The village of Iskar woke with the hum of magic. In every corner, spells wove through the routines of daily life. Farmers whispered incantations to till their fields, the earth parting neatly at their commands. Traders lifted heavy crates onto carts with a flick of their fingers, their goods glowing faintly with preservation spells. Even the children, giddy with boundless energy, sent harmless sparks into the air, playing a game of tag lit by tiny fireworks.
And then there was him—Eryon, sharp-featured, white-haired, and utterly ordinary.
While the rest of the village carried on, Eryon hauled water from the well. The weight of the buckets bit into his palms, and the uneven path back to the fields made his shoulders ache, but he didn't stop. Around him, others used water magic to summon streams directly to their crops, the shimmering arcs flowing with precision. Eryon focused on his task, willing himself not to look at them, not to compare.
"Eryon! You're at it again?" A warm voice called from behind him. Old Mara, hunched but spry, leaned on her walking stick as she shuffled closer. Her once-bright magical aura was faint now, her spells often sputtering out mid-cast. "You shouldn't push yourself so hard. You've already done enough for today."
Eryon set the buckets down carefully, straightening to wipe the sweat from his brow. "The crops won't water themselves," he said with a faint smile. "Well, not mine, anyway."
Mara's face softened with sympathy, a look he hated. "You're a good lad, Eryon. Better than most, magic or no magic."
"Thanks, Mara." He forced himself to keep smiling as she walked away. Her words, kind as they were, dug at something raw inside him. Magic or no magic. He'd heard that phrase his whole life, always meant as reassurance, but it never failed to remind him of what he lacked.
Eryon picked up the buckets and continued toward the fields, the muscles in his arms burning with each step. The sun was high by the time he finished, and as he leaned against a tree to catch his breath, he watched the other villagers go about their day. Their lives seemed effortless. Fire sparked at will, winds carried goods to and fro, and earth bent obediently beneath their feet.
He had none of it. No spark. No gift. No power. In a world where magic was as common as breath, Eryon was the only one who had none.
The afternoon passed in much the same way. Chores filled his time, keeping his hands busy even as his mind wandered. When the workday ended, Eryon made his way to the edge of the village, climbing the familiar hill that overlooked the valley. This was his place, quiet and undisturbed. From here, he could see the sprawling fields and the faint outlines of the mountains beyond. The stars were just beginning to peek through the twilight sky, their faint glimmers drawing his gaze upward.
Eryon sat down, wrapping his arms around his knees.
"There has to be something more for me," he murmured to the vast expanse of the sky. "Doesn't there?"
He let the question hang in the air, knowing no answer would come. It never did. Yet, each night, he found himself asking the same thing, as if the stars might one day decide to take pity on him.
The next day brought trouble.
A murmur of unease spread through the village as word came down from the scouts. A pack of wild magic beasts had been spotted in the woods to the west, their glowing eyes seen through the trees at dawn. Magic beasts rarely ventured so close to Iskar, but when they did, they were dangerous—unpredictable creatures shaped by raw, chaotic magic.
The village elders called for a gathering in the square, where the strongest mages prepared to form a defensive ward. Eryon stood at the back of the crowd, watching as shimmering glyphs lit the air around them. The ward pulsed with energy, a barrier meant to keep the beasts at bay.
"Alright," boomed Tarik, the village's most powerful mage and Eryon's personal tormentor. His tall frame and easy confidence commanded attention. "Everyone capable of fighting, get ready. If the beasts break through, we defend the village. And you…" His gaze landed squarely on Eryon, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Stay out of the way. We don't need you tripping over yourself."
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Eryon's face burned, but he clenched his fists and said nothing. He was used to Tarik's barbs. It didn't mean they hurt any less.
The crowd dispersed, villagers preparing for the worst. Eryon lingered, unsure of where he belonged. He wanted to help, but he knew Tarik wasn't wrong. Without magic, he would only be a liability.
The beasts came at dusk.
The first sign was the sound—a low, guttural growl that reverberated through the air, sending shivers down spines. Then came the glowing eyes, dozens of them, emerging from the forest like embers in the dark. The magic beasts were as terrifying as the stories described: warped forms of wolves and stags, their bodies twisted and flickering with unstable energy.
The ward held at first, the beasts snarling and clawing against the invisible barrier. But their combined magic proved too much. With a deafening crack, the ward shattered, sending a shockwave through the village. The beasts surged forward.
Chaos erupted. Villagers unleashed spells in every direction—fireballs and icy blasts lighting up the square. The beasts fought back, their strikes fueled by chaotic energy, their forms distorting unnaturally. Amid the chaos, Eryon spotted a young girl cowering near the broken ward, frozen in fear as a beast closed in on her.
Without thinking, Eryon ran. His legs moved before his mind could catch up, his heart pounding as he threw himself between the girl and the beast. The creature lunged, its claws raking the ground as he grabbed the girl and rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the strike.
"Run!" he shouted, pushing her toward safety. She hesitated for a moment, her wide eyes filled with terror, before scrambling away. The beast turned its attention back to Eryon, its glowing eyes locking onto him. He scrambled backward, his chest heaving as he searched for a weapon, a plan, anything.
A burst of flame struck the beast, sending it reeling. Tarik stepped forward, his hand still crackling with fire. He glared at Eryon, irritation evident even as he dispatched the creature with another spell.
"What were you thinking?" Tarik snapped, grabbing Eryon by the arm and hauling him to his feet. "You could have been killed. You're useless out here."
Eryon's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He turned and walked away, his shoulders heavy with exhaustion and shame.
That night, Eryon returned to his hill, the stars obscured by clouds. His body ached from the day's events, but it was the sting of Tarik's words that lingered most.
"Useless," he whispered bitterly to the night. His hands trembled, clenched tightly in his lap. "Why did I even bother?"
As he sat there, the clouds began to part, and the faintest sliver of moonlight broke through. Eryon didn't notice the shadows gathering faintly at his feet, flickering just for a moment before disappearing into the dark.