The scent of saltwater and damp earth filled the air in the Mercer family's cottage, a simple structure perched on the coast of Eternia. Young Doren lay on a worn mat, the morning sun painting streaks of gold across the room. He was just ten years old, a boy with an ordinary heart in an extraordinary world. Or so he believed.
He often watched his family with a mixture of awe and quiet longing. His older brother, Damurah, could summon tiny flares of fire with a flick of his wrist. His other brother, Nergal, could make the air itself dance, creating gentle breezes that ruffled their mother's hair. Even his triplet sisters, Daria and Jemsie, were gifted—Daria with a touch that made seeds sprout in an instant, and Jemsie with the ability to create shimmering motes of light that chased away the shadows. Then there was Leasie, his younger sister, whose gray skin was a sign of her unique affinity for darkness, a quiet power that seemed to absorb the light around her.
And Doren? He was just Doren. He could lift rocks, but not with his mind. He could splash in the ocean, but not command the waves. He had no elemental gift.
"Doren! You're dreaming again," his father, Sophron, called from the doorway. His father, a man of the sea, could part the water to guide their fishing boat through treacherous currents.
"The nets won't mend themselves."
Doren sighed and pushed himself to his feet. He knew his father's words weren't unkind, but they were a reminder of his own powerlessness. He was the only one in his family who couldn't contribute with an element. He was a boy born in a world of wonders, yet untouched by them.
Doren's first chore of the day was mending the fishing nets. He carried a heavy bundle of the coarse, damp ropes out to the small dock connected to their cottage. The sun glinted off the choppy waters of the Great Expanse, and in the distance, he could see the misty outlines of other islands. Sophron was already on the dock, repairing a small puncture in the hull of their boat. His father's hands moved with practiced efficiency, weaving new threads into the worn netting.
Doren sat on the weathered planks, pulling a small, frayed section of net toward him. It was a tedious task, one that required patience and skill. He was halfway through knotting a new section when his older brother, Damurah, walked past, casually tossing a small ball of fire into the air. It flared brightly, leaving a faint scent of sulfur before winking out.
"Careful you don't light those on fire, 'little heart'," Damurah teased, using the nickname that had stuck since Doren was a baby. It was meant to be a loving jab, but it always made Doren's face flush with a mix of shame and frustration.
Doren gritted his teeth and focused on the knot. The twine was rough against his fingers. He pulled the threads tighter, a sudden surge of frustration causing his hands to tremble slightly. At that moment, a small, silver mote of light seemed to spark from the point where his fingers held the twine, but it vanished so quickly he wasn't sure he'd actually seen it.
The twine in Doren's hands suddenly felt different. It wasn't just rough anymore; it felt strangely smooth, the fibers fused together as if by an invisible heat. He stared at the small section he'd just worked on. The knot he had struggled to tie was now perfect, the threads woven together with a precision he knew he couldn't have achieved. The small, silver mote of light he thought he'd seen was gone, leaving no trace. He glanced at Damurah, but his brother was already walking away, oblivious.
A shadow fell over him. "Having trouble?"
Doren looked up to see his triplet sister, Jemsie, standing beside him. Her eyes, the same shade of blue as his own, held a soft, understanding light. She bent down, her fingers brushing the repaired section of the net. "That's a good knot, Doren. It's almost... perfect."
He snatched the net away from her. "I don't need your pity, Jemsie. You and your light powers. You can't even begin to understand."
Jemsie's smile faded slightly. "I know I can't. But you're not powerless, Doren. You can tie knots, and you can carry nets, and you can..."
Doren scoffed, dropping the net and standing up. "And what? That's not anything special, Jemsie. That's just what everyone else can do. You all have something special. Something that makes you matter. And I don't." His voice cracked with a mixture of frustration and genuine sadness. "You're a light-bringer, Damurah is a fire-starter, Daria can make things grow. Even Leasie... she has her darkness. I'm just a boy with an ordinary heart in a family of heroes."
He turned away from her, the familiar ache of inadequacy a heavy weight in his chest. Jemsie stood there for a moment, silent, before she finally spoke again. "Our powers aren't what makes us matter, Doren. It's what we do with it. And it's what we do for each other." Her voice was soft, but Doren ignored it, walking away from the dock, leaving the half-mended net and his bewildered sister behind.
He made his way back towards the cottage, his mind a whirlwind of hurt feelings and self-doubt. As he approached the back door, he heard a small, muffled sound coming from the shed where his mother, Jerter, often worked on her weaving and herbology. It sounded like a sob.
His curiosity triggered and he began his descent to the shed. As he neared the shed, the muffled sound of a sob from his mother broke through his storm of emotions.
He paused. The shed was a small, ramshackle building where his mother, Jerter, spent her time weaving and tending to her herbs. She was a woman of quiet strength, her long, jet-black hair a stark contrast to her gentle nature. The sound of her crying was so unusual, so out of place, that it immediately pulled Doren from his own self-pity.
He crept toward the shed. The wooden door was ajar, and a sliver of light escaped from the gap. He pushed it open just enough to peer inside.
