The sky looked like it wanted to cry.
Gray clouds hung low over the towering spires of Vaeloria's capital, casting long shadows across the city like the world itself wanted to hide from what was about to happen. Raindrops threatened, but none dared fall. It was as if the heavens were holding their breath.
So was Cael.
He stood barefoot at the edge of the Arcanum's High Platform, the cold, rune-etched stone biting into the soles of his feet. Around him, hundreds of students gathered in rows, dressed in crisp uniforms glowing faintly with their imbued magic. They whispered and laughed in clusters, most of their attention fixed on anything but him. The silence that surrounded Cael was heavy and intentional.
He wore a second-hand tunic that hung too loosely from his small frame, stained from too many nights without a home and too many meals he had to steal to eat. His hair was a matted mess of charcoal strands that curled awkwardly across his forehead. His eyes, once a vibrant storm-gray, had dulled over time. Not because he was tired—but because he had given up hoping.
"Zero-tier Cael of No House," the examiner called out, his voice polished and booming with practiced indifference. "Step forward."
Snickers danced through the crowd. Someone coughed the word, "Ash-blood," while another chuckled and added, "Why even bother?"
Cael didn't flinch. He'd heard it all before. He just walked forward slowly, steady, but his heart felt like it would crack his ribs. His palms were sweaty despite the chill. He stopped in front of the rune-stone pedestal, where a dull gray crystal pulsed lazily atop a metal ring.
This was it. The final testing ceremony. The one every child of Vaeloria looked forward to—the Awakening of Spark. For most, it was a moment of triumph. A time when their innate magic was measured and recorded into the nation's sacred archive. When their path through the Ranks would begin.
For Cael, it felt like a funeral.
The examiner gave him a nod that barely concealed his expectation of failure. "Place your hand on the stone. Focus your will. Let your truth bleed into it."
Cael hesitated only a second before pressing his hand down.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Inside his head, he screamed. He pushed every ounce of pain, hope, anger, shame, and desperation into the crystal. He thought of the nights he slept on wet stone, the days he watched nobles his age ride past him in enchanted carriages, the moments when even dogs were treated with more dignity than him.
He wanted power.
He needed it.
The crystal didn't flicker. Not once.
A gasp swept through the audience.
The examiner blinked, confused. He adjusted a monocle that glowed with an internal enchantment and leaned forward. "Once more," he said, clearly irritated now.
Cael tried again. This time, he screamed inside his mind so loud he thought his brain would split. He reached into himself, clawing at anything that might spark, begging whatever gods were out there to help.
Nothing.
The crystal remained dead.
"Impossible…" someone whispered. "Even the weakest spark should flicker. Even beggars have some Ember."
"Is he cursed?"
"Or fake?"
"I bet he's not even human."
The examiner straightened. His voice turned cold. "Cael of No House, you are hereby recorded as Sparkless. No trace of mana, no measurable essence, no connection to any domain. Your Rank is Zero. You are unfit for magical society. You are dismissed."
Laughter erupted. Mock applause echoed. One boy threw a stone at Cael's feet. It bounced and rolled to the side. No one stopped him.
Cael slowly pulled his hand away.
The crystal, in a final act of mockery, cracked. A thin line ran through it, glowing for just a heartbeat before fading completely. As if even the stone was disgusted with him.
He turned without a word and walked off the stage. He didn't run. That would have made it worse. He didn't look up. That would have made it unbearable. He walked, one step at a time, through the crowd of laughing students who parted like he carried plague.
At the edge of the platform, he saw Mira.
She wasn't laughing.
She never did.
She stood in the shadows under the archway, her eyes wide and distant, her mouth sealed shut as always. She was mute, but her expression said enough. Pity. Fear. And something else.
Hope?
No. That couldn't be.
Cael kept walking.
It wasn't until he reached the outskirts of the city, where the cobbled roads turned to broken gravel and the tall towers were replaced by crumbling huts, that he let himself stop. He sat down behind a broken statue of the Firelord, one of the ancient Arc-rank heroes, and buried his face in his hands.
He didn't cry.
He hadn't cried since his mother left him at the orphanage door when he was six.
Instead, he sat there in silence, trying not to think.
He was still sitting there when the rain finally fell. Not a storm. Just a slow, steady drizzle, like the sky finally gave up pretending it wasn't sad.
Cold crept through the cracks in the stone walls, curling its way around Cael's body as he stirred awake. He lay curled beneath a torn cloak that barely counted as a blanket, his back pressed against the crumbled base of what used to be a statue. The temple was long abandoned, forgotten by time and the gods alike. No one came here anymore. No priests. No pilgrims. Only silence, dirt, and him.
His stomach twisted with hunger before he could even open his eyes. The pain was sharp, hollow, and constant. He gritted his teeth and slowly sat up, hugging his knees against his chest. Rain had seeped in through the broken ceiling again, soaking the floor. Water pooled in the corners. Rats had taken over the far hall where the roof had caved in. He didn't dare sleep there anymore after one tried to nibble his fingers.
