In the southern quarter of Luminar, nestled between vine-wrapped stone buildings and forgotten cobblestone paths, lived a boy named Emrys. His life was quiet, unremarkable to those who passed him in the street—just a thin, soft-spoken boy with chestnut hair and eyes too curious for someone so ordinary.
But inside Emrys lived a fire he couldn't explain.
Ever since he could remember, he had been fascinated by the Magi Sentinels—the city's magical guardians who wielded the elements and kept Luminar safe from the beasts that stalked the borderlands. There were stories of them halting entire armies with a wave of flame or sealing rifts in the sky with barriers of crystal light. Emrys knew each Sentinel by name, could recite their feats like scripture. He often whispered their tales aloud at night, long after his grandfather had fallen asleep beside a burned-out hearth.
That small house, cluttered with books and half-mended chairs, was Emrys's world. His grandfather, Merrin, once worked as a keeper of ancient texts in the High Library. Though age had stiffened his knees and blurred his sight, his mind remained sharp, and his voice was a well of forgotten knowledge. Emrys grew up in that sea of parchment and ink, poring over tales of magic long lost and secrets left untaught.
But there was one truth Emrys could not escape:
He had no magic.
By the age of eleven, most children in Luminar had shown some sign of affinity—sparks dancing across their palms, winds shifting when they raised their voice, pebbles floating when they laughed. The arcane instructors called it the Awakening.
Emrys was fourteen. He'd never felt the hum of power, never seen even a flicker of light at his fingertips. His name wasn't on any academy rolls. No mage came knocking at his door. The city labeled him Null—a child with no spark.
And yet, he trained.
Every morning before dawn, he crept into the alley behind their home, his hands cracked from cold and practice. He mimicked the forms drawn in dusty scrolls—circle the palm, draw in the air, speak the name of the element. Nothing ever happened, but he kept at it.
"Magic," he told himself, "might come to those who never stop calling."
His grandfather watched him from the kitchen window, silently proud but quietly worried. "There's a strength in your stubbornness, boy," Merrin often said. "Just make sure it doesn't turn into delusion."
Then one autumn morning, a letter was posted across the city: The Arcane Academy will host its open trials in five days. All children of appropriate age may present themselves for evaluation.
Hope flared in Emrys's chest.
It was rare—once every five years—that the academy opened its gates to those without noble blood or political favor. It was the only way a commoner like Emrys could prove himself worthy.
"Please," he said to his grandfather that night. "I know what they'll say. But I need to hear it myself."
Merrin handed him a rolled-up scroll, old and faded. "Take this. It's a theory on resonance spells. The instructors won't teach it, but it helped me once. Might give you something to say, even if they don't see what you have."
On the morning of the trial, Emrys wore his cleanest tunic, patched neatly at the sleeves. He walked the winding streets toward the academy, surrounded by other children—some younger, some older—all cloaked in excitement or terror.
The gates of the Arcane Academy loomed like the jaws of a sleeping beast. Within, marbled courtyards pulsed with quiet energy. Instructors in black robes stood with scrolls and quills, watching the hopefuls.
One by one, the children demonstrated their gifts. A girl summoned petals of flame that hovered in the air. A boy bent water into a sword and saluted. Each performance was met with nods, claps, murmurs of approval.
Then came Emrys.
He stepped forward when his name was called. The courtyard quieted.
He raised his hand. He drew the circle in the air. He whispered the name of flame. He waited.
Nothing.
The silence lingered.
An instructor made a note. "Null," he said, without malice. Just a fact.
Emrys lowered his hand. His face was still. His heart, however, felt like a broken drum.
He turned and walked through the crowd of whispering students, past the stone gates, back into the streets of Luminar. No one followed. No one called his name.
But inside him, past the ache and the shame, the fire still burned.
They don't see me yet, he thought. But one day, they will.
And in the shadows of the alley behind the academy, something unseen stirred—watching the boy who had no spark.
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End of Chapter One