Jerter was huddled on a low stool, a half-finished loom before her. Her shoulders were shaking, and a small, dried-up herb lay forgotten on the floor beside her. Tears traced paths down her cheeks, her blue eyes, so like his own, filled with a deep, sorrowful ache.
Doren felt a pang of confusion. His mother was the family's anchor, a steady, calm presence. What could possibly make her cry? He opened the door fully, his shaggy gray hair with its streaks of black falling into his blue eyes as he took a tentative step inside.
"Mother?" he whispered.
Jerter jumped, quickly wiping her eyes. "Doren! What are you doing here?" Her voice was hoarse, but she forced a weak smile. "I was just… tidying up."
It was a clumsy lie. Doren could see the tears staining her cheeks. He noticed she wasn't weaving, but clutching a small, smooth stone in her hand. It was an ordinary stone, gray and unremarkable, but his mother held it like it was the most precious thing in the world.
Doren stepped into the shed, his heart a small, tight knot in his chest. "Mother? What's wrong?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Jerter quickly tucked the small, gray stone into the pocket of her apron. The stone was a camping stone, a common object that, with a bit of magic, could warm a small patch of ground for sleeping. He knew she'd kept it since she and Sophron had first met. It was an object of comfort, not of sorrow.
His gaze then fell upon a rolled-up scroll on the ground beside her. The crimson wax seal was broken, and the words on the parchment were unmistakable. In the swirling, elegant script of Eternia's royal scribes, he read, "Sophron Mercer: By The King's Order".
Doren's mind, sharp and quick for his age, immediately pieced it all together. A summons. The King's Order wasn't a request; it was a command. He knew there had been rumblings of conflict with Frozetria, the icy island kingdom to the north. A cold knot of dread formed in his stomach. His father, with his powerful water abilities, would be a valuable asset to the Eternian fleet. In the coming months, they would be fatherless.
He looked at his mother, her long black hair a curtain around her weeping face. At ten years old, Doren was keenly aware of the world's harsh realities, a knowledge that most children his age were spared. He knew that he and his siblings, still so young—Damurah only thirteen—would be safe from the war's demands. But he also knew the loneliness and the fear that would settle over their home.
Jerter finally looked at him, her blue eyes brimming with tears. She didn't need to explain. The sorrow on her face, the crumpled scroll, the way she clutched the camping stone—it all spoke of a future they were now forced to face. A future without Sophron.
"He... he has to go, Doren," she sobbed. "The King's Order..."
Doren didn't have to ask why she was crying. He already understood. He also knew he couldn't just stand there and watch. He had to be strong, for her and for his siblings.
Doren stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his mother's shoulders. He squeezed her tightly, burying his face in her clothes that smelled of herbs and dry earth. He felt her trembling, a new and frightening thing to him.
"It's okay, Mother," he whispered, his voice shaky, but firm. "It's going to be okay. He'll come back."
He wasn't sure if he was reassuring her or himself. He let go and, with the wisdom of a boy far beyond his years, helped her to her feet. He picked up the scroll and carefully rolled it back up, placing it on a high shelf where no one else would see it. They walked back to the cottage in silence, the unspoken truth hanging heavy in the air between them.
That evening, the family gathered around the dinner table. The usual chatter and playful squabbles were absent. A heavy silence had settled over them, a quiet that Doren knew was born from the fear that his mother was struggling to hide.
Sophron, with his short gray hair and matching goatee, sat at the head of the table. He was an impenetrable force, a rock in the storm. His face was a mask of calm, betraying no emotion regarding the summons. He ate his stew with a slow, deliberate rhythm, occasionally looking up to cast a serious eye over his children.
Doren watched him, studying the man who was both his father and a stranger in this moment. How could he be so calm? Didn't he know what this meant for them? For a fleeting moment, a wave of resentment washed over Doren, followed quickly by a pang of guilt. He knew his father was simply being strong for them all.
Leasie, with her unique gray skin and dark amber eyes, stared intently at a spot on the table, her darkness affinity a quiet presence. Damurah was unusually still, his black hair falling over his face as he picked at his food. Nergal sat beside him, his gray hair a stark contrast to his brother's, his gaze fixed on his father. Doren's triplet sisters, Daria with her black and gray hair and Jemsie with her silver hair, held hands under the table.
Sophron broke the silence. "Tomorrow, I'll be leaving for the Capital," he said, his voice flat and even. "I will be joining the fleet as per the King's request."
His mother, Jerter, gave a single, sharp nod, her long black hair swaying slightly with the movement. She didn't look at him.
Sophron turned his gaze to his children, his blue eyes finally showing a flicker of warmth. "I need you all to be strong for your mother. Damurah, you're the oldest. You'll be the man of the house."
Damurah nodded, a flash of fire momentarily lighting in his eyes. He puffed out his chest, but Doren could see a tremor in his hands.
Sophron's eyes finally landed on Doren. He gave a slight nod, a gesture of quiet understanding that passed between them. It was a way of Sophron wanting to speak to Doren. A casual nod that would silence any of his siblings if they were acting out and to come to him immediately.
