In the village of Kaelthorn, where whispers of demons haunted every shadowed forest edge, power was everything. Fireballs, lightning strikes, and beasts tamed with a thought—these were the marks of greatness. But for Kieran, none of these came. He had no power. Not even the faintest spark.
Yet Kieran never let it define him. While others sneered or pitied him, he held his head high. Strength, he decided, was not only about magic. It was about skill, courage, and heart. And so, from the earliest hours of dawn, he trained—not with spells, not with charms, but with the cold, unyielding steel of a sword.
The village elders often reminded him of his place. "Without power, Kieran, you are like a candle in the wind," they would say. But Kieran would only smile. The boy without power had learned something the gifted sometimes forgot: determination could burn brighter than magic.
Kaelthorn had been a quiet village, nestled between thick forests and jagged mountains, but peace was a fragile illusion. Years ago, demons had descended in waves, tearing through homes and scattering families. The attacks were not constant—sometimes months would pass without a whisper—but their memory lingered like ash in the air. Villagers trained, fortified, and prayed, always bracing for the next strike.
Kieran was not exempt from that fear. But he refused to let it paralyze him. Each morning, he ran along the misty paths of the outskirts, the metal of his practice sword slicing the air, sparks flying when it struck rocks. He imagined the demons lurking beyond the trees and told himself: I will not be powerless in my own way.
The other students at the sword academy whispered behind his back. Some said he wasted his time. Others mocked the way his strikes lacked the elemental precision their magic-infused swords boasted. But Kieran had learned the first rule of survival: never underestimate someone who refuses to give up.
On one such morning, as the sun burned through the fog and the dew clung to the blades of grass, a shadow moved in the forest. Not a bird, not a deer—a ripple in the air that did not belong. Kieran froze, gripping his sword tighter. For a heartbeat, he remembered the stories: the red-eyed demons, the claws that could tear a man in two, the whispers that promised death.
But fear did not claim him. Kieran stepped forward, the boy without power, yet armed with something far older and harder than magic: resolve. And as the shadow crept closer, his heart thudded with a certainty no spell could grant. This was his path. He might not wield fire or lightning, but he would fight. He would endure. And in a world that measured worth by power, Kieran would carve his own.