The room was silent, but not the gentle kind.
It was the kind of silence that wrapped too tightly around the walls, that made the air feel heavier, like breath caught in a throat. The moonlight bled through the thin curtains, painting pale streaks across the wooden floor. Her bed creaked softly as she shifted, eyes open, staring at the ceiling above.
Everything was where it had always been — the small dresser with its chipped corner, the faded blanket folded at the foot of her bed, the old crack in the wall that ran like a thin scar. But tonight, it all felt... wrong. Not broken. Just emptied out. Like something had quietly left and taken warmth with it.
She hadn't cried.
Not then. Not when they left. Not even when Elra held her.
But the weight lingered — not sharp like pain, but dull like the way cold seeps into bone.
Still.
She sat up slowly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. The wooden floor was cold under her bare feet, but she didn't flinch.
She reached for the cloak — then paused.
Her eyes caught the faint glint of the mirror beside the dresser. It wasn't large. Just a shard of old glass framed in worn wood, its surface fogged slightly by age. She hadn't meant to look into it.
But she did.
And then she lingered.
The girl in the reflection stared back — small, pale, with tired eyes that looked too old for her face. Her hair was still neatly brushed from earlier that day, a gesture meant for someone who never chose her. She raised a hand, slowly, and touched the edge of her own cheek as if seeing it for the first time.
A memory surfaced — quiet, uninvited — like dust rising in still air.
She had been five.
All children were tested then. It was simple. No chants, no circles, no fire. Just a touch of the rods. Most could nudge a leaf, flicker a candle, shift the air with a thought.
She had done nothing.
Not even a tremble.
Her mana was there — just barely. The examiner's tools caught a faint pulse, so thin it looked like interference. Not gone. But weaker than even the lowest expectations.
Weaker than most Faintborn.
She remembered his voice — calm, but clinical.
"She has something. It's there. But... very faint. Below the usual Faintborn threshold."
He had paused, eyes flicking to the numbers on the device again. His frown was small, practiced. Detached.
"She'll need extraordinary effort. And even then... no guarantees."
Then, a glance to the matron. His voice dropped, but not far enough.
"Faintborn's Blessing. Atypical presentation. Her output is significantly below average. Not degenerative — just... limited to an unusual degree."
"She can still become a mage. But it will take far more time. Far more than others."
The word Blessing caught her ear.
She had blinked at it. It hadn't felt like one.
Beside her, Elra knelt. Adjusted her collar — even though it wasn't askew. As if fixing something she couldn't reach.
Her voice came quiet. Steady. Like a brace beneath the ribs.
"You can still learn. It just means the path is longer. And steeper."
The girl didn't answer.
But for a few seconds, she sat a little straighter.
She didn't know what the other children had been told.
Maybe nothing.
But they all knew.
They knew she was behind. That she couldn't lift the stones. Couldn't hold a spell past three seconds. Couldn't even make the training rods hum the way others could.
They didn't need to be told.
Her silver hair gave it away.
Not all Faintborn had it, but enough did. Enough that the older children had learned to recognize it — a soft, glinting mark of what was missing inside.
And some of them — the sharper ones — looked at her hair first.
Then looked away.
Not cruelly. Just quietly. As if the outcome had already been written. As if they'd seen her name carved into the bottom of the ladder.
Measured. Labeled. Left behind.
Maybe she shouldn't hope to become a mage.
Maybe the path was too steep, too far beyond her reach. There were other routes. Safer ones. Simpler ones.
But then — a flicker.
Moonlight.
It slipped across the floor, pale and soft, brushing against her toes like a whisper. She looked toward the window. The moon hung there, distant and watchful, its glow threading through the dark.
And just like that — she remembered.
The old obsession. The stories. The wordless ache she'd never been able to explain.
Moon and magic.
Her fingers tightened around the cloak.
She rose, quiet as a breath, and moved toward the door.
The room hadn't changed.
The cracked wall still ran its familiar line, like an old scar no one bothered to mend. The floor creaked in the same place it always had when she stepped too close to the dresser. The curtain still hung slightly crooked, barely softening the moonlight that spilled across the floor.
Nothing had moved.
And yet — it felt different.
The silence no longer pressed in on her chest. It simply sat there, calm and unmoving, like breath held in a steady rhythm. The shadows in the corners weren't as deep. The air wasn't as cold. Or maybe she just wasn't feeling it the same way anymore.
The bed she had left behind no longer felt like a place of retreat, but of pause. A place between what was and what could be.
She glanced again at the old mirror. The same girl looked back. Pale. Small. Uneven.
But no longer helpless.
There was work to be done.
She moved with care, gathering her things without noise — cloak, shoes, the pouch she kept tucked under the floorboard. Her fingers were steady now. Her breath, quiet but even.
Everything in this room was plain, worn, unfinished.
Just like her.
And maybe that was all right.
She fastened the cloak around her shoulders, cast one last glance at the window — at the silver light resting on the sill — and stepped toward the door.
This time, when she reached for it, she didn't hesitate.