Chapter 1

The woods behind Leo’s village were not a place most children went alone. They said the old trees whispered secrets, and that sometimes, on quiet evenings, the shadows seemed to move on their own. But Leo loved the woods. He loved the way light filtered through the leaves, turning everything soft and green, and the damp smell of earth after a rain. He loved the way the ferns brushed against his legs like gentle fingers, and the way a hidden stream sang a low, constant song under the mossy rocks.

It was on a Saturday morning, when the sun was just a golden blush over the rooftops, that Leo went to the woods to collect mushrooms for his father’s stew. He carried a small woven basket and hummed a tune he’d heard the baker whistling. The air was cool and carried the scent of pine and wet stone. He had wandered deeper than usual, past the fallen oak that looked like a sleeping dragon, when he heard a sound that was not a bird or a squirrel or a rustle of wind.

It was a tiny sniffle.

Leo stopped. He held his breath. The sound came again, a soft, hiccupping whimper. It came from behind a thicket of berry bushes, their branches heavy with dark, unripe fruit. Carefully, Leo parted the brambles. He expected to find a rabbit caught in a snare, or a fox cub separated from its mother. Instead, what he saw made him gasp and nearly drop his basket.

Curled up in a hollow of tree roots was a creature no bigger than a newborn lamb, with skin the color of a pale dawn sky and hair like spun silver. Its eyes were closed, and from its tiny mouth came those sad little sniffles. It was wearing a scrap of cloth, like a torn piece of a blanket, covered in dust and dew. Leo had never seen anything like it. But he knew, deep in his heart, what it was. He had heard stories, of course—whispered tales by the fire, warnings from the elders about the magic that lived beyond the valley. This was a giant’s child. A baby giant, lost and alone.

Leo’s first instinct was to run. To fetch Elder Rowan, or his father, or anyone who would know what to do. But the baby opened its eyes, and Leo forgot all about running.

They were the color of a clear winter sky, and they looked at Leo with such a desperate, trusting hope that it made his chest ache. The baby giant reached out a tiny hand, its fingers no bigger than dew worms, and made a soft, cooing sound. Leo knelt. He put down his basket and slowly, gently, extended his own hand. The baby grabbed his finger. Its grip was surprisingly strong, warm, and trembling.

“It’s all right,” Leo whispered, though his own heart was hammering. “I’ve got you.”

The baby giant blinked, and a single tear rolled down its cheek. Leo scooped him up, cradling him against his chest. The baby was lighter than he expected, like a bundle of feathers and warmth. He smelled of rain and something sweet, like honey from a far-off meadow. The baby nuzzled against Leo’s shirt and let out a small, shuddering sigh.

Leo knew he couldn’t leave him here. The woods were cold at night, and there were foxes and owls and other things that might not be kind to a lost baby. He also knew, with a certainty that made his stomach feel hollow, that he couldn’t take him to the village. The village did not like magic. They did not like anything strange or different. Elder Rowan would call it a curse. The people would be afraid. They would take the baby away, or worse.

So Leo made a choice. He wrapped the baby in his own jacket, tucked him inside his basket, and covered him with the mushrooms. The baby did not cry. He just looked up at Leo with those sky-blue eyes and seemed to understand.

Leo walked home slowly, his heart a jumble of fear and wonder. The village was waking up. Smoke rose from chimneys, and the smell of baking bread filled the air. Mrs. Birch was sweeping her porch. Old Tom was leading his donkey to the mill. Everyone waved, and Leo waved back, trying to smile. He felt like he was carrying a secret as big as the sky.

He slipped into the barn behind his house, where the hay was soft and the light was dim. He found a clean corner, made a nest of straw, and laid the baby giant down. The baby stretched and yawned, showing a tiny pink tongue. Leo ran to the house, fetched a bowl of warm milk and a piece of bread, and returned. The baby drank the milk eagerly, spilling most of it down his chin, and gummed at the bread until it was a wet, happy mess. Then he fell asleep, one hand still clutching Leo’s finger.

Leo sat beside him, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He felt a fierce, protective love he had never known before. He named him Glimmer, because his hair sparkled in the barn’s dusty light like tiny stars.

But as the afternoon sun slanted through the cracks in the barn wall, Leo heard his father’s voice calling him for supper. He knew he could not keep Glimmer a secret forever. The baby was already growing, his tiny limbs filling out, his soft cries becoming louder. And Leo knew that soon, the whole village would hear him.

He stroked Glimmer’s silver hair and whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”

But even as he said it, a shadow of doubt crept over his heart. The woods had given him a gift. The question was whether the world would let him keep it.