Ten years had passed since Zarnis Arxal's Ascension.
Ten years since the world watched his brilliance flicker, only to fade.
He had been branded Dim, the lowest rank among the measured. In the noble circles of Arxal and beyond, this meant only one thing: failure. The magical potential of a child was assessed through three pillars, Arcane Swiftness, Mana Control, and Mana Capacity. But the weight of those pillars was far from equal.
Swiftness and Control might earn praise, but without capacity, without the raw volume of mana flowing through one's core, all else meant nothing. Not in the eyes of noble mages. Not in the eyes of his father.
And Zarnis had none.
No reservoir of power. No chance to cast more than a spark before the light vanished. Even a perfectly controlled spell would fizzle. A dozen years of magical advancement across the continent of Xerythea had only solidified that truth.
He was brilliant, just not in the way that mattered.
After his test, Zarnis had been quietly cast aside. Denied tutors. Forbidden from joining mage lessons. At home, he was treated more as furniture than son. His presence was tolerated, nothing more.
Only his older sister, Aina, still treated him like family.
She was radiant in every way he was not: tall, composed, golden-haired, black-eyed. A model noble. Her kindness was real, but limited. Even Aina had expectations to fulfill. Her Orb had cracked during her test, a sign she would never be a mage.
A disaster in House Arxal.
But fate twisted. She journeyed to the capital and shattered every record in the warrior trials. Declared a prodigy by the Queen herself, Aina was named a Royal Guard candidate. One of the few in a century.
Still, her new path came at a cost.
Royal Guards serve the Crown, not their houses. Even as her father smiled at her victories, he knew: Aina would never inherit the family. Her duty lay elsewhere.
And so, all hope returned to Zarnis.
Or it should have.
Instead, his failure burned brighter than ever.
Worse still was his younger brother.
Varyn was everything Zarnis was not: arrogant, cruel, and adored by their tutors. He had mana. Just enough to matter.
And he knew it.
"Come on," he'd say, taunting. "One little duel, brother. Maybe you'll flick your little spark so hard I'll trip and fall."
Zarnis always refused. Not out of fear, at least not of losing.
He knew the truth. Accidents in duels weren't rare.
And if he ever fought back, really fought, even with the ember of mana he had…
"If I were just one tier stronger, I'd end him without blinking."
"Since Aina started at Zarethor, he turned my life into ash. Two years of crawling through broken pride, because of him."
"The only time I eat safely is when Aina comes home."
"Otherwise? Dead rats in my sheets. Poison in my stew. Torn clothes and smug grins."
"And still, our father watches and does nothing."
Zarnis had grown numb to the silence. The pitiful looks. The endless mocking echo of a name he never chose.
Heir-to-never-be.
On the night of Zarnis's sixteenth birthday, Aina was delayed.
She had sent a letter earlier that day, explaining that matters in the capital would keep her from arriving on time. Just a few hours, she said.
But silence was a cruel thing, and Zarnis received the news with the kind of stillness that cut deeper than anger. Sixteen. The final age one could attempt entry into Zarethor. He had reached the limit.
And the only person who ever treated him like he mattered wasn't there.
Even the hours felt longer than they should have.
Of course, Varyn sensed it. Like a vulture drawn to weakness, he appeared.
Zarnis lived far from the main estate, his room a shack more than a proper home, tucked behind the treeline like something the family meant to forget. And still, Varyn made the walk, knocking hard at the door.
"Come on, Zarnis! Or should I say, our great reborn hero!" he called, his voice dripping with mockery. "Happy anniversary, brother. Ten years of being absolutely nothing. Now that's worth celebrating."
Zarnis stood, fists clenched. He stepped toward the door, rage burning behind his eyes. His hand gripped the handle.
Then paused.
Don't be stupid. If I die now, all my training, slow as it is, will mean nothing. I may not be a recognized mage. I may not be a sword prodigy. But standing still won't shut that bastard's mouth.
He took a breath.
Then, loud enough to be heard outside, he began to speak, voice calm, composed, deliberate.
"My dear brother Zarnis," he recited, feigning the tone of a letter, "it's me, Aina. I'll be a few minutes late, but I'll be home soon. When the moon is highest, I'll be there."
He peeked through the side window, watching.
Varyn looked up. Then around. He sneered but stopped knocking. Muttering curses, he turned and walked back toward the estate.
"Aina won't protect you forever," he called over his shoulder. "Soon I'll be the heir. And not even she will be able to stop me from kicking you out for good."
Zarnis let out a low chuckle.
She won't be back for at least four more hours, he thought. But it seems whatever mana Varyn has, he lacks in brains.
A thin smile touched his lips as he stepped outside.
The air was cool. Quiet.
Zarnis picked up a blade from behind a stone near the treeline. It wasn't rusted, but it wasn't new either. The edge had dulled slightly over time, yet it held enough balance and weight to serve its purpose.
Without a word, he turned and began walking toward the forest behind his cabin.