Aren learned two things early in life.
First, life was unfair.
Second, if you complained about it, nothing changed.
The village lay quiet under the afternoon sun, smoke rising lazily from chimneys. It was peaceful. Too peaceful.
Aren didn't like that.
"Stay behind me."
"I can walk on my own, you know."
Aren glanced sideways. His sister stood beside him, arms crossed, unimpressed. She was smaller, thinner, and—unfortunately—much calmer than he was.
"You can," Aren said, tightening his grip on the wooden practice sword. "But I don't trust them."
"Them" being the other village kids, who had gathered a short distance away, whispering and staring far too openly.
"She's weird," one of them muttered.
"She doesn't cry when she gets hurt."
"She talks like an adult."
Aren turned.
"Say it louder," he snapped. "I didn't hear you."
The group stiffened. No one stepped forward.
That was how it usually went.
Aren wasn't the biggest kid in the village—but he trained every day. Hunting. Chopping wood. Fighting anyone stupid enough to provoke him.
His sister sighed. "Aren, you're glaring again."
"Because they're annoying."
"They're scared."
"Good."
She shook her head. "You're immature."
"You're nine."
"And still more mature than you."
That… was annoyingly true.
Before Aren could respond, the air shifted.
Not wind.Not sound.
Something heavier.
The village elder dropped to one knee. Then another. Then everyone did.
Aren felt it then—the pressure. The suffocating presence that pressed against his chest, demanding submission.
Light gathered in the sky.
Clerics in white and gold descended as if the heavens themselves had opened.
Aren's heart dropped.
"No," he whispered.
A man stepped forward, staff glowing. His voice echoed unnaturally.
"The Goddess of Light has made her choice."
Aren's sister froze.
"The child before us has been selected."
The man's gaze settled on her.
"She will become a Saint."
Silence.
Then—
"No."
Aren moved before he realized it, stepping in front of his sister.
"She's not going anywhere."
The cleric barely glanced at him.
"The choice is not yours."
Light surged.
Aren felt himself slammed into the dirt, unable to move. He screamed, struggled, clawed at the ground—but his body refused to obey.
His sister turned her head slightly.
"Aren," she said calmly.
"Don't—!" His voice broke.
She smiled.
It was small. Gentle.
And then—
She screamed.
Light burned her eyes.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
When the light faded, she collapsed—bloodless, trembling, blind.
Aren screamed her name.
"She will never see again," the cleric said flatly. "That is the price."
The price.
They took her that day.
Not as a daughter.Not as a sister.
But as property.
As she was carried away toward the capital, Aren lay broken in the dirt, nails torn and throat raw.
Four years.
He had four years.
If the academy were the only place she would ever be again—
Then he would reach it.
Mana or not.
Even if the entire world laughed at him.