The stone beneath him was hard and cold, and every bone in his body ached from the night. But this place was safer than the streets. At least here, the guards wouldn't drag him off or beat him for loitering. At least here, the nobles wouldn't spit on him for breathing the same air.
He pulled on his thin tunic and the hooded cloak, more patches than cloth, and stood up. His limbs protested. His skin burned in places, still raw from where the brand had scarred him the day before. The humiliation rune left a faint, pulsing ache that never fully faded, reminding him every time he moved that he was marked. Not with pride or honor, like those born with powerful magic. No. His mark glowed faintly every time he entered a shop, warning others.
Thief.
Ash-blood.
Filth.
He stepped out into the morning, the sky still gray from the night's rain. The streets near the slums were already stirring. Children ran barefoot across puddles, chasing after scraps. Mothers huddled around burning bins, warming their hands, their faces hollow from years of disappointment. No one looked up as he passed. They had their own miseries to carry.
Cael headed toward the market, eyes low, mind numb. Not for himself. He had gone without food before, but there was a boy named Joren tucked away in the same ruined temple, hidden behind a collapsed hallway. He had taken shelter there only days ago, coughing blood and unable to move. Probably ten years old. Just another castaway, thrown out like garbage after his parents died in the mines. The kid hadn't eaten in days.
Cael hadn't either. But the boy needed it more.
He'd been watching the stalls for hours the day before, waiting for the right moment. The bread vendor, an older woman with bad eyesight and too many customers, sometimes left her goods unguarded. If he timed it right, he could snatch one loaf and vanish before she even noticed.
It was a stupid plan.
But it was all he had.
The bazaar came into view, loud and crowded. The smells of baked goods, boiled meats, and bitter herbs filled the air, mixing with sweat and smoke. Merchants shouted, wagons creaked, and spell glyphs flickered on signboards.
Cael slipped through the crowd like a shadow, weaving between carts, keeping to the edges, eyes fixed on the stall with the freshest bread.
He spotted her.
The bread merchant.
Same one from yesterday. Same spot. Her stall was loaded with golden loaves, warm and steaming in the cold air. She was turned away, arguing with a firewood seller over the price of kindling.
Cael's heart pounded.
He edged closer, every nerve on fire. His fingers trembled as he reached toward the nearest loaf.
And then it happened.
A sharp blast of light exploded from the humiliation glyph.
Cael cried out as searing pain locked his limbs. His body went rigid. He crashed to the cobblestones, unable to move, breath frozen in his lungs.
People turned.
"Thief!" the merchant roared, spinning around and storming over. Her eyes blazed with fury, her face twisted in disgust. "You again? You ash-sucking little rat!"
She grabbed a rod from beneath the counter. Iron, carved with runes. The kind of rod city guards used to punish beggars and thieves.
"No, please…" Cael gasped. "It wasn't—"
She didn't listen.
She pressed the rod against his shoulder.
The rune flared.
Pain unlike anything Cael had ever known exploded across his body. It was like fire poured straight into his veins, searing him from the inside. He screamed until his voice cracked. The crowd didn't flinch.
A few laughed.
Someone threw a pebble at him.
A guard walked past, paused, then kept walking.
Cael felt the magic brand carve into his skin. A permanent humiliation rune. It would glow whenever he stepped near a vendor stall. A beacon of shame.
"You'll rot, boy," the merchant spat. "You'll starve like the rat you are."
She kicked his side and turned away.
The glyph holding him faded.
Cael curled into himself, shaking.
No one offered help. No one offered pity.
Except her.
A shadow stepped into the alley beside him. Bare feet, soft and quiet. A girl with dark hair wrapped in rough cloth. Her eyes the color of pale dawn. She crouched beside him, face calm, eyes filled with something he couldn't understand.
Mira.
She didn't speak. She never did. He didn't know why. Maybe she couldn't. Maybe the world had stolen her voice the same way it had tried to steal his.
She reached into her pouch and pulled out a glass vial. Bitter-smelling liquid. She poured it into his mouth, then pulled out a salve and smeared it over the glowing rune on his shoulder.
It stung, but the pain dulled quickly.
Then she slipped something into his hand.
Bread.
A full, warm loaf.
Cael stared at it.
His throat tightened.
Mira smiled, only a little. She helped him to his feet.
He tried to speak, but the words got stuck.
She touched a finger to his lips. Then pointed to the shadows. Telling him to go. To run.
He did.
Back through the twisting alleys, past the slums, back to the broken temple where the gods had long since stopped listening.
He stumbled inside and dropped to his knees beside Joren, who lay asleep under torn blankets. He placed the bread beside the boy and collapsed beside the altar.
His shoulder throbbed. His body trembled. His eyes stung.
He stared up at the cracked ceiling, breaths shallow.
And then… the whispers came.
Soft and cold, like breath across the spine.
Words he didn't understand. Voices that echoed not in his ears but in his bones. The stones beneath the altar pulsed with faint light.
He blinked.
The whispers grew louder, and a name formed on the edge of his mind–A name not spoken in a thousand years.
His heart pounded.
He reached toward the altar.
The stone split. And the whispers rushed in like a wave.
Then overwhelming darkness took him.