The skies above the village of Varimere bled gold and crimson, a sunset as beautiful as it was ominous. Farmers trudged home from the fields, their bodies bent under the weight of harvest sacks and unspoken fears. Children laughed in the streets, chasing the last rays of light, oblivious to the shadows creeping at the edges of their world.
Yalith Everveil sat on the roof of a crumbling windmill, staring at the horizon. He'd long learned that sunsets held more meaning than most people realized. To the villagers, it marked the end of another day of toil. To Yalith, it was a reminder of his insignificance.
"Yalith!" a sharp voice called from below.
He glanced down to see Mara, the baker's daughter, glaring at him with her arms crossed. Her fiery red hair glowed in the dying light. "Are you just going to sit there all night again? The Elder said you were supposed to help with the lanterns."
Yalith sighed, leaning back against the weathered tiles. "Let someone else do it. What does it matter if one lantern doesn't get lit? The stars don't care about us, and neither do the gods."
Mara stomped her foot. "You can't keep thinking like that! Just because you're a—" She caught herself mid-sentence, her face softening. "I mean… just because things are harder for you doesn't mean you should give up."
"Say it." Yalith's voice was cold, his gaze locked on the darkening sky. "Go on. I'm a Blank, right? A nobody. No story, no destiny, no place in this world."
Mara bit her lip, unsure how to respond.
"Thought so." Yalith jumped down from the roof, landing lightly on his feet. "Don't worry, Mara. I'll light the stupid lanterns. Wouldn't want to disappoint the great Elder Torren."
He walked past her, ignoring the guilt in her eyes.
***
The village square was bustling with activity as the townsfolk prepared for the Festival of Fates, a celebration of the gods' gift of destiny. Lanterns adorned every house, their soft glow meant to honor the stars that governed the villagers' lives.
Yalith worked in silence, his hands deftly tying strings and lighting wicks. Around him, whispers floated like smoke.
"Why do they even let him help?"
"He's bad luck, that one."
"A Blank shouldn't be part of a festival. It's blasphemy!"
He clenched his fists but kept his head down. The whispers had been his constant companions since childhood, each word a dagger in his heart.
***
As night fell, the festival began. The villagers gathered in the square, their faces lit with anticipation. Elder Torren, a wiry man with a silver beard, stood atop a wooden stage, holding a gilded scroll.
"Tonight," the Elder proclaimed, "we honor the gods and their gift of fate. Every life is a story, a thread in the grand tapestry of existence." He unrolled the scroll, its surface shimmering with divine light. "Let us welcome the gods' blessings."
One by one, the villagers stepped forward, touching the scroll. Each time, the scroll flared with light, inscribing their destinies for the year ahead. Cheers erupted as farmers received bountiful harvests, and children were promised bright futures.
Yalith stood at the back of the crowd, his arms crossed. He had no reason to approach the scroll; it would never react to him. The gods had made that clear from the day he was born.
"Next!" Elder Torren called.
The crowd parted, revealing Yalith standing alone. Every eye turned to him, some curious, others hostile.
"Go on, Blank," someone jeered. "Show us your destiny."
Yalith hesitated, then stepped forward, his movements deliberate. He climbed the stage, his heart pounding in his chest. Elder Torren's gaze was unreadable as he handed him the scroll.
Yalith reached out and touched the surface.
Nothing happened.
No light. No inscription. Just silence.
The crowd burst into laughter, their mockery echoing in his ears. "Of course! What did you expect?"
Yalith dropped the scroll and walked away, his fists trembling.
***
That night, as the village slept, Yalith found himself drawn to the forest. The trees whispered secrets in the wind, their ancient boughs creaking as if alive. He wandered deeper until he reached a clearing bathed in moonlight.
There, sitting on a stone throne, was a figure cloaked in shadow. Their face was obscured, but their voice was clear and commanding.
"Yalith Everveil," the figure said, "you have no story because you were not meant to follow one. You were meant to write your own."
Yalith froze. "Who… who are you?"
The figure extended a hand, revealing a glowing fragment of parchment. Its surface shimmered with unreadable runes, pulsating with an otherworldly light.
"I am a messenger of truths long buried. Take this, and begin the story that will shatter the heavens."
Yalith hesitated, then reached out. As his fingers touched the fragment, a surge of power coursed through him, filling the void in his heart.
For the first time in his life, Yalith felt alive.
And the gods began to tremble.