In a land not mapped by ink and parchment, but by the flow of mana itself, the world breathed with ancient magic.
The trees whispered songs older than language, and rivers glowed faintly in the dark with veins of flowing energy, weaving through forests like strands of silver thread. In this place, even the wind carried echoes of forgotten spells, and every rock, root, and petal pulsed with quiet life. A world where everything was woven by mana.
It was in this world — so vibrant, yet veiled in mystery — that the Kingdom stood like a jewel among mountains. Its cities gleamed not with steel and stone, but with crystals humming softly beneath the sky. Magic was not a tool here — it was life. It flowed through every being, every creature, even the smallest grain of soil. And in the very heart of that kingdom.
But on one dark night, when heavy rain lashed against the earth and thick clouds swallowed the moon, a child was born.
He had small eyes, filled with innocence, and soft, short lips that resembled his mother's.
"It's a boy!" his father cried out, his voice bursting with joy as he ran through the grand halls of the mansion, celebrating the birth of his son
. "Luther", they named him. The family name was Heart. The father was a mage working for the kingdom, the mother was a mage, specializing in ice magic
The family was full of joy and happiness. Laughter echoed through the halls of the mansion like a gentle song carried by the wind, and the warmth of celebration filled every corner. Servants moved about with quiet smiles, lighting candles and preparing offerings to the spirits of mana.
In the heart of it all the mother, her eyes tired but shining with the deepest kind of love as she held the newborn in her arms. His tiny fingers wrapped instinctively around hers, and in that moment, time seemed to slow.
"By God's grace," she whispered softly, her voice trembling with emotion, "I have given birth to a healthy son." She kissed the child's forehead, her breath misting slightly — a quiet display of the ice magic that still lingered on her skin. "May he become a warrior like his father."
The man standing near the window turned toward her, his eyes glistening.
"He will," he said with quiet conviction. "He carries the blood of strength and courage.. I can feel it."
Outside, the storm that had raged all night finally began to ease. The clouds parted just enough for a sliver of starlight to shine through.
The storm had passed, but its memory lingered in puddles scattered across the marble pathways of the Heart estate. Two weeks had slipped by since the night Luther was born, and the mansion had changed — subtly, like the way winter slowly yields to spring.
Laughter now echoed through the corridors like music. Servants who once walked with quiet dignity now found themselves smiling without reason, their steps lighter. Lanterns burned warmer, casting soft golden hues against the polished floors. The scent of spiced cider and freshly baked honey loaves drifted through the air, wrapping the home in sweetness and comfort.
The Heart family was celebrating.
For the father, the days passed like a dream — one where time slowed down just enough to let him memorize every curve of his son's face. He spent his mornings pacing the sunroom with Luther in his arms, softly humming lullabies once sung to him by his own father. Though a powerful mage of the kingdom, he found himself speechless before his son's innocence, his magic reduced to flickers of light whenever Luther smiled in his sleep.
"This boy," he would often say to the housekeeper with a wide grin, "is going to change everything. You can feel it, can't you?"
The housekeeper would only nod, her old eyes twinkling. "The mana in the kingdom sings louder now, my lord. That child brought a light with him."
the mother, though still recovering, had returned to her calm grace.
She would sit by the garden each afternoon, her white hair pinned with ice lilies as Luther swaddled in her arms.
The garden had bloomed strangely fast that season — the frost-kissed roses she'd cultivated for years now shimmered with soft blue mana, leaning slightly whenever she whispered lullabies.
She sang to Luther in the old tongue — the language of her kingdom, where her bloodline once ruled before folding into this kingdom. Her voice, like snow melting under spring sun, seemed to hush even the wind.
By the end of the second week, the decision was made: the Spirit Ceremony would take place under the full moon, three nights from now.
Every child is born carrying a star within them. It glows beneath the skin—unseen, unfelt—called the Celestra Star, a fragment of cosmic light buried deep in the soul. This star is the heart of all magic, the source of mana that, when awakened, flows through the body like lifeblood. But a star alone is silent.
To stir, to shine, it needs a spirit.
On the first full moon day of the child's life, the Spirit Ceremony is held. In that sacred moment, the veil between worlds thins, and the spirits come. They are neither ghosts nor gods, but sentient forces made flesh. Fire that thinks. Sorrow that remembers. Stillness that speaks.
Each spirit chooses a child whose soul echoes its nature. A match of essence, not fate. When chosen, the spirit binds to the Celestra Star, awakening the mana within. From that day forward, the child and spirit are one—and magic becomes possible.
But not every child is chosen. And not every spirit is kind.
The announcement stirred a gentle storm of its own. Elders were summoned. Old scrolls were dusted off. Crystals had to be tuned, the ceremonial basin purified.
The ritual was sacred — a child's first formal connection to mana, and a moment where a spirit would choose the child
Preparations turned the mansion into a flurry of movement.
In the upper halls, a ceremonial team of monks were chanting the holy names of the gods. Glowing, living calligraphy that would hum softly during the ceremony was inscribed on the walls of the hall.
The Heart family's ceremonial robes were removed from the enchanted locker, where they'd slept beneath layers of enchantments.
The mother's robe was pale blue with crystalline embroidery. The father's in deep crimson, bore the sigil of the Royal Mage Corps and the House of Heart: a silver flame surrounded by wings.
Even Luther was given a tiny robe of white cloth threaded with mana silk — a shimmering fiber that responded to the wearer's mana.
Finally the night of the ceremony arrived, the whole family and servants both excited and nervous. The mansion was full of monks with long beards and wearing black robes
As all of them entered the upper hall of the mansion, Luther was sleeping in his crib wearing his mana silk robe given by his mother
The monks began chanting the names of spirits and the words of the manuscripts written by the previous generations.
A deep, thunderous rumble cracked through the air — not from a distance, but directly above. The sky, clear just moments before, turned black in an instant. A storm unlike any had ever seen roared into existence. Wind lashed against the ceremonial hall, flinging open doors and shattering windows as the heavens howled in defiance. Lightning danced across the sky, not golden but pale blue, as if mana itself was raging.
The storm lasted only two seconds.
A tiny figure drifted into view, almost unnoticed at first — a flicker of green caught in the corner of the eye.
But as she hovered closer, there was no mistaking her presence. Draped in a flowing green frock that danced with every subtle breeze, the wind spirit revealed herself at last.
Her long, emerald hair cascaded like ivy, and a delicate golden crown rested upon her pale brow, glinting faintly in the morning light.
Though no larger than a child's forearm, she radiated an ancient, serene power — the kind that stirs the leaves before a storm.
This was Slyvarra, the wind spirit who had chosen Luther. With her appearance, the air seemed lighter, the world quieter — as though nature itself held its breath.
Slyvarra disappeared within seconds, and the atmosphere lightened as the monks started congratulating Luther's parents as Slyvarra was a rare spirit and had chosen Luther.
The day had ended and the following night was graceful as Luther's father had arranged a party for his family and friends, everyone was happy hearing that Luther had been chosen by the wind spirit.
And Luther too was recieving gifts from his relatives, all his relatives were extremely happy.
Except for his uncle, whose daughter had been chosen by the Earth spirit Terra which is considered weak in front of Slyvarra