I didn't realize how lonely I was until I made my first real friend.
I mean, I talked to the other kids. Ate with them. Slept in the same long wooden hall with creaky beds and blankets that smelled like dried herbs and fur shampoo. But it was different. I was always the outsider. The only one without twitching ears, or a fluffy tail swishing behind me, or tiny claws at the tips of their fingers.
It wasn't until she showed up that something changed. Her name was Mira. She was dropped off one rainy afternoon, wrapped in a thick woolen cloak and clutching a bundle of books to her chest like they were treasure. Her eyes were too big for her face, soft violet like lilacs in spring, and a pair of short, black cat ears poked out from her damp hood.
Yana brought her into the dormitory during nap time, when most of us were curled up in our beds pretending to sleep. I wasn't. I was watching the raindrops race down the cracked window by my bed.
"This is Mira," Yana said in her warm, no-nonsense tone. "She'll be staying with us now. Be kind."
Some kids peeked up from under their blankets, but no one said anything. Not until the door closed again and Yana's footsteps faded down the hall.
Then the whispers started.
"Another whisker-face…"
"Bet she sheds like Ruka."
"I wonder what her trait is."
I didn't say anything. Just watched her quietly as she set her books down on the empty bed next to mine. She didn't even look up.
That night, she didn't cry like most new kids did. She just lay there, eyes open, watching the shadows on the ceiling. I wanted to say something. Anything. But the words got caught in my throat.
So I offered her half of my bread the next morning. She blinked at me, then took it.
"Thanks," she whispered. Her voice was soft. Careful. Like she didn't quite trust it yet.
That was the start. Mira and I became inseparable after that.
We ate together, studied together, got scolded together when we snuck into the garden to chase the glowflies. She didn't talk much at first, but when she did, it was always something worth hearing. She liked to read. A lot. Even books that were way above what the other kids could follow.
"The way mana flows through the body is like breath," she said one afternoon, sprawled across our beds with a book balanced on her knees. "You can hold it in, let it out, or shape it."
I didn't understand any of it. But I liked listening to her explain things. She made the world sound bigger than it felt.
"You ever used magic?" I asked her once.
She shook her head. "You need affinity. And training. Yana says I might have a light affinity, but it's too soon to tell."
I nodded like I understood. I didn't. Not really. All I knew was that magic was something you either had or you didn't. I didn't. That didn't stop me from trying.
At night, after everyone was asleep, I'd sneak into the attic. It wasn't really forbidden, just dusty and full of old furniture, books, and boxes that hadn't been touched in decades. It smelled like paper, cedar, and secrets.
That's where I found the old candle. It was thick, melted halfway down with a crooked wick and no scent. But when I held it, I felt something. Not heat. Not mana. But... possibility.
So I set it in the middle of the floor, sat cross-legged like I'd seen the older kids do in magic lessons, and focused.
"Fire," I whispered, staring at the wick. "Light. Burn."
Nothing.
I tried again. And again.
I must have sat there for an hour whispering every spell word I could remember from overhearing the older kids, until my throat went dry and my legs went numb. Still, nothing.
I felt stupid. But also stubborn. So I kept coming back. Every night.
One night, maybe a week after my first attempt, Mira followed me.
"You're gonna catch a cold up here," she said from the attic steps, arms crossed and tail flicking behind her.
I jumped, nearly knocking over the candle.
"How'd you know I was up here?"
"I've been watching you sneak off. Thought you were stealing food or something. This is... weirder."
She walked over, crouched beside me, and stared at the candle like it owed her an answer.
"You're trying to cast?" she asked.
I nodded.
"You don't have affinity, Derek."
I frowned. "I know. But maybe I can still... do something. Even a spark."
She tilted her head, ears twitching.
"That's not how it works."
"Maybe it is for me."
She didn't argue. Just sat down beside me and pulled one of her books out of her cloak, she always carried one, even to the bathroom, and opened it to a worn page.
"This one talks about intent. Some mages believe it's more important than affinity. If your desire's strong enough, you can bend the rules."
I looked at her. "Do you think that's true?"
She shrugged. "I want it to be."
So did I. That night, we tried together. Her reading incantations. Me focusing harder than I ever had in my life.
Still no fire. But I swear... the wick twitched.
The next morning, Yana caught us nodding off at breakfast and dragged the truth out of us faster than a starving slime.
"You two are lucky you didn't set yourselves on fire!" she scolded, tail swishing with agitation. "The attic is full of old scrolls and dried parchment!"
"But we didn't," I muttered.
She narrowed her eyes. "That's not the point. You could have."
Mira spoke up. "He just wants to feel it. Like the rest of us."
Yana sighed. She wasn't mad anymore. Just tired. She set her spoon down and leaned over the table, her expression softer now.
"Magic isn't the only path to strength, Derek. You may be the only pure human we've ever had in this village, but that doesn't make you less. Sometimes, those without magic find other ways to change the world."
I nodded, but I didn't really believe her. Not then. A few days later, our village hosted the seasonal Harmony Bloom Festival.
Colorful lanterns strung between the stone arches. Stalls with sweetbread and skewers of roasted meat filled the air with warm spice. People wore colorful cloaks embroidered with their family sigils. Even the orphanage kids were allowed to run free, for a few hours, at least.
Mira and I ran straight for the fountain square. That's where the elemental performers usually set up. This year, it was a flame dancer.
He stood barefoot in a chalk circle, dark cloak flowing behind him, fingers painted with runes. With a slow breath, he raised his hands... and flames erupted from his palms, twisting into shapes, dragons, roses, even a woman made of smoke and sparks.
I couldn't look away. That was what I wanted. Not just the power, but the grace. The control. The ability to make the world pay attention.
When it ended, the dancer bowed. The crowd applauded. But I just stood there, heart pounding, eyes wide.
"I want that," I whispered.
Mira looked at me, then at the man.
"He trained for years."
"Then I'll train longer."
She smiled. Not mocking. Not doubting. Just warm.
"Then I'll help."
A week after the festival, I woke up with a strange sensation in my chest. Not pain. More like... warmth. Like a tiny ember under my ribcage.
I went straight to the attic. Mira followed without asking.
I sat down. Lit the candle. Focused.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Intent.
"Light," I whispered.
The wick sparked.
Just for a second. Barely more than a blink. But it sparked.
Mira gasped. I stared, heart racing, suddenly afraid to move. Like I might break whatever I had just... become.
"You did it," she whispered. "You really did it."
We didn't tell anyone. Not yet. It wasn't big. It wasn't powerful. But it was something.
My first spark. My first magic. And in that moment, for the first time since I woke up in this strange new world, I didn't feel like an outsider anymore. I felt like I belonged.