Essence.
In this world, it was more than power.It was survival, status, and destiny all woven into one unbreakable chain.
You could walk anywhere in the city and see the proof.
Vendors reinforced their stalls with thin shields of hardened earth essence, invisible until the sunlight caught the faint shimmer. Street performers sent ribbons of water spiraling into the air to the delight of passing children, the droplets catching the light like tiny shards of crystal.
Guards stood at every corner, their armor humming faintly with the protective aura of their essence, eyes sharp and alert.
It was in the air we breathed, in the soil beneath our feet, in the blood running through our veins.
Most people were born with one essence type, awakened from birth or discovered during childhood.It was essentially a lottery ticket. Only a few people ever won. If you were born with it, you were special. If not, too bad. Maybe in the next life.
Scientists had no real explanation for it. "A gift," they called it. Others called it "fate."
I didn't feel like I'd won anything. It felt like I'd been handed a shiny box only to open it and find it empty.
My name's Kael Draven, and I was one of the lucky ones — if you could call it that.
I'd been gifted the essence of flames. Emberflame. Rare enough that people raised their brows when they heard it.
But mine… mine was pathetic.
My flame sputtered like a candle in the wind. It couldn't melt steel, couldn't scorch stone, couldn't even light a campfire unless I really, really concentrated. And I mean, really concentrated — the kind where my head would ache and sweat would bead down my forehead just to get a spark.
I was a joke. Anyone with essence would rather have nothing at all than what I had.
People liked to romanticize Emberflame users — warriors who could burn armies to ash, who could sear the skies themselves and leave nothing but smoldering ruin in their wake.
I wasn't one of them.
I lived in a small district tucked against the city wall, where cobblestone streets ran narrow and neighbors always knew your business. Imagine luxury, divided by a million.
My mornings were quiet, predictable. I'd wake up, help my mother in the little kitchen of our home, then wander out to work odd jobs. Carrying crates for merchants. Sweeping out shops. Fixing broken shutters.
Even though I had this "gift," I avoided using it like it was a curse.
I could use my flames for small things — singeing the edge of a rope so it didn't fray, warming my hands in the cold — but that was it. In a world where essence defined your worth, I was dead last in the race. And to be honest, I'd stopped trying to run years ago.
The jobs weren't much of a hassle. They were just a way to pay the bills and try to give my mother a life where she didn't have to worry.
The real reason I didn't push myself was simple: I was content.
It was because of her.
The only thing that mattered to me. Not strength, not status, not wealth. Just her.
Lysa Draven — my mother.
She had the kind of smile that could stop wars.Her presence could calm a storm or stir one, depending on the day. Her warmth lit everything around her.
She wasn't strong — at least, not in the sense people measured strength here. Her essence was a low-tier Wind current, useful for drying laundry faster or cooling a room in the summer heat. But she had a way of making life feel safe, no matter how sharp the world's edges were.
We had each other, and that was enough.
That morning, the sun spilled through the windows in soft gold as I set a chipped mug of tea in front of her. She was seated at the table, hair tied loosely, her maid's clothes' sleeves rolled up.
"You're up earlier than usual," she said, her eyes bright with quiet amusement.
"Had a dream about work," I lied. The truth was I'd woken because the roof had been creaking again in the wind. "Figured I'd get an early start."
I didn't want to trouble her. I'd take care of everything for her.
She hummed, sipping her tea. "Mm. An early start might mean you're back early. We could go down to the market later. They're selling honey-glazed bread today."
That was her way — she always made plans for the two of us, like the rest of the world was just background noise.
It was our world, and other people were just living in it.No — it was me and my world.
After breakfast, I headed into the city. The streets were already alive with noise — hawkers calling out prices, the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the distant roar of a waterwheel.
My first job of the day was unloading a delivery cart for a textile shop. The merchant, a stout man with the essence of Earth, lifted bolts of cloth like they weighed nothing.
I carried mine the normal way, my back aching after the third trip.
That was me. Normal.
"Use those flames of yours to speed up," he said with a chuckle.
I gave him a weak grin, pretending to try. A faint flicker of orange danced in my palm before vanishing.
Damn it's no good.
"Still weak, huh?" He shrugged. "No shame in it. You're a hard worker, Kael."
Hard worker. That was the polite term people used when they meant powerless.I could see it in their eyes — the little spark of pity, the shadow of condescension. People always looked down on those weaker than them.
By midday, I'd swept two shopfronts, repaired a broken stool, and earned enough coin to cover food for the next couple of days.
I came home early, just like my mother hoped. She was in the kitchen, humming as she kneaded dough, the faint breeze from her Wind essence stirring flour into the air.
"You're covered in dust," she teased as I stepped inside.
"You're covered in flour," I shot back.
We ate lunch together, talking about nothing important.I was weak, pathetic — a joke even. But I was content. Happy.
Evening fell slow and quiet. The air outside carried the cool bite of approaching night, and the lamps along the street began to flicker to life.
I told her I'd help Mrs. Ren with her shutters before it got too dark.She nodded, smiling. "Don't stay out too late."
I didn't. Mrs. Ren's shutters took less than an hour to fix. By the time I was walking back, the sky had deepened into indigo, stars peeking through thin clouds.
Our street was still and silent when I turned the corner. Too silent.
The hairs on my arms prickled. My heartbeat quickened.Goosebumps raced over my skin.
Something was wrong.
Our door was open.
I stopped in the middle of the street, staring at it. A faint, unnatural glow leaked from inside — pale, shifting, like moonlight through water.
My stomach knotted. My hands felt suddenly cold.
I took one step forward. Then another.
When I crossed the threshold, the smell hit me first — metallic and sharp, like the air before a storm.
And then I saw it.
Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. The entire world seemed to hold its breath.
"Mother?"
This can't be happening