The night was cold, as it always was in Eldrin's Edge, a village cradled by the jagged cliffs and dense forests of the southern reaches. The moon hung low, casting silvery light over the crooked cottages and fields of withered crops. Somewhere near the edge of the village, away from the warmth of the hearths and the laughter of families, sat a boy, alone.
Alaric pulled his thin cloak tighter around his shoulders, his breath misting in the frigid air. The bruises on his arms and back throbbed, reminders of the day's beatings. It had been market day, which meant he'd been sent to fetch goods. The baker had called him a curse. The blacksmith had chased him off with a smoldering poker. And when the village children found him later, they made sure he remembered his place: the weak one. The boy with no magic.
In Eldrin's Edge, everyone had a gift. Magic flowed through their veins as naturally as blood, manifesting in spells to till fields, mend wounds, or even ignite hearths with a flick of the wrist. But not Alaric. No fire answered his call. No earth bent to his will. He was the only one in living memory to be born without power, and to the villagers, that made him less than human.
"You're lucky we let you stay," the headman had sneered at him once. "A burden like you would've been thrown off the cliffs in the old days."
Alaric stared at the distant woods, where the shadows of towering oaks swallowed the moonlight. He'd heard tales of monsters there—beasts that feasted on the unwary. Yet even the thought of such horrors seemed kinder than another day in the village. He didn't belong here. He didn't belong anywhere.
A soft breeze stirred the leaves, carrying with it an eerie stillness. Alaric frowned. The wind had gone silent, as if the world itself held its breath. Then, a voice—soft, yet resonant—whispered in his mind.
"Awaken."
He scrambled to his feet, heart hammering. "Who's there?" His voice wavered, swallowed by the dark.
No answer came. Instead, a faint light flickered before him, hovering like a wayward firefly. It pulsed once, then again, beckoning. Alaric hesitated. Fear gripped him, but curiosity burned brighter. With cautious steps, he followed the light into the forest.
The air grew colder, sharper, as if the forest itself resented his intrusion. The light weaved through the trees, leading him to a small clearing where a jagged stone altar stood, covered in ancient runes. The glow intensified, bathing the clearing in ethereal radiance. Alaric's breath caught. He'd heard stories of places like this—sacred grounds where the gods once walked.
"Who are you?" he whispered.
The voice returned, deeper this time, resonating with power. "I am the spark within you, long buried, long forgotten. You are not weak, Alaric. You are unawakened."
Tears stung his eyes. "I—I don't understand. I have no magic. Everyone says I'm nothing."
"They are wrong. You carry the blood of gods, a power greater than any magic these mortals wield. But power must be earned, forged through trials."
Alaric stepped closer to the altar, his hand trembling as he reached for the glowing stone at its center. As his fingers brushed it, a surge of heat coursed through his veins, igniting every nerve in his body. He cried out, falling to his knees as visions flashed before his eyes—wars waged by titans, a throne of light, and a figure standing alone against the darkness.
When the visions faded, Alaric lay gasping on the cold ground. The voice spoke again, softer now. "You have taken the first step. The path will be long, and the trials will be harsh. But remember this: even the smallest ember can grow into a roaring flame."
The light faded, leaving Alaric alone in the clearing. But for the first time in his life, he felt something stirring within him. Not power—not yet—but hope.
And that was enough.