Lucien Drayke, a sixteen-year-old orphan, stood motionless in the rain, watching her walk away. Her laughter, light and carefree, sliced through him like a blade, echoing the cruel truth he refused to accept: she was leaving, the one person he had ever dared to love. His chest tightened, not from the cold, but from the raw, gnawing ache of betrayal. Her words, sharp as shattered glass, replayed endlessly in his mind, each one driving deeper into his soul.
"You actually thought I was in love with you?"
"Why would I waste my time with a drag like you?"
"I wouldn't want to make my life miserable by dedicating myself to you."
"Goodbye."
Each syllable burned. A lone tear traced a solitary path down his cheek, mingling with the relentless rain. How long he stood there, frozen in the cruel rhythm of the storm, he could not say. But when he finally found himself before the entrance of a dilapidated apartment, it felt almost symbolic, a home as broken as he was.
His uniform clung to him, sodden and heavy, as if mocking him with its uselessness. He raised a hand and pushed the door open, the hinges groaning under the weight of years neglected and abandoned. The apartment lay bare and unwelcoming. A worn wooden bed sagged in one corner; a lonely table and chair leaned against the walls; a wardrobe stood as the silent guardian of the emptiness. A door on the left led to a bathroom, another threshold of solitude. Cracks marred the walls, streaked with moss and neglect, and the air itself seemed thick with despair.
Lucien sank onto the edge of the bed, ignoring his drenched clothes. The weight of his life, the accumulated grief, the isolation, the relentless torment, pressed down upon him until he felt hollowed out. His shoulders slumped; his body trembled, though not with cold. Tears blurred his vision, hot and insistent, pooling in his eyes before spilling over.
He was an orphan. He had never known his parents. For as long as memory served, the orphanage had been his world, a place of warmth, of small but cherished affection. The nannies who fussed over him, the children who teased and laughed with him, the owner who quietly adored him, they had been his family. But everything changed on the day of his twelfth birthday.
At twelve, every child faced the Ceremony of Awakening, where their elemental powers, fire, water, earth, wind, lightning, ice, light, and darkness, were revealed. The awakening dictated their destiny, determining who would rise as the kingdom's future defenders, scholars, and powerhouses. Lucien had waited with trembling anticipation, a spark of hope still alive in his chest. But when his turn came, the verdict shattered him utterly: he had no element.
A silence fell over the hall, thick and suffocating. Whispers hissed like knives; eyes that had once smiled at him now looked with pity, curiosity, or disdain. At that moment, he knew his life as he imagined it was over. In Eldoria, magic was everything. Without it, he was nothing, a shadow, a ghost, a mistake.
From that day forward, the torment began. The orphanage owner, though saddened, refused to abandon him. Even without magic, there was a way forward: schooling, perhaps some skill that could sustain him in the cruel world beyond. Through connections, he secured a place at a lesser academy, far from prestige, but at least a lifeline.
School became a battlefield. Lucien was the perennial target, a magnet for cruelty. Daily mockery, bullying, and isolation carved scars into his body and soul alike. Then came Emma Cooper. She was different. She saw him not as a failed boy, but as a human being worth kindness. She patched his wounds, both visible and unseen, offered guidance, comfort, and a hand to hold in the darkest moments. Slowly, painfully, he fell in love. When he confessed, after wrestling with a lifetime of self-doubt, she accepted. For a time, the world seemed to tilt toward something resembling happiness.
But happiness is fragile. Over the years, Emma changed. Her warmth cooled; her words became clipped and distant. And today, the final fracture occurred, the truth laid bare in cold, merciless words, leaving him bleeding on the inside.
A sigh escaped him. Shaking off the remnants of rain, he stripped his sodden clothes and stepped into the bathroom, letting the water cascade over him. Each droplet felt like both purification and indictment, washing away the grime of the day yet highlighting the raw ache beneath. He closed his eyes, letting the rhythm of the water mirror the turbulence of his thoughts. A single year remained until graduation, yet his path lay obscured in shadow.
With no magic, the options were grim. Adventuring promised glory but demanded survival against impossible odds; a single encounter with a magical beast could end him. Blacksmithing offered safety but limited potential, crafting simple tools while others shaped legendary weapons with their elemental powers.
And yet, he chose risk. Despite the dangers, he would carve his place in the world with sheer determination, with muscle and willpower where magic failed him. After dressing in dry clothes, he headed out for an evening run, pounding the pavement with the rhythm of his relentless resolve. Thirty minutes of jogging, then push-ups, sit-ups, and drills, pushing his body beyond comfort, beyond pain, until he returned home soaked in sweat and satisfaction. Another shower, cleansing himself again, and then the mirror confronted him.
Curly black hair clung damply to his forehead; deep brown eyes stared back, shadowed by exhaustion and sorrow; a chiseled face marred by faint scars, each a chronicle of past torment. He studied himself, tracing the lines of endurance etched into his skin. Finally, he let the reflection fade and pulled on his nightwear, collapsing onto the worn bed. His eyes wandered to the cracked ceiling, thoughts spinning, a mind weary but unyielding.
Today had been a tempest, as all days seemed to be. Tomorrow… perhaps tomorrow would be different. Perhaps tomorrow would not break him.
And with that fragile hope, he surrendered to the embrace of sleep.