"Lif! Come home!"
The voice drifted over the garden path, warm and familiar. Lif didn't move immediately. He was squinting at the sky, the bright sunlight making his eyes water as he tried to trace the faint, shimmering outlines of the daytime constellations. He stood up, wiping the dark soil off his palms onto his trousers. He'd spent the last hour sketching sword forms in the dirt with a snapped branch—not because he had the mana to fuel them, but because he liked the way the shapes felt.
Lucia's voice always cut through his distractions. He dropped the stick and ran back toward the cottage, brushing past the blooming ivor-flowers that lined their walkway. The scent of evening stew—heavy on the pepper and potatoes—met him at the door.
The moment he stepped through the doorway, he was wrapped in a soft hug. His father, Victor, was already home from the village watch. He was a towering man, solid as an oak, and he pulled Lif into a grin-lined embrace that smelled of pine and old leather.
"Have fun out there?" Victor asked, ruffling Lif's hair with a hand twice the size of the boy's head.
Lif chuckled and pulled away to sit at the table. His mother, Lucia, moved gently around the kitchen, her footsteps lighter than usual. She placed a steaming bowl of food in front of Lif, but as she turned back to the hearth, Lif tilted his head. He noticed the way she shifted her weight, a slight change in her posture.
"You okay, Mom?" he asked, picking up his spoon. "You've been… walking funny. Did you trip in the garden?"
Lucia laughed, a sweet, tired sound that made Victor chuckle. "He surely has your eyes, Vic. Nothing gets past him."
Victor leaned back in his chair, crossing his massive arms over his chest. He looked at Lucia, a silent question passing between them. She nodded softly.
"Might as well tell him now," Victor said.
Lif looked between them, his heart skipping a beat. "Tell me what? Is something wrong?"
"No, Lif," Lucia said softly. She walked over and brushed a hand against her belly, her eyes glowing with a quiet sort of peace. "You're going to be a big brother."
Lif's spoon clattered back into the bowl, splashing a bit of broth on the table. "Wait—seriously? Like, for real?"
Victor nodded, a proud grin breaking through his beard. "We found out from the village medic two weeks ago. We didn't want to say anything until we were sure the pregnancy was stable."
Lif practically bounced in his seat. The grin on his face felt like it was going to split his head open. "That's amazing! Do you think they'll have an Ignara constellation like you, Dad? Or maybe they'll be like Mom?"
"We'll see," Victor said, though his smile twitched just a fraction.
Lif didn't notice. He inhaled his food after that, barely chewing the meat, his mind racing with a thousand questions. Could he teach the baby to draw? Would they play in the woods together? He stood up so fast his chair nearly tipped. "I gotta tell the guys! I'll be back before the lanterns are lit!"
"Don't run too fast!" his mother called out, but he was already out the door.
The evening air was cooling down, chilling the sweat on his neck as he ran down the dirt road toward the village center. Near the edge of the training fields, he spotted the usual group hanging around the old stone well. Rael was there, along with a few others, tossing stones into the dark water.
"My mom! She's having a baby!" Lif shouted before he'd even reached them.
Most of the kids turned surpised with genuine grins. A few clapped him on the back or offered a thumbs-up. "Nice one, Lif!" Rael said, stepping forward. "Another Ellis. The village can always use more hands."
But as Lif leaned against the well to catch his breath, the warmth started to drain away. He heard the voices from behind the well wall—low, but sharp.
"Think it'll be another Hollowborn like Lif?"
"Man, I hope not. With parents that strong? That'd be just sad. Imagine having to raise two kids with no light."
The words landed like heavy stones in Lif's chest.
Hollowborn. It was the name given to those the constellations ignored. While every other child was born with a spark—a connection to Ignara's fire, TlThalora earth, or the shifting winds of Zephyra—some were just... empty. No star. No element. No mana worth mentioning.
In a world where magic was as common as breathing, being ordinary was a deformity. Most Hollowborn ended up as shopkeepers or laborers, their lives capped by a ceiling they could never break.
Lif didn't respond to the whispers. He just looked down at the dirt, clenching and unclenching his hands until his knuckles turned white.
"Hey, Lif!" Rael called out. He'd noticed the way Lif had gone quiet. He stepped into the middle of the clearing, trying to shift the mood. "You up for a spar? Or are you too busy being a big brother now?"
Lif looked up, forcing a smile that didn't feel real. "Yeah. Sure. Why not?"
They grabbed the practice sticks—old, smooth wood that had been polished by years of use. The other kids formed a circle, their earlier whispers replaced by the excitement of a fight.
Rael raised his free hand. A flicker of heat shimmered in his palm, a small orange flame dancing above his knuckles. He had a solid Ignara connection, even for his age. A prodigy "Don't worry," he grinned. "I'll go easy on you."
Lif took a breath, grounding his feet. His stick felt light. Too light. For most kids, mana was like blood—it flowed through them, making them faster, stronger, better. Lif didn't have that reservoir. His mana pool was a shallow puddle; he could barely light a candle without getting a headache.
He couldn't afford to be flashy. He had to be perfect.
Rael opened with a wide arc, his stick trailing a faint line of smoke. Lif ducked low, the heat of the passing wood singing the hair on his neck. He rolled under the strike and pushed off with a burst of speed, circling behind Rael.
"Too slow!" Rael laughed, spinning around. He threw a wave of fire from his left palm—not enough to burn, but enough to blind.
Lif hopped back, narrowly dodging the sparks. He didn't let the heat rattle him. He moved in a zigzag, feet light, conserving every ounce of physical energy. Rael started throwing rapid fireballs, one after the other. The crowd "oohed" as the small bursts of light illuminated the darkening field.
Lif weaved. He bent his body at angles that looked painful, twisting out of the way of every shot. One wasted step and the heat would catch him. One mistake and he was done.
Lif saw the opening. Rael was overextending, confident in his mana. Lif stepped in at an angle, ducking under a fireball that passed within an inch of his ear, and jabbed forward.
Rael blocked, their sticks clacking with a sharp *crack*. Rael tried to throw a palm-strike toward Lif's chest to push him back with a burst of heat.
Too close.
Lif dropped flat to the ground, sweeping Rael's legs with his own. Rael stumbled, but he used a flame-burst from his feet to try and hover, a smart move to regain his balance. But he was thinking about magic, and Lif was thinking about the stick.
Lif surged up from the ground like a spring and brought his wood down—right onto the top of Rael's head.
*Bonk.*
"Gah!" Rael stumbled back, his flames flickering out instantly as he rubbed his scalp. "Okay—okay! Dammit, Lif. You win!"
Lif dropped his stick, his chest heaving. His muscles felt like lead, and his head throbbed from the sheer effort of moving that fast without mana to buffer the strain.
The crowd clapped. A few of the younger kids even cheered. "Did you see that move?" one of them asked.
But as Lif stood there, trying to catch his breath, he could still hear the lingering silence of the boys behind the well. To them, it didn't matter that he won. He was still a boy playing with sticks in a world built of stars.
Hollowborn.
And yet… Lif stood tall. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and managed a small, real smile.
Strength wasn't always a gift from the sky. Sometimes, it was earned—step by step, scar by scar, breath by breath. If the stars weren't going to give him anything, he'd just have to take it.