changing, but no one wants to say it."

Lira met his gaze, her expression serious. "I feel it too," she admitted.

That night, Kael lay awake in bed. The house was quiet, save for the creak of settling wood and the soft rustle of the wind outside.

Then, faint but unmistakable, he felt it: a low vibration in the ground, like the earth itself was holding its breath.

Moments later, the distant sounds of animals stirred the night—cries of unease from the fields and forests beyond. Kael's chest tightened. Something was coming, though he didn't know what.