In the village of Durn, nestled among rolling hills and dense forests, young Kael stood at the anvil, hammer in hand, a product of his lineage. His father, Master Tharic, was renowned for his craft—creating weapons of legendary power for knights, kings, and adventurers. Tharic's forge was the beating heart of the village, a place of respect and awe.
Yet Kael, the son of the blacksmith, had never felt such respect. He was small for his age, with hands calloused not from battle, but from endless hours of learning the art of smithing. He was different from the other children. They had all manifested magical powers at the age of twelve, as was the custom in Durn. They could summon fire, control water, bend the wind to their will. Kael, however, had never experienced such a manifestation. His magic never came.
As a result, Kael was often the target of the other village children's mockery. He couldn't call forth flames or summon a protective shield. He couldn't levitate stones or speak to animals. To them, Kael was nothing. No magic, no worth.
His father, though, had always stood by him. "A man is measured by the strength of his heart, not by his powers," Tharic would say. But Kael couldn't help but feel the sting of his inadequacy. The world had no room for men without magic, not in these times, when magic was a currency that could make or break nations.