The Spire of Aegis was a needle stitching the earth to the bruised, green-veiled sky. From his perch on the fire escape, Kaelen traced its impossible height. At seventeen, he was all sharp angles and silent observations, with a lean frame that seemed to fold into itself. His eyes, a deep and serious red, missed very little, a trait that felt more like a curse than a gift. His dark hair was often a mess, as if he'd just run a hand through it in frustration, which he often did.
The Descent wasn't a memory; it was the bedrock of history. The world before was a ghost, a half-remembered dream of a race that had been fundamentally rewritten. When the Celestials settled into the atmosphere, their passive, ambient energy—the Aether—had seeped into the biosphere, triggering the Great Awakening. Humanity didn't just get powers; they were reborn into a spectrum of potential. Now, the bloodtraits of Pyrewrights, Grav-Weavers, and Aegis-born were the new aristocracy. Their abilities were the engines of society.
Kaelen's bloodtrait was… quiet.
He dropped back through the window into the living module. It was small, clean, but filled with the ghost of his father, Ash. His absence was a physical thing, heavier than any furniture. A holosculpture on the mantle showed a man with a roguish grin and eyes that held a spark of something Kaelen could never quite name. He'd been a historian, obsessed with the Pre-Descendent world. He'd died five years ago in a mundane transport accident—a stupid, unremarkable end for a man who dreamed of ancient, impossible things.
"Kaelen! Lira's recital!" The voice which screamed belonged to his mother, Elara. She emerged from the kitchen nook, a woman in her early forties whose gentle beauty was etched with the quiet strain of being a widow and a sole provider. Her silver hair that complimented her kind, tired eyes, a shade of blue, which saw right through him. Her faint empathic trait let her feel the sharp edges of his mood like a change in pressure.
"You'll be there? She needs you there." Her words were gentle, but they carried the weight of his past failures. Not malice, just a mother's tally of her son's retreats.
"I said I would." He grabbed his jacket, the worn synth-leather soft from use. "I'll be heading out," He said avoiding her gaze
The transit-pod was a rolling exhibit of the world he didn't belong to. A man with crystalline skin that shimmered with latent energy sat reading a data-slate. A woman whispered to a floating orb of water, shaping it into intricate ice sculptures to amuse a child. Kaelen was a blank space, a null field. His official designation was Latent. A polite term for those whose bloodtrait had either run dry or never carried a significant gift. His only line-trait was a hyper-observant nature, a brain that processed micro-expressions and environmental details with frustrating clarity. The Academy counsellors had suggested a future in archival work or security monitoring. A life of watching.
He slipped into the Lyceum of Harmonic Arts just as the lights dimmed, taking a seat in the very last row. The air was thick with the subtle hum of active Aetheric traits. He felt like a ghost at a feast.
Then Lira walked onto the stage. His little sister. At sixteen, she was all bright energy and delicate features, with their mother's warm eyes and a cascade of chestnut hair. Her smile could light up a room, with gentle strength and none of his own simmering resentment. Her trait was a minor Somatic Harmony—an intuitive understanding of her own body, which made her a gifted athlete and musician. It was a quiet, beautiful gift.
She sat at the piano, and as her fingers touched the keys, the world narrowed. The music was a relic. It was one of the few things the Aether couldn't improve, only accompany. It was pure, Pre-Descendent soul. As the notes filled the hall, Kaelen felt a rare peace. For a moment, the weight of his father's legacy, his mother's disappointment, and his own inadequacy lifted.
The final note hung, pristine and perfect. The applause was immediate, a wave of genuine warmth. Lira beamed, her joy so bright it was almost painful to watch. She bowed and turned to leave the stage.
Kaelen's heightened perception caught it a split-second before anyone else. A high-pitched twang, the sound of metal surrendering to fatigue. His eyes snapped upward. A heavy, antiquated lighting rig, a piece of historical set-dressing, shuddered. A single cable, frayed and forgotten, snapped.
His mind, ever his curse, calculated the trajectory in horrifying slow motion. The rig was falling. It would hit Lira directly. He saw the impact, the end of the music, the end of that smile. He saw his mother's face. He saw the ghost of his father, another loss in a life defined by it.
"No," He screamed. Alas, he could not get the words out, as only his perception was heightened and not his body.
The denial was a physical force in his throat, but it had nowhere to go. He was Latent. Powerless. He could only watch the disaster unfold in excruciating, high-definition detail, a spectator to his own worst nightmare.
He was frozen, a scream trapped in his chest.
Then—a blur of controlled motion. One of the stage managers, a man with the tell-tale silver sheen of a low-level Kinetic, moved. He was a streak of purpose, shoving Lira forward with a gentle but irresistible push. She stumbled out of the path of the falling rig as it exploded onto the stage in a cataclysm of shattering glass and shrieking metal.
The sound was a physical blow. The applause morphed into a unified scream.
Kaelen remained standing, his body rigid, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He hadn't moved. He hadn't saved her. His only "gift" had been to witness her near-death with perfect, useless clarity.
He watched as the Kinetic helped a shaking, wide-eyed Lira to her feet. She was safe. Because of a stranger. Because of a trait. A thing he would never have.
The void inside him, the one left by his father and filled with a lifetime of being ordinary, yawned wide open. It was a cold, dark hunger. As he pushed through the panicked crowd to reach his sister, a single, stark truth carved itself into his soul:
In this world, built on the legacy of gods, he was less than nothing. And as he finally reached Lira, pulling her into a tight, wordless hug, he made a silent vow to the memory of his father, to the tears in his mother's eyes, and to the crushing weight of his own weakness.
He would find a way to be more. No matter the cost.