The storm clawed at the roof of the hovel, rain slicing through the gaps in the thatch. Inside, the cries of two newborn boys mixed with the wail of the wind. Their mother, pale and gaunt from hunger, sat slumped against the wall. Her breaths came in ragged gasps as she clutched the tiny bundles to her chest. 

"They'll not survive a week like this," muttered the midwife, wringing her hands over the hearth's feeble flame. 

The mother lifted her head, her lips cracked and trembling. "They will," she whispered, though her voice faltered. 

The midwife shook her head, her eyes darting between the two infants. The elder, already named Elias, wailed fiercely, his lungs filling the room with his demands for warmth and milk. He thrashed against his swaddling cloth as though defying the storm itself. The younger boy, Kieran, made no sound. He merely stared at the flickering light of the hearth, his dark eyes wide and eerily calm. 

"That one," the midwife muttered, gesturing toward Kieran, "he's strange. Too quiet. There's no spark in him." 

The mother flinched but said nothing. The truth gnawed at her, unspoken but undeniable. Elias had emerged into the world like a thunderclap—his first cries sharp, insistent. Kieran had arrived moments later, as silent as the grave. Even now, she felt it. One boy seemed destined for greatness. The other… she couldn't explain the weight that hung around him, but it frightened her. 

---

Years passed, and the difference between the twins grew larger. 

Elias was a prodigy. At four, he began tracing letters in the dirt, mimicking the markings he'd seen on the merchant's scrolls. At five, he startled the village priest by repeating a prayer verbatim after hearing it only once. By six, he was performing simple feats of magic: conjuring flickers of light from the air, making his voice carry across the field to startle the crows. 

Kieran, by contrast, struggled to speak at all. When he did, his words came out halting and rough, like stones scraping together. He was slow to understand the things that came so easily to his brother. Though he worked hard to help their mother—fetching water, tending to the goat—his efforts were clumsy, often earning him scolding instead of praise. 

"Why can't you be more like Elias?" the other villagers would say. 

Their mother didn't mean to favor one over the other, but it was impossible not to. Elias's charm and brilliance made him the darling of the village. Kieran… Kieran was a shadow. 

---

The turning point came the winter Elias turned seven. 

The lord's steward arrived on horseback, his cloak billowing in the icy wind. He had come to inspect the village's offerings for the harvest tithe, but his attention had been caught by the stories of a gifted boy—one who could already read and write, who could summon magic without formal training. 

He watched Elias from afar as the boy demonstrated his tricks: a puff of flame from his fingertips, a stone skipping unnaturally far across the frozen stream. The steward's lips curled into a satisfied smile. 

"This one," he said, "is wasted here." 

The villagers were awestruck when the steward returned the next day with a small caravan, bearing gifts and supplies. The lord had agreed to adopt Elias into his household, to train him as a mage and scholar. It was the chance of a lifetime, they all said. Elias would grow into someone important, someone great. 

Kieran had watched the preparations from the corner of the room, his small hands clenched into fists. When the day came for Elias to leave, their mother wept, clutching him tightly before letting him climb into the steward's carriage. 

"I'll come back for you," Elias had said, his voice bright with promise as he waved to Kieran from the carriage window. 

Kieran didn't respond. He just stood in the mud, silent, as the wheels rolled away. 

---

Elias never came back. 

Without his brother, Kieran became invisible. The villagers, who had once tolerated him as "the quiet one," grew less kind as the seasons passed. When drought struck the land, followed by a meager harvest, their resentment bubbled over. 

"It's his fault," one of the men hissed after a goat was found dead, its throat slit by a fox. 

"The cursed twin," another muttered. 

Kieran felt the weight of their stares whenever he passed through the village. They stopped giving him food scraps. The boys who had once played with him now pushed him into the dirt, their laughter cruel and sharp. 

His mother, already frail, grew weaker with every passing day. When she finally succumbed to fever, Kieran was left alone. 

The villagers didn't wait long. One cold night, they came for him. 

---

He ran through the forest, his bare feet slick with mud and blood. Behind him, the villagers shouted, their torches casting flickering shadows across the trees. 

"Get out!" one man bellowed. "If we see you again, we'll kill you!" 

They hurled stones and curses as Kieran stumbled deeper into the woods. When they finally gave up the chase, he collapsed beside a stream, gasping for air. His legs were bruised, his face scratched from the branches that had clawed at him in the dark. 

For hours, he sat there, shivering in the rain. He wanted to cry, but no tears came. He just stared at the water, his reflection fractured by the ripples. 

"Why?" he whispered, his voice raw. "Why am I still here?" 

The stream gave no answer. 

Unseen beneath its surface, the depths of the forest lake lay still, waiting.