There were no cheers when Root stepped into the summoning ring.
No gasps.
No hushes of reverent awe.
Just the sound of his bare feet tapping against the polished blackwood tiles, and the faintest groan of the binding torches that lined the Blooming Chamber's high walls. The flame danced over barkstone and etched sigil-glyphs that had pulsed for every other student that morning.
Every student but him.
He was the last.
Always the last.
The Seedwatcher's voice echoed from the center dais, sharp and formal. "Root of Drossmere. Seventeenth year. Third attempt."
The circle beneath him lit with faint silver light. Root kept his chin level and his eyes unfocused—he didn't need to see the crowd. He'd already memorized them.
The successful initiates lined the outer wall, sigils still glowing on their chests, some proud, some relieved, some already moving on. Their families stood behind them, beaming. Root's side of the platform was mostly empty. No parents. No name. Just Amara, arms crossed, sitting too far back for comfort, chewing her thumbnail like she wanted to scream.
And Kaelen.
Of course Kaelen was there.
Arms folded. Smirking.
Root inhaled.
The circle flared once, pulsed—and began to fade.
No bloom.
No mark.
No light.
The chamber fell into silence that felt worse than laughter.
The Seedwatcher didn't even sigh this time. "No sigil response," she announced. "Record him."
Root stepped back. No tears. No begging. Not even a wince. This was his third failure. The final one. There wouldn't be another ceremony.
The moment he turned his back on the platform, he became what every failed summoner became in Drossmere: a labor hand. A nobody. A whisper to scare kids into practicing their sigil drills.
Voidseed.
The term was never spoken aloud, but it lived in every sideways glance, every turned back, every silence that buzzed too long between footsteps.
They didn't let him leave through the front.
Root was handed his sandals and pointed toward the side exit—a narrow branch-covered gate once used for deliveries, now used for disappointments.
He walked alone.
The sun had climbed high by the time he reached the moss trail leading toward the center of town. Jungle fog coiled along the roots of the greattrees that lined the ridges, casting everything in a soft green murk. Here, the sounds of insects and dripvine water muffled the ache in his legs.
He passed no one. That was good.
The thoughts were loud enough.
Three times. Three. Who fails three times?
Even the sickly ones at least flickered.
You didn't even hum.
You are nothing.
He wanted to scream. Or punch something. Or vanish. But instead, he sat on a stone near the old glyph well and stared at his hands.
They looked normal. Stronger than some of the others. Not clumsy. Not cracked.
So why not him?
He didn't hear Amara approach. She was always quiet like that—years of slipping between lecture halls and avoiding beatings had made her careful.
"You hungry?" she asked, holding out a small, folded bundle of waxcloth.
Root looked up, and for the first time all day, he blinked the sting from his eyes. "Bread?"
"And sugarroot. Don't pretend you don't like the crust."
He took it without a word. She sat beside him, not too close, not too far. They'd known each other long enough not to need filler.
"I thought it might happen," she said softly.
Root didn't reply.
"I didn't think it'd feel this…quiet."
Still nothing.
"They're going to assign you soon. Farm rotation probably. Or tether maintenance."
He bit into the bread. Chewed. Swallowed.
"Doesn't matter."
"It does to me."
That caught him off guard. He turned, brows raised. "Why? What's left to care about?"
She looked at him, head tilted, curls falling over her face. "Because I've seen you walk out of this chamber three times and never once ask 'why me.' You didn't cry. You didn't beg. You just kept going. That matters more than a glowing chest."
Root looked down at his palms again. "Doesn't change what I am."
Amara hesitated. "Maybe not yet. But Drossmere isn't the world, Root."
"Feels like it."
"It's not." She stood. "And if you stop believing that, then they win."
She walked away without waiting for a reply.
Root didn't have one.
That night, sleep didn't come.
He lay curled in his corner of the worker barracks, the dull hiss of rain spattering the tin roof above him. Outside, jungle frogs croaked. Branches whispered. The world moved on.
But his chest—his chest felt like it was caving in.
He closed his eyes and pressed a fist to where his sigil should've been. His body didn't respond. No glow. No pulse. No warmth.
Just skin.
Just silence.
Just—
"You're late."
Root sat upright so fast he nearly bit his tongue. The room was empty. Nothing had moved. His breath came ragged, sweat cold down his neck.
He looked down at his hand.
It shook.
Not from fear. Not from rage.
From something else.
Recognition.