The year was 2116,November 1st. The skies above Zeus Academy darkened to an intense slate-gray as evening crept over the academy's sprawling grounds, a place both ancient and revered, where power seemed to crackle in the air itself. Atop rugged cliffs surrounding the academy, tall stone spires and polished marble towers jutted up into the stormy clouds, capped with arched windows that glinted with the last light of day. Though grand and imposing, the Academy's walls were slightly weathered, testament to the ages of magic and battle that had taken place within its hallowed halls. Yet beyond its main buildings, nearly hidden from view, lay the outskirts—a stretch of modest homes where those with humble positions, like healers and laborers, made their lives.
In one of these homes, a small house with a mossy stone facade and a narrow porch lined with drying herbs, lived an eight-year-old boy named Deux. He stood in the open doorway, bathed in the hazy twilight, his figure small yet striking. Deux was unlike any other child in the academy, not simply because he was a "mediocre"—a person born without a single trace of magic—but because of his unusual, almost otherworldly appearance. His skin was a rich, deep brown, like polished mahogany, a warm contrast to the pale stone walls around him, and his hair, rare and impossible not to notice, was a shock of golden curls that tumbled around his face in an untamed, brilliant halo. The unusual color had earned him more than a few curious glances over the years, a bright gold as if dipped in sunlight itself, shimmering even in the dim light.
But perhaps most captivating were Deux's eyes—a deep, blazing red, striking and intense, like embers that never fully cooled. They gave him a look that was almost piercing, even when he was lost in thought, gazing out into the gathering storm. Tonight, his eyes reflected the distant lightning that flickered over the academy's towers, their dark crimson depths seeming to swirl with a restless intensity.
Inside, Deux's mother, Lyria, called to him. She was a gentle woman with a warm smile, dressed in a loose, practical tunic, her silver-gray hair tied back in a simple braid as she prepared dinner at the small kitchen hearth. Her hands, though calloused from years of work, glowed softly as she channeled the healing magic she was known for, carefully inspecting herbs she'd gathered earlier that day. "Deux, don't linger in the doorway," she said, her voice soft but carrying an edge of concern. She shot a glance at her son over her shoulder, noting his distant expression with a mother's intuition. "Come help set the table, hmm?"
With a nod, Deux stepped inside, but he moved slowly, his eyes lingering on the storm for a moment longer. The air outside had been thick with a strange charge, and he couldn't shake the feeling that it meant something—though what, he didn't know. The inside of the house was humble, filled with the simple comforts his family could afford. Rough-hewn wooden furniture, a threadbare but well-kept rug, and a small set of shelves holding Lyria's precious medical herbs lined the walls. Deux took in the familiar scene, though his mind was still somewhere out on those cliffs.
His father, Caleon, entered from the other room, a tall, broad-shouldered man with skin as dark as his son's, his face lined with the signs of hard work and quiet pride. Though his power allowed him to shift the very earth beneath his feet, he carried himself with a simplicity that hid his strength. Caleon ruffled Deux's golden hair, which gleamed even under the flickering glow of their single candle. "Look at you, all caught up in the storm," he said with a chuckle, "Always staring at the clouds, as if you'll find answers there."
Deux smiled up at his father, but there was a hint of sadness in his expression. He felt something pull at him from within, a strange, nameless feeling. But he buried it, keeping it hidden like a secret. He wanted so desperately to be like his parents, to feel the same energy coursing through him, to hold a power that would let him lift stones or heal wounds with a touch. And yet, he was just Deux—the "mediocre." He'd heard the word so many times now that it rang in his ears. Mediocre, a person with no powers, no magic, no spark. A word spoken in whispers, always with that hint of pity or distaste.
At school, that label clung to him, a constant reminder of his difference. Other children his age had already begun learning the first steps of wielding their abilities. Deux would watch as they practiced with glowing spheres of energy, bending them with ease, or conjuring small flares of fire or streams of water. But when it came to his turn, he had nothing to offer. His classmates would cast furtive glances his way, some filled with sympathy, others with thinly-veiled scorn. When he looked down at his hands, all he saw were empty palms—no spark, no strength. The ache that had settled in his chest grew deeper each day.
But even as he felt that emptiness, there were moments, quiet moments, when something else flickered inside him. He felt it when he was alone, his golden hair blowing in the wind, his red eyes fixed on the horizon. It was a strange feeling, as if he were reaching for something that was almost within his grasp, an old, forgotten memory trying to surface. He couldn't name it, couldn't explain it, but it haunted him, as real as the wind that whipped against his face. Tonight, as the storm rumbled overhead, he felt it stronger than ever, an urge to reach out and touch the sky, to call upon a force he couldn't see.
As he helped his mother with the dishes, his gaze drifted back to the window, watching as the lightning split the clouds. The room filled with flickering light, casting shadows that danced over his face, highlighting the brilliant gold of his hair and the deep red of his eyes. In that moment, he felt the stir within him once more, like an unspoken promise—or perhaps a challenge. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was meant for something, something more than the life of a mediocre. But that feeling was fleeting, fading as the thunder rolled on, leaving only silence in its wake.
After dinner, as he lay in bed listening to the distant rumble of the storm, Deux stared up at the ceiling, his red eyes wide and thoughtful. Somewhere deep within him, beyond what he could understand, something was waiting. And as he drifted off to sleep, a quiet certainty settled over him—a certainty that his journey was only beginning.
