The sky bled red that evening.
Clouds, bruised with stormlight, drifted over the horizon as the aerobus hummed softly across the lowlands. The children sat in quiet clusters, their earlier excitement dimmed into murmurs.
Aren sat alone by the window. His reflection wavered against the glass, blending with the fading light of dusk.
His hand pressed absently against his chest where the pendant rested — a simple silver thread with a stone that seemed to hum faintly whenever he was in pain.
It was the only thing that felt alive in that moment.
Lena sat across the aisle, surrounded by others. Her hands still smelled faintly of the mist that had risen around her during the test. She kept glancing at him, but each time their eyes met, she looked away.
He didn't blame her.
He didn't blame anyone.
There was simply nothing left to say.
When the aerobus landed near the orphanage gates, the night had already deepened.
The instructors lined them up, marking names, giving instructions for the next few days. Those with affinities would soon leave to join their designated training schools.
Those without were to remain.
Aren stood at the end of the line, his head low.
Sister Mira called his name softly. "Aren… come inside. Eat something. It's been a long day."
He nodded but didn't move.
The others drifted away in small groups, laughter rising faintly behind them.
The courtyard was cold now. Dew glistened on the grass.
Aren's fingers curled into fists. For the first time, he felt something he couldn't name — not anger, not sadness — just a hollow, echoing ache, like the sound of something breaking inside.
He turned toward the orphanage steps, climbed them slowly, and entered his room.
The lights dimmed.
He sat on his bed, eyes fixed on the small window where stars flickered faintly between drifting clouds.
No Affinity.
No Light.
No Future.
The words repeated in his mind until they became soundless.
He lay back, staring at the ceiling. The hum of the old orphanage's runic generator filled the silence, steady and monotonous.
And somewhere between the hum and his heartbeat, he slipped into sleep.
Darkness.
Cold.
And then — a pulse.
He was standing in a place that wasn't a place — an endless void where stars floated like dust motes suspended in glass.
The ground beneath him shimmered faintly, woven from light and shadow.
In the distance, a figure stood.
Tall. Still. Wreathed in gold.
The figure's presence bent the very air — vast, oppressive, divine.
When it spoke, the voice wasn't sound — it was resonance, echoing directly through his soul.
"So weak…" the voice said, heavy with sorrow. "Too weak."
Aren tried to speak, but no sound came.
The figure stepped closer. His features were half-hidden by light, but Aren could see his eyes — deep, endless, filled with the reflection of dying worlds.
"Your soul…" the man murmured, raising a hand that shimmered like molten sunlight. "It's been injured. The fracture runs deep. Even your memories… are gone."
His tone softened — not pity, but something older, heavier.
"You were never meant to fall this far."
Aren stared up at him. "Who… are you?"
The man's expression darkened. "That… you will remember when the time is right."
The void trembled. Lines of golden light ran through the darkness, stretching into infinity like veins of molten glass.
"You were sealed," the voice continued. "Your essence—your divinity—buried beneath layers of mortality so you could survive. But now…"
The stars flickered violently, as if afraid.
"…the world has begun to awaken again. The Laws are stirring. And so must you."
The air shivered around Aren. A low hum filled the void — the same silence he'd carried since birth, but now alive, pulsing, responding.
The man reached forward, his hand brushing Aren's forehead.
"Awaken not as you were," he whispered, "but as you must become."
Light erupted.
Aren gasped.
His body trembled, floating between sleep and wakefulness.
The room was gone — replaced by light pouring through him, into him, becoming him.
His pendant flared gold, and his eyes snapped open — glowing the same impossible hue.
For a heartbeat, every element in the world responded.
The orphanage lights flickered.
The trees outside bowed.
The air thickened with unseen pressure, whispering like wind over a thousand unseen blades.
Power — ancient and endless — coursed through him.
He could feel everything.
The warmth of the nearby lamps, the faint vibrations in the earth below, the gentle hum of life that pulsed through stone, wood, and air.
He was connected.
He reached out without thinking. The air rippled, drawn toward his hand in spiraling patterns. The world's essence — invisible to normal eyes — shimmered faintly around him, gathering like dust in sunlight.
And then he felt something else.
The man's voice again, faint, fading.
"Careful… your vessel is still too weak… don't—"
The world tilted.
The light exploded outward, shattering through the room like a silent storm.
Then — silence.
Aren collapsed. The golden glow in his eyes faded.
The pendant dimmed, flickering once before going dark.
Outside, the wind howled and then stopped, as though nothing had happened at all.
When Sister Mira came to check on him later that night, she found him asleep, peaceful, the faintest smile on his lips.
She didn't see the golden motes still drifting faintly in the air, slowly dissolving into nothing.
And she didn't notice the runes etched into the window glass — symbols of divine origin — fading from sight as if they had never been there.
In the void beyond dreams, the man watched silently.
"Still not enough," he murmured. "The fracture runs deeper than I thought."
He turned, gazing toward the distance — where faint figures moved among stars, watching.
"The child has awakened," one of them said.
The man's golden eyes narrowed.
"Then so will the hunters."
The void rippled.
And far away — in the highest towers of the kingdom — an old seer awoke screaming, eyes bleeding light, whispering a single name that had been forgotten for 20 years by the world
"Kai."