In the world of Everna, the gods never spoke first.
They listened.
That truth was taught early—before numbers, before letters, before a child could even understand what a god truly was. It was not delivered as doctrine nor wrapped in ceremony. It was simply stated, then repeated, until it stopped sounding like belief and began to feel like fact.
The priests called it reverence.
The scholars called it balance.
Ordinary people accepted it as the way the world functioned.
And for most of history, no one had found reason to argue otherwise.
The gods did not issue proclamations. They did not descend in radiant forms to guide humanity with divine hands. They did not appear in dreams bearing commandments, nor split the sky with thunderous visions to demand worship.
They waited.
Their silence was not absence, but restraint—an unspoken rule woven so deeply into Everna's foundations that questioning it felt unnecessary. Records existed. Debates had been held. Entire generations of thinkers had examined the matter from every angle, only to arrive at the same conclusion: the gods answered only when asked.
"If you want an answer, you have to dare to speak first," old merchants liked to tell their apprentices. "The gods don't waste words on cowards."
At sixteen, every child was brought before the altar.
The stone itself was ancient—older than Everna, older than the first cities, older even than the earliest recorded use of mana. It had been unearthed from the remains of a mountain whose name no longer existed, its surface carved with runes that resisted erosion as if time itself acknowledged their authority.
Scholars argued endlessly over their origin. Priests spoke of divine script. Common folk simply called them sacred and left it at that.
The ritual never changed.
Place your hand upon the stone.
Wait.
Some felt warmth bloom beneath their palm—gentle at first, then overwhelming, as if something vast had acknowledged their existence. Others felt cold, sharp and deliberate, creeping up their arm and settling deep in their chest. A few described it as pressure, rhythmic and heavy, like a second heartbeat briefly aligning with their own.
There were those who felt pain.
Those who felt elation.
Those who felt fear.
And those who felt nothing at all.
Whatever answered—or failed to—was called affinity.
In Everna, affinity decided everything that followed.
Fire, lightning, water, wind, earth, ice, light, darkness. These were the known paths. Studied. Catalogued. Refined across centuries. Entire institutions existed to teach children how to walk roads already paved smooth by generations before them.
A few—very few—would awaken dual affinity and become legends whispered about in taverns and academies. Their names were recorded. Their lives observed. Their futures rarely belonged to them alone.
And those who awakened nothing learned very quickly how small the world could become.
Arthur Solomon would turn sixteen in seven days.
He had imagined that moment for years.
Standing beneath the cathedral's towering pillars. The quiet of the crowd as he stepped forward. The cool stone of the altar beneath his hand. He pictured mana answering him—swift and certain—and the priest announcing his name and element for all to hear.
Strong enough that no one can touch them, he almost thought, then stopped himself.
"It's just nerves," he muttered under his breath, annoyed at how small his own voice sounded, even in his head.
The thought came back to him often, usually without warning. While working in the shop. While listening to rain on the roof at night. Sometimes when he passed children his age arguing about which element was strongest.
He never imagined applause. Or reverence. Or being remembered.
He imagined standing there, hand still on the stone, knowing that something had answered him.
Anything.
His hair, black as midnight, fell just past his ears, slightly messy no matter how often he tried to tame it. It never stayed in place for long, as if it had a will of its own. When sunlight touched it, there was no shine—only depth, like a moonless sky. His eyes, however, were impossible to ignore—a deep, mesmerizing blue, like a starlit night sky reflected in a glacial lake, calm on the surface and endless beneath.
At the moment, those eyes were focused on a brass scale.
Arthur stood behind the counter of his father's herb shop, carefully adjusting the brass scale. The weights were old, their edges dulled from years of use. Dried silverleaf lay bundled neatly on one side, its scent faint but sharp.
Morning light filtered through the front window, illuminating dust motes suspended in the air. Shelves lined the walls, packed with jars labeled in neat handwriting—roots, leaves, powders, tinctures.
The shop smelled of earth and bitterness and something faintly medicinal.
It was familiar.
Predictable.
Safe.
"Arthur."
"Yes?"
"Careful with that," his father said without looking up. "Silverleaf bruises easily."
Arthur smiled. "You've told me that since I was ten."
"And you still press too hard," David Solomon replied, calm but firm.
That was his father — sleeves rolled up, steady hands, grinding herbs with
practiced ease. A broad-shouldered man with kind eyes and faint lines etched at the corners of his face—marks earned not from hardship alone, but from years of quiet laughter and responsibility. Running a herb shop wasn't glamorous, but people trusted David. When someone was sick, worried, or desperate, they came here first.
"You'll be doing this without me soon enough," David added mildly.
"I'm not going anywhere," Arthur said.
"Affinity has a way of deciding that for you," his father replied, just a shade too lightly.
Behind the counter, Arthur adjusted his grip. His fingers were already stained faint green from herbs, his black hair falling messily into his eyes as he worked. He brushed it aside without thinking.
From the doorway came the sound of hurried footsteps.
"BROTHER!"
The word came like a small explosion.
Arthur barely had time to turn before Cesia barreled in like a small storm, slammed into him, arms wrapping around his waist with absolute conviction, as if she might never let go again.
"Oof—Cesia—!"
She was small for her age, cheeks still round with childhood, eyes bright with the sort of belief adults slowly lost. Her hair was tied into twin tails, one slightly crooked.
She laughed, face pressed against his stomach. "Good morning!"
"Good morning," Arthur said, laughing softly as he patted her head.
"You're going to knock over the shelves one day," David said dryly.
"That's future me's problem," Cesia replied without shame.
"Future you is going to be very mad at present you," Arthur said.
"Future me will have magic," she declared. "She can fix it."
She pulled back and stared at Arthur with exaggerated seriousness. "Did you practice smiling today?"