The next morning dawned slowly, with shafts of pale sunlight breaking through the lingering storm clouds, casting a strange glow over the Academy's sprawling grounds. Zeus Academy was waking up, filling with the murmur of voices, the clang of training weapons, and the crackle of energy as students began their morning drills. From his small house near the cliffs, Deux watched as the other children, many his age, streamed down the winding dirt paths toward the academy gates. They wore uniforms edged in colors that marked their powers—blue for those who controlled water, green for earth, crimson for fire, and silver for illusionists. Each color shimmered in the sunlight, a badge of pride. Deux, however, wore no color. His uniform was plain, a muted gray that almost seemed to fade into the background, a quiet emblem of his mediocrity.
As he walked alongside his mother down the path, he couldn't help but notice the way the other students looked at him, the glances that flickered to his golden hair and red eyes before quickly darting away. He kept his head down, clutching the strap of his worn satchel with fingers that were cold despite the warm morning air. The feeling of being different, of not belonging, weighed heavily on him, settling into his bones like a chill. Though he was young, he could see the clear divisions between him and the other students, as visible as the colors on their uniforms. To them, he was an oddity, a boy with no power in a world where everyone else had something extraordinary within them.
His mother, sensing his tension, placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder as they approached the academy gates. She was quiet, watching him with soft eyes, her silver hair glinting under the morning light. "Hold your head high, Deux," she said softly, with a kindness that was almost heartbreaking. "You don't need powers to be strong. Just remember, the greatest strength often comes from within." She smiled, though Deux could tell she was hoping, in her heart of hearts, that one day her words would prove true.
Inside the academy gates, the morning routines were well underway. Students moved in clusters toward the training grounds, their voices filled with excitement as they discussed their latest abilities or their dreams of becoming powerful wielders, guardians, or healers. The Academy's sprawling courtyard was alive with energy, ringed by ancient marble statues of legendary heroes and gods, each one caught in an eternal stance of valor or defiance. Flowers bloomed at the bases of the statues, casting bursts of color against the pale stone, while trailing vines wove up the pillars, giving the courtyard a sense of timeless beauty.
Deux had walked these halls for as long as he could remember, yet each day it felt as if the walls grew taller, the shadows deeper, as if the Academy itself was reminding him of his place. The training fields lay just beyond the main courtyard, filled with students who already seemed at ease with their powers. Some were practicing their forms in perfect, synchronized movements, fire and water swirling around them in dazzling displays, while others stood by the practice dummies, releasing bursts of energy that exploded with loud cracks and flashes of light. Deux felt like a shadow among them, a figure that slipped unnoticed through the crowds, unseen and unremarkable.
As he entered the fields, he made his way to the corner where the other mediocres were gathered. They were a small group, overlooked by most of the academy, and their instructor—a kind, soft-spoken man with no powers of his own—taught them the basics of physical defense, movement, and agility. There were no dramatic spells, no flashes of power or elemental mastery. They practiced simple routines, sparring lightly with wooden sticks, their footsteps muted against the soft grass. Deux tried to focus, to steady his mind as they went through the forms, but his eyes kept drifting to the center of the training grounds, where his classmates were sparking fires from their fingertips and sending rippling illusions across the field.
As he watched, a pang of something sharp and painful struck him—a strange mixture of envy and yearning that he couldn't quite explain. His fingers twitched as if they, too, longed to conjure some force, to wield a strength that others would recognize. He wondered if the ache he felt would ever fade or if he was destined to carry it, like a stone in his chest, for the rest of his life.
As Deux entered the academy grounds alone, he let his gaze wander over the familiar scenes of morning practice—the courtyard bustling with students, each clad in uniforms that bore bright, distinct colors, their emblems symbolizing the powers they wielded so naturally. Groups of students clustered together, exchanging lively words and eager smiles, their laughter filling the air like birdsong, full of confidence and anticipation for the day's lessons. Deux stayed close to the walls, treading carefully, his gray uniform fading into the background of stone and shadow. He had learned how to make himself blend in, a skill born out of habit and necessity, an instinct as natural to him as breathing.
In the training fields, students lined up in neat rows, practicing drills under the watchful eyes of their instructors. Bursts of fire flared up like brief suns, waves of water surged through the air, and sharp gusts of wind swept across the fields, each movement executed with skill and purpose. Deux felt his chest tighten as he watched, his fingers brushing against the rough fabric of his tunic. He stood on the edge of the field, where the other mediocres gathered to train in small, unremarkable clusters. They practiced simple exercises, drills in balance and agility, movements meant to teach them strength without magic. They were careful and quiet, unlike the other students whose powers sparkled and flashed with every step.
Yet as Deux joined the others, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was meant for something different, even if he didn't know what it was. His mind wandered as he worked through the simple drills, his eyes drifting back to the other students, each one a part of a world that felt just out of reach. The ache inside him grew, a quiet, unrelenting pulse that echoed the yearning he felt each time he reached out and found nothing there. Still, something kept him going, a silent resolve that flickered within him, small and stubborn as a flame in a storm.
As the day wore on and the sun climbed higher, casting long shadows over the academy's towering walls, Deux felt the weight of his difference settle over him once more. But there was something else, too—a sense of restlessness, of anticipation that lingered at the edge of his thoughts. He brushed it aside as he always did, keeping his focus on each small movement, each careful step. Yet as he left the training fields that evening, slipping through the quiet halls and back toward his home, he felt a glimmer of resolve he couldn't explain. Though his place here felt uncertain, he knew one thing: he wouldn't give up, not yet.
And as the sky faded into dusk, casting the academy in hues of violet and gold, Deux walked on alone, the world around him filled with shadows and light, each step echoing a promise he didn't yet understand.