Valmere awoke with the sun, as it always did. Not with alarm bells or grinding machinery, but with spells and song. Lanterns drifted lazily through the mist, glowing with soft rune-light. Baskets floated from porches to fields. Firewood chopped itself at the swing of a charmed axe. In Valmere, magic wasn't just power—it was breath. It was rhythm. It was life.
Darian Veyne rose before the sun touched the treetops, already dressed in his sleeveless tunic and boots caked with old trail dust. His hands were calloused, his shoulders lean with muscle. A wooden sword, its edges worn smooth by hundreds of drills, leaned against the wall beside his bed.
From outside, he could already hear his brother.
Caelum's voice floated through the open window, speaking quietly to a Bramble Hog as he nudged it gently away from the herb garden.
"I told you not to eat Mother's tangleleaf. Again," Caelum whispered, and the creature let out a low, guilty grunt.
Darian stepped outside, rolling his shoulders. "That thing's got no respect for fences."
"Neither do you," Caelum shot back with a smirk. "You sneak into the forest more often than the Bramble Hog does."
"I don't get chased out of it squealing."
Caelum gave a soft laugh and rose to his feet. In the morning light, the faint shimmer of ambient mana wove around him like mist clinging to his skin. His silvery-blonde hair reflected the sunlight; even the grass under his boots seemed greener.
Darian's own reflection in the nearby water trough was more muted—dark hair, steel-gray eyes, a scar on his brow from a beast hunt last spring. No shimmer. No glow. Just a boy with a sword and no magic in a world where magic defined everything.
From the porch, their mother stepped out with a basket of herbs balanced on one palm, her other hand casting a subtle stabilizing charm over the contents.
"You'll both be late," Lira Veyne said, eyes warm but voice firm. "Today isn't just another training day."
Caelum nodded. "We know, Mama."
Darian simply turned toward the path, but Lira stepped in his way and gently brushed a speck of sawdust from his shoulder. "You'll walk tall today. Both of you. Don't let them see your shoulders slouch."
He didn't meet her gaze, but he gave a quiet, "Yes, ma."
Their father, Alric, sat on a bench by the door, sharpening a rune-chisel with precise strokes. He looked up just briefly. "Do your best."
That was all he said.
The Flame Blossom Rite was the kind of event that turned into stories passed down for years. Today was special—Caelum, already known for his natural mastery of spellwork, would be reaffirming his bond with mana in front of the whole village. Everyone expected brilliance. No one said anything about Darian.
The clearing was already crowded when the twins arrived. Woven banners drifted magically in the air, embroidered with glowing names of every child in this year's rite. Parents stood clustered near enchanted lantern poles that whispered lullabies while petals fell in slow spirals.
At the center stood the Flamebloom Tree, a grand, ancient being with bark like charred glass and branches that shimmered with emberbuds—flowers that only ignited in response to living mana.
Children were called up, one by one.
A small girl burst into tears when her blossom only glowed faintly. A boy cheered when his ignited into blue flames. And then—
"Caelum Veyne."
The crowd shifted like wind had blown through it. People straightened, murmurs broke out. The prodigy of Valmere. The one who had cast his first levitation spell at four. The boy who could mimic any element by six.
Caelum stepped forward, radiant and calm. He placed his palm against a closed blossom.
It ignited immediately. Not with a flicker—but with a burst. A blooming inferno of gold and silver light danced above his hand, casting reflections into the crowd. People gasped. Children clapped. One elder whispered, "A child of the First Flame, surely."
The High Enchanter raised her staff. "Caelum Veyne, bearer of balanced gifts. You are the pride of Valmere."
Caelum smiled—but only briefly. He looked at Darian.
The next name was not called.
Darian stepped forward without invitation.
The crowd hushed.
He stood before the tree, lifting his palm slowly, breath even, shoulders squared. His hand touched the blossom.
Nothing.
No flicker.
No warmth.
The emberbud stayed closed.
Seconds passed. Then whispers.
"Why is he here?"
"A Makaras…"
"Didn't his twin take all the mana in the womb?"
The word hit like always.
Makaras—a term used only in bitter tones. A curse, not a classification. In Valmere, and across the world, being a Makaras was to be void. Lifeless. Mana-dead. A soul untouched by the Flame.
The High Enchanter cleared her throat. "The rite is complete."
Darian turned before she finished.
No one noticed—no one except the Thornplume bird watching from the branches above—that as he walked away, one blossom shuddered. It pulsed faintly, just once, as though some echo passed through it.
But the tree said nothing more.
The village erupted into celebration that evening. Floating lights danced along the river. Spellcasters wove illusions of beasts and legendary mages in the sky. Tables overflowed with glowing fruit, steaming bread, and laughter. The villagers sang songs of magic and future glory.
Darian didn't attend.
He sat in the clearing behind the old well, his training blade balanced across his knees, breathing in rhythm as he practiced slow, precise movements.
Caelum found him just after moonrise.
"I saved you some bread," he said, holding a cloth bundle. "And some of the festival stew."
"I'm not hungry."
Caelum sat beside him anyway.
"You didn't have to step up today," he said.
"I did."
"They don't deserve to judge you."
"They didn't," Darian replied. "They just watched the truth unfold."
Caelum was quiet. Then: "You've trained harder than anyone I've ever met."
Darian let the silence hang.
Caelum looked down. "They offered me a spot at the Arcadium."
Darian blinked. "Already?"
Caelum nodded. "Professor Wynne sent the message weeks ago. She wants me in the Omnimagus track."
"And me?"
Caelum hesitated. "They didn't ask."
"Of course not."
"But I told them about you. About how you train. Fight. How you hunt. I showed them your forms."
"And?"
"They said…" Caelum's voice cracked. "They said there might be a place for you. A spot in the Bladeward Corps."
Darian looked down at his blade. "So I can carry spellcasters' gear?"
"So you can be seen. Maybe that's how it starts."
Darian didn't answer.
After a while, he asked, "Do you think I'll ever belong, Cael?"
Caelum looked at him—really looked. "Not here."
Darian's eyes narrowed, pain flickering across his face.
"But that's not because of you," Caelum continued. "It's because this place is too small to see you."
A soft flutter drew their attention. The Thornplume bird, feathers glowing like tiny flames, perched on a broken fencepost a few feet away. It didn't sing. It just watched.
"You know what the elders say," Caelum whispered. "That those birds appear when change is coming."
"I don't care about omens," Darian said, gripping his blade again.
But deep inside, something stirred. Not magic. Not fire.
Weight. Pressure. A pulse beneath the skin.
The Flame had not caught.
But something else had.
Something deeper.