"…What?"
"You have to smile nicely when you get your blessing," she said matter-of-factly. "If the god thinks you look scary, they might not give you their blessing."
His father snorted. "So the gods judge by facial expressions now?"
She crossed her arms. "If I were a god, I would."
A quiet chuckle came from the doorway.
Alice Solomon stepped in from the adjoining room, the soft sounds of the kitchen following her—clinking bowls, warm steam, the quiet comfort of a home that began only a few steps beyond the shop shelves. One hand rested gently on Cesia's shoulder.
She met Arthur's eyes and smiled, the kind of smile that carried reassurance without words. She had a calm presence, the kind that made chaos soften simply by standing nearby. Her hair was tied neatly, and her eyes—clear, deep blue, and quietly attentive—always seemed to notice things others missed —mirrored his own.
Arthur had inherited those eyes from her.
The same calm depth. The same way they looked gentle at first glance, yet seemed to take in far more than they revealed.
"Eat before you start dreaming too loudly," she said. "The gods won't answer an empty stomach."
They gathered around the same plain breakfast they'd eaten for as long as Arthur could remember—a thin herb porridge, bread still warm from the pan, and tea that smelled faintly of mint and medicine. It was home.The warmth seeped into him slowly, chasing away the lingering chill from earlier thoughts.
"Careful, it's hot," Alice said, blowing lightly across Cesia's porridge before sliding it back.
"I'm not a baby," Cesia protested—and then burned her tongue on the first spoonful.
Arthur's lips twitched. "Clearly."
"Traitor," she mumbled around her next, more cautious bite.
"Seven days," Cesia announced suddenly, hopping onto a stool and sitting up straight. "Seven days until Brother touches the altar."
Arthur smiled, unable to stop himself. "You're very invested in this."
"Of course I am, because it's important," she said seriously. "If you get a cool affinity, everyone will know you're my brother."
"She's not wrong," David murmured, not quite looking at him.
"And if I don't?" Arthur asked lightly.
Cesia frowned at the question, as if it were ridiculous. "Then I'll still tell them. But it'll be better if it's cool."
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes practically glowing. "It should be lightning. Or fire. Or—" she gasped softly, "—something with wings."
He chuckled. "Why wings?"
"So you can fly me around town and scare everyone." she said, completely serious. "Walking is sooo slow."
"I am not scaring people."
"You can scare bad people."
He smiled, warmth settling in his chest. This—this was his world. Not glorious battles or divine halls. Just a small house, a herb shop that barely closed before sunset, and a family that laughed together in the mornings.
They weren't rich. But they weren't struggling either. The house was theirs. The shelves were full. And the future felt… stable.
Alice reached over and gently straightened one of Cesia's crooked ribbons. "He doesn't need wings to protect you."
Her words were gentle, but they carried weight.
For a moment, no one spoke.
"What if his affinity is something boring?" Cesia asked. "Like… like dirt."
"Earth," David corrected. "And there's nothing boring about staying standing when the world shakes."
Arthur opened his mouth to joke, then closed it again.
"Besides," Alice said, "boring things are the ones that last."
David glanced at Arthur then—not long, not suspiciously—but with an expression Arthur couldn't quite read. Something thoughtful. Something distant.
"So," David said at last… "have you thought about what affinity you might awaken… and where you want it to take you?"
Arthur hesitated—just for a heartbeat. "Not yet."
"You don't have to have all the answers," David said. "Just know which questions you're afraid to ask."
"I'm not afraid," Arthur replied too quickly.
David's gaze lingered on him a second longer than usual. "Good," he said at last. "Then remember this: power doesn't decide what kind of man you become."
Arthur met his father's eyes and nodded. "I know."
He wanted it to be true. And for now, he believed it.
He didn't care which affinity answered him.
He only wanted this—this table, these voices, this morning—to last.
Outside, Everna stirred. Vendors called out their wares. Apprentices rushed past, late and laughing. Children his age gathered in excited clusters, boasting and speculating, arguing over which element was strongest.
Fire. Lightning. Light.
Arthur listened quietly.
After breakfast, he helped his father prepare a delivery. As they stepped outside, the town felt alive—voices overlapping, footsteps hurried, laughter echoing between stone walls. Posters announcing the upcoming Blessing Ceremony fluttered in the breeze.
One week, Arthur thought again.
The wind shifted as they passed near the edge of town, carrying with it a strange chill. He paused, glancing toward the distant hills where a newly discovered dungeon entrance shimmered faintly in the air.
It hadn't been there last month.
He didn't know why, but a faint unease crept into his chest, subtle and fleeting—like a shadow passing over the sun.
He shook it off.
I'm just nervous, he told himself. Just excited. That's all.
Behind him, his sister waved enthusiastically from the doorway. His mother stood beside her, calm and smiling.
He waved back.
His father adjusted the basket on his shoulder and started walking again.
He followed.
Seven days remained.
Seven days before the altar.
Seven days before the gods listened.
He had no way of knowing that this ordinary morning in Everna — this warmth, this laughter—was already becoming precious.
That his affinity would awaken where no god ruled.
That the world he trusted was already preparing to take everything—
—and call it fate.
______
Author's Note :
Thank you for reading.
This story begins quietly on purpose.
Everna is a world where power is decided early, where lives often follow the paths chosen for them at sixteen. Chapter One is not meant to impress with strength or spectacle—it is meant to show what is normal, what is warm, and what is worth protecting.
Arthur's journey does not begin with ambition, hatred, or rebellion. It begins with belief.
The chapters that follow will be darker, harsher, and far less forgiving—but everything that breaks later is built here first.
Thank you for stepping into Everna.
Take your time with this beginning.
And when you're ready, turn the page—because Chapter Two begins where certainty ends.