Time moved strangely in the village.
There were no clocks, just sun and shadow, firelight and fog. Days were marked by the sound of bread ovens opening, or the grumble of Theren's boots before dawn as he rose to split wood. Seasons passed in a blur of planting, frost, and Mira's humming as she crushed herbs over stew pots.
For Wade, the years blurred together in a slow, golden warmth.
He was seven now. Sharp eyed. Thin. Lighter on his feet than most boys his age, but quiet to the point that half the village thought he was mute.
He wasn't. He simply preferred silence.
Why speak when Lira could finish his sentences with a look? Why shout when Theren's smile told him he'd already been heard?
There was peace in not having to explain yourself every moment.
And most days, that was enough.
But not in Velgrath. Not forever.
Because in Velgrath, magic meant everything.
Every child in the village had it. Even the simplest, poorest farm brat could make a candle flicker or call a breeze to turn a windmill. You were supposed to awaken your affinity by seven. Eight at the latest.
At five, Lira had floated two feet off the ground.
At six, Riven had scorched a scarecrow to ash.
At seven, Wade pressed his hand to the old affinity stone in the village square, just like everyone else.
And nothing happened.
He remembered the feel of the stone: smooth, cold, old. Veins of strange green ore ran through its surface. It had been there longer than the village had. The elders claimed it had a name once, in a tongue now forgotten.
When you touched it, it was supposed to glow. One color. One path. One spark.
But when Wade touched it…
The stone stayed dead.
A silence heavier than snowfall settled over the gathered crowd.
The elder coughed politely. "Sometimes... it happens," he said, the lie barely forming in his throat. "A late bloomer, perhaps."
Someone in the crowd murmured, "Another dud."
Wade turned his head. His mother and father stood nearby.
Mira looked serene, unreadable, but her hand clutched her satchel strap a little too tightly.
Theren's jaw flexed.
Neither of them said anything.
They didn't have to.
The whispers started that night.
"Poor thing, no affinity?"
"He'll never pass an academy exam."
"They'll have to keep him at home forever."
"Useless mouths don't last long in this world."
Wade heard them.
He always heard them.
He just pretended not to.
But the worst came two days later.
The three boys were older than Wade—two years up, maybe three. One was Eren, the baker's son. A round shouldered boy with a mop of blond curls and water magic he liked to use to ruin people's lunches. The other two were twin brothers, slim, sharp nosed, mean in that way only bored rich children knew how to be.
Wade had wandered behind the mill. A shortcut home. A mistake.
They cornered him with the ease of predators.
Eren smirked. "So, dead stone, huh?"
Wade didn't answer.
"You know what they used to do with non affinitied kids?" one of the twins asked.
"Let me guess," the other grinned. "Toss 'em in the river. If they float, they're witches. If they sink, they're just trash."
They laughed. It wasn't funny. It wasn't even original. It just hurt.
"You can't even light a match, can you?" Eren sneered. "Must be tough. Living on handouts. Bet your dad regrets not pulling out—"
That was when something hit Eren so hard he vomited.
It was Riven.
He came out of nowhere—shirt half buttoned, knuckles already red. He didn't yell. He didn't give a speech.
He just hit.
Eren went down hard, choking on blood and dirt. One of the twins turned to run and caught a fist in the jaw. The other made the mistake of throwing a punch.
He missed.
Riven didn't.
By the time the elder arrived, two boys were unconscious and one was begging for his mother. Riven stood over them, panting, fists shaking, eyes blazing with smoke orange fury.
Wade hadn't moved.
He stood in the same place, arms limp at his sides, stomach twisting with something that wasn't fear or shame—but something darker. Something sharper.
It wasn't the beating that left a mark.
It was what came after.
At home, Riven sat on the porch, a bloodied rag wrapped around his hand. Theren was inside, speaking softly with Mira. Wade stood a few steps away, unsure if he should say anything.
"You okay?" Riven asked.
Wade nodded slowly. "Yeah."
Riven didn't look at him. Just stared at the tree line, the last rays of sunset catching in his hair.
"They can laugh at me," he said. "I don't care. But you—" His jaw clenched. "They don't get to laugh at you."
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Wade whispered, "Why?"
That got Riven to glance over.
"Because you're my little brother," he said. "Because you don't need to throw fire to matter. And because—" he punched his own knee, hard—"I've never seen anyone take that much without even flinching. That's strength. You hear me?"
Wade didn't answer.
He sat beside his brother on the porch, shoulder to shoulder, and watched the sky darken.
That night, Mira cooked stew and kissed Wade's temple three times.
Theren handed him a wooden carving shaped like a wolf. "Keep it close," he said. "You're stronger than you know."
Lira drew symbols in chalk on the floor of their shared room. "I'm working on a spell," she told him. "One that makes bullies forget their own names."
Wade laughed.
And later, as he lay in bed, listening to the creak of wind outside and the soft, low singing of Mira from the kitchen, he pressed the wooden wolf to his chest.
No affinity. No spark. No color.
But Riven had bled for him.
His mother had sung for him.
His father had carved for him.
Lira had smiled and said you matter without needing to say it aloud.
Wade didn't need a glowing stone.
He had them.
And somewhere, deep beneath his ribs, something stirred—
Not fire. Not wind. Not stone.
Something older.
Something quieter.
But still… real.