January 1, 472 AD
A shrill scream tore through the thick, humid air of the small room, a cry that seemed to resonate through the stone walls and narrow streets of Naples. Quintino was born. His body, small and fragile like a baby bird just hatched from an egg, was wrapped in a shroud of raw linen, while a midwife, her hands rough and quick like those of an expert weaver, cleaned him and wrapped him in woolen swaddling clothes.
A strong, acrid smell, mixed with that of the fire crackling in the hearth, hit him. A smell of sweat, of wet wool, of medicinal herbs and of fear. The fear of a life that opened up before him, uncertain and full of dangers. But Quintino, at that moment, could not know it. He was only a newborn, a defenseless being at the mercy of the world.
His eyes, still closed, moved under his lids, trying to make sense of the chaos of sensations that invaded him. A deafening white noise filled his ears: soft voices, moans, the crackling of the fire, the crying of other children. A chorus of sounds that disoriented and frightened him.
[Where am I? Who am I?]
he wondered, more like a confused impression than a real thought.
A light touch on his cheek brought him back to reality. It was his mother, with flaming red hair and purple eyes, who was holding him tightly to her. Her heart was beating hard against his small body, transmitting a sense of protection and warmth.
[Mom??], he thought and questioned, feeling a vague sensation of familiarity.
A sense of acute hunger invaded him.
His small hands moved in search of something to suck. The midwife, with an expert gesture, placed him on her mother's breast. The warm, sweet milk flowed into his mouth, quenching his hunger and enveloping him in a feeling of well-being.
The days passed in a slow succession of sleep, hunger, and diaper changes.
Quintino began to recognize the faces that looked out over his crib: his mother, his father, a tall, imposing man with a warrior's look, and the midwife, a woman with hard features but kind eyes.
One day, as they held him in their arms near the hearth, his father looked into his eyes with an intense expression.
"You'll be big, little dragon," he whispered, stroking his hair.
[Dragon?] The name rang in Quintino's ear like a distant echo. He didn't understand what it meant, but he felt it was important. There was something in those words that touched him deeply, something mysterious and fascinating.
March 1, 472 AD
Two months had passed since Quintino had come into the world. Now, awake, he spent long hours staring at the wooden ceiling, a tangle of soot-encrusted beams that seemed to move and change shape.
What could be out there?
[Barbarians? Aliens? Donald Trump? Ok, I hoped not the last one hahaha] he wondered and laughed, imagining hidden worlds beyond the stone walls of his house and ambiguous characters...
One day, his mother carried him in her arms near the fireplace.
The heat of the fire enveloped him, and he felt a strange sensation of familiarity. It was as if the fire was a part of him, something intimate and deep.
[The fire], he thought, [it's like me, how strange I'll have to do more experiments maybe I'll have some cool power let's hope]
at that moment, a small flame danced on the tip of his fingers.
Scared, he stepped back. His mother smiled, an enigmatic smile that hid a deep wisdom.
"Don't be afraid, my little dragon," she said. "Fire is in your nature."
Quinty didn't understand, but he felt that there was something special in him. Something that connected him to fire, something that made him different from other children.
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