The cold winds of the north howled relentlessly, sweeping the snow into frenzied whirlwinds. Beneath the looming shadow of the World Tree, which stretched high above the tallest northern peaks, a solitary figure trudged through the deep snow. Elder Magnus, weathered by time but unbowed by age, had spent his life wandering the lands, collecting the forgotten stories of gods and heroes, ancient secrets buried deep in the corners of Terra.
He had never sought fame or fortune. His purpose had always been clear: to preserve the old ways, to honor the past. Yet, as he approached the heart of the frozen wasteland beneath the World Tree, a new chapter awaited him—one he could not yet understand.
The clearing before him shimmered with an ethereal glow, the vast, ancient roots of the World Tree stretching far into the earth, weaving their way through the frozen ground. The very air seemed to hum with the Tree's power, its essence intimately entwined with the life of the world itself. In the heart of this sacred space, Magnus discovered something that would forever alter the course of his life.
At the foot of the World Tree, nestled in the snow, lay an abandoned child.
The baby was small, wrapped in little more than a tattered blanket, utterly alone in the cold, unforgiving wasteland. Its skin, pale as the winter snow, appeared to glow faintly, but this was not magic. It was only the reflection of the moonlight on the frost-covered ground. A weak cry broke the silence, barely audible above the wind's howl.
Magnus fell to his knees beside the child, his heart aching with sorrow. His hands, worn and trembling with age, gently lifted the infant and wrapped it carefully in the warmth of his cloak. The child's tiny fingers grasped at his weathered hand, and for a brief moment, Magnus felt a sense of something far greater than mere fate—something woven into the very fabric of the world itself.
"Who would abandon a child here?" Magnus whispered, his voice filled with quiet despair. The World Tree, revered for its power and grace, had always been a symbol of hope. Never had it been a place for cruelty.
The Tree seemed to respond, its massive branches swaying gently in the wind, as if to acknowledge his question. But there was no answer—not from the Tree nor from the silent expanse around him. Only the faint glow of the child's skin remained, no different than the glow of the moon in a cold winter sky.
Magnus cradled the child in his arms, a sense of destiny pressing down on him. It was as if the very heavens had decreed that this child's future was bound to the fate of Terra. Its lineage, its origins, and its strange connection to the World Tree—these were mysteries he would need to unravel in time.
As Magnus rose to his feet, his back protesting with the weight of years, he glanced once more at the towering World Tree. Its vast presence seemed to guard the child, as if shielding it from the dangers of the world. The Tree's power felt almost… familiar, though Magnus could not quite explain why.
"Come, little one," he murmured, his voice soft but filled with a quiet determination. "It's not much, but it's all I have."
With the child safely in his arms, Magnus turned toward the distant village, stepping away from the frozen wasteland and into the unknown future. The child's origins, its purpose—these things Magnus could not yet know. But deep within his heart, he knew one truth: this child was destined to shape the future of Terra. The World Tree had chosen it, and Magnus, though unsure of what lay ahead, would raise the child as his own.
But as they journeyed forward, an unsettling presence lingered.
The once comforting aura surrounding the child now felt… wrong. The world around Magnus, once filled with the vibrant flow of mana, now seemed distant, almost cold. He could feel it, the subtle shift in the air—the mana, which usually flowed freely through Terra, recoiled from the child. It was as if the very essence of life, the force that nurtured all living things, refused to acknowledge this child.
Magnus paused, his heart skipping a beat. The baby's aura was faint but stable—nothing more than the soft pulse of a normal child. There was no magical energy, no extraordinary power. The mana, which had always been a comforting presence in his life, did not reject the child because of some hidden force. It simply ignored the child completely. There was no connection, no resistance, no interference—just a calm emptiness.
"Why?" Magnus whispered, his voice trembling. "Why does the mana turn away?"
He looked up at the massive World Tree, its roots stretching deep into the earth, its ancient wisdom perhaps holding the answers. But the Tree offered no explanation, no understanding. It remained silent, its great branches swaying like silent sentinels.
Magnus's mind raced. He had heard of such things—children born without the blessing of magic, a rarity in a world so alive with mana. Some might call it an anomaly; others, a sign of something more sinister. He had never truly believed in such things, but now, with this child in his arms, he couldn't help but wonder. Was the child a blessing, or a mere consequence of the world's cruelty?
As the child stirred restlessly in his arms, Magnus's thoughts shifted. It wasn't just the mana that seemed to reject the child—it was as if everything about the child, its very presence, lacked the essence that everyone else possessed. The wind, the snow, even the air around them seemed to carry a subtle emptiness.
"I don't know what you are," Magnus murmured softly, more to himself than the child. "But I will protect you. Even if I must face the very forces of the world, I will protect you."
The child let out another faint cry, its gaze locking onto Magnus with wide, innocent eyes. There was no grand magic to it—just a child, in need of warmth and love.
For the first time in his life, Magnus truly understood the weight of the path ahead. The child was not an anomaly of power; it was simply a child, born into a world that had little place for someone like it. And Magnus, no matter what challenges awaited, would raise it, guide it, and love it as his own.
As the wind howled once more, Magnus rose to his feet, cradling the child carefully against his chest. The road ahead was uncertain, the mysteries surrounding the child and its lack of magical essence only deepening. But he would face it all. He had to.
For the fate of Terra itself seemed bound to the child in his arms. And Magnus knew that whatever the future held, this was no ordinary child.