The morning crept in soft and golden, brushing Zorya's cheeks with threads of sunlight and the tender scent of sea and lavender. The windows were open, letting the breeze roll gently through the rooms, stirring the gauzy curtains and carrying with it the salty breath of the nearby ocean.
In the kitchen, the clink of spoons and quiet laughter bloomed like a songbird.
Vair was already at the table, hair still damp from his morning wash, eyes sparkling as he recounted stories from the academy with the usual dramatic flair. His deep, cheerful voice bounced from wall to wall as he gestured with a half-eaten piece of toast.
"…so I accidentally reversed the hinge runes on the entire west corridor door. Took three professors and a broomstick to pry it back open!"
Zorya chuckled softly as she placed fresh fruit on the table. Thalassa, sitting with her chin in her palms, listened wide-eyed, her fluffy curls haloed by the morning light.
"Did you really fly into a wall?" she asked.
"Not fly," Vair corrected with mock pride. "I launched. There's a difference."
Thalassa giggled, her feet swinging under the chair. "How many trees are there in the academy?" she asked suddenly. "Are there Mirathiel trees?"
Zorya paused with a cup of tea in hand. Vair's eyes warmed with memory.
"Yes," he said, quieter now, almost reverent. "There are Mirathiel trees. Some say there are fourteen, some say fifteen. They're old—older than the stones of the academy itself."
He leaned back, voice taking on a storyteller's rhythm.
"They weren't planted, you know. They just… appeared. No one saw them grow. One morning, they were simply there, tall and strange and glowing faintly under moonlight. It's said the first Mirathiel tree appeared the night the Academy was founded, right in the heart of the Great Courtyard. And after that, one would appear every few decades—sometimes in the gardens, sometimes along the edge of the east wing, once even right in the middle of the potions lab."
"Like gifts?" Thalassa whispered.
"Exactly," Vair said. "Like gifts from the sky. Their bark is white-silver and smooth like glass, but warm. The leaves shimmer blue in sunlight and lavender under the moon. And in spring, they bloom—not with flowers, but with soft, glowing threads that drift like whispers on the wind. It's said each tree carries the memory of a great magic long lost."
Zorya listened quietly, her tea forgotten. She had never seen a Mirathiel tree apart from the one next door . In just a few months, she would walk among them.
"Do they talk?" Thalassa asked with a hush.
Vair smiled. "Some people say they do. Not with words, but with feelings. If you sit beneath them long enough, they say you might remember something you've never known. Or dream of something waiting in your future."
For a moment, the kitchen fell into a gentle silence, wrapped in the magic of the morning and the idea of trees that dreamed.
Zorya looked out the window toward the sea, her thoughts drifting again to the boy with the ancient eyes.
Some things, it seemed, were born like the Mirathiel trees—without warning, without explanation. Simply appearing, carrying mysteries in their quiet presence.
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Four months slipped by like pages in a breeze. The scent of lavender faded into ripe peaches, and the sea's whisper grew softer under summer's gold. The sky had shifted by the time Vair stood at the gate of their home once more, adjusting the strap on his traveling bag.
His third year was calling.
The house was unusually quiet that morning. Thalassa had taken to hiding little notes in Vair's satchel ("Don't forget to brush your teeth, or the wind will bite you!"), while Zorya stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, her expression unreadable.
Vair smiled at her. "You'll be there in just a few months," he said. "We'll share the skies soon."
Before she could respond, the wind shifted. Not the usual sea breeze—but something sharper, cleaner, like air that had never touched earth before. It came with the hum of magic laced in feathers and the scent of high altitudes.
Then he appeared.
A man in pale silver robes, bearing the crest of the House of Caelanar—the Major House of Air—glided into their front garden, his boots barely disturbing the soil. His hair was wind-white, his eyes cold blue, like the sky just before lightning.
"Vair Cinderfall," he said, his voice smooth and echoing faintly. "You have been summoned."
Zorya's breath caught. Thalassa peeked from behind her legs, wide-eyed.
It was almost unheard of.
Students at the Grand Academy were often approached by the Great Houses in their third year, sometimes their second if they were truly exceptional. But to be chosen by one of the Major Houses… and before his third year had even begun?
That was not just rare. That was nearly myth.
The man unfurled a scroll of air-bound parchment, the letters glowing with stormlight.
"You have been invited to train under the House of Caelanar," the man said. "Should you accept, you will carry the sky's command, and your path will belong to the winds."
Vair looked stunned for the briefest moment—just a flicker of disbelief before he straightened. He glanced at his sisters. Thalassa looked like she might burst into tears. Zorya, however, met his eyes steadily, though her chest felt hollow, like a bird about to lose its favorite sky.
"I accept," Vair said softly.
The man nodded, handed him the scroll, and with a whisper of wind, vanished.
Zorya stepped outside then, the morning sun catching in her dark hair.
"You never told me you were that good," she murmured.
Vair scratched the back of his head. "I didn't know either. I just… tried to be better than yesterday."
She smiled faintly. "You always were."
He hugged her then, warm and strong. "It's your turn soon. The Academy is waiting. And who knows, maybe a House will come for you too."
Zorya didn't reply. The sky above them was so wide, so infinite—and for the first time, she wondered if it held a place for someone with no power at all.