The dinner table was a tomb of silence. The usual cheerful chaos of a large family was replaced by a tense stillness, a quiet that Doren knew was born from the fear his mother had been trying to hide.
Sophron, with his short gray hair and matching goatee, sat at the head of the table. His face was a mask of calm, betraying no emotion. He ate his stew with a slow, deliberate rhythm, occasionally looking up to cast a serious eye over his children. Doren watched him, studying the man who was both his father and a stranger in this moment.
Sophron broke the silence and set down his spoon. "Tomorrow, I'll be leaving for the Capital," he said, his voice flat and even. "I will be joining the fleet as per the King's request to battle Frozetria."
The words hung in the air like a physical weight. Jerter gave a single, sharp nod, her long black hair swaying slightly. She didn't look at him. Damurah's hand, which had been reaching for a piece of bread, froze mid-air. Nergal's jaw tightened, his gray hair seeming to absorb the light around him. Daria and Jemsie held hands under the table. Leasie, her unique gray skin seeming even paler, stared intently at a spot on the table, her dark amber eyes wide.
After dinner, the family moved with a somber purpose. Jerter began packing a small satchel with dried meats, herbs, and warm clothes. Damurah retreated to the dock, his fire magic flaring in small, angry bursts as he lashed a final sail to the mast of their fishing boat. Nergal silently sharpened a knife, his movements precise and controlled. The girls huddled together, a small, somber group.
As Doren started to leave the table, Sophron placed a hand on his shoulder. The nod from dinner suddenly made sense.
"Doren. Stay." He said, his hand firm against him.
Sophron led him to the small study, a room rarely used except for official matters. The air was heavy with the scent of old parchment and sea-breeze. Sophron closed the door behind them, the click of the latch sounding unnaturally loud. He motioned for Doren to sit on a low, wooden chair before taking a seat himself, his expression serious.
"Doren," he began, his voice low. "Your mother and I have kept a secret from you for a long time. It's time you knew the truth." Sophron took a deep breath. "You are not like your siblings. You have no elemental affinity. That is true. But that is because your heart... it isn't like ours."
Sophron reached into his tunic and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. The cover was blank. He opened it to a page with a detailed anatomical drawing of a human chest. But in place of a heart, there was a brilliant, pulsating mass of light, radiating power.
"You were born with a deformity," Sophron explained, his voice gentle. "It's called the Powerhart. It's a mass of incredible power, a wellspring of potential. It doesn't give you a single element. It gives you the potential for… all the elements."
Doren stared at the image, then down at his own chest, a cold shock spreading through him. He felt a sense of both awe and profound betrayal. His entire life, he'd believed himself to be a powerless boy. Now, his father was telling him he was something else entirely.
A whirlwind of emotions raged inside Doren. The ache of a lifetime of feeling inadequate, of watching his siblings wield their magic with ease, suddenly twisted into a new, complex knot. His heart, the very thing he'd always believed to be a mark of his powerlessness, was now being revealed as a secret source of immense strength.
He looked from the intricate drawing in the book to his father's solemn face, his own mind racing. All the quiet moments of shame, the sharp sting of his brother's teasing, the gentle pity in Jemsie's eyes—it all came crashing down around him.
"So I'm not useless?" he asked, the words a raw, fragile whisper.
Sophron's face softened, a rare display of emotion. He
reached out and placed a hand on Doren's knee. "Useless? My son, you are the furthest thing from it. We kept this from you for your own protection. The Powerhart... it is a target. A king-maker. An entire kingdom would go to war for it, and as a child, you would have been its prize, not its master."
"But I don't feel anything," Doren said, his voice laced with confusion. "I don't have any elements."
"That's because they're dormant," Sophron explained. "It's like an unlit forge. The power is there, waiting. But it needs a spark. We were hoping it would activate on its own, but with me leaving... I fear you may need to learn to control it sooner rather than later."
He paused, his eyes searching Doren's. "What I'm about to ask of you is a great burden, Doren. But you are a clever boy. Smarter than any ten-year-old I've ever known. You must learn to harness this power. Not for me, not for the King, but for yourself and for this family. You are the only one who can protect them in my absence."
Sophron stood and went to a small chest in the corner of the room. He knelt and pulled out a smaller, leather-bound box. Inside, resting on a bed of dark velvet, was a single, smooth, gray stone, identical to the one Doren had seen his mother clutching.
"This is a Focal Stone," Sophron said, handing it to Doren. "It won't give you power, but it will help you find your spark. It will help you focus the energy of the Powerhart and channel it safely. It's the key to your training."
Doren took the Focal Stone in silence. It was cool and smooth in his palm, the faint glow of its patterns seeming to pulse with a life of its own. It felt impossibly heavy for its size, a weight far greater than a simple stone. He didn't speak, his mind reeling from the revelations of the night before. His father's words, the image of the Powerhart, the terrifying truth of the war—it all spun in a dizzying whirlwind. He simply nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the impossible task now laid at his feet.