Velden stank of silver blood and steam.
The city of spires and sigils, once said to be carved by the gods themselves, now pulsed like a living machine. The upper towers gleamed with radiant mana crystals, floating bridges, and glasswalks that reflected the gold-stitched boots of the nobility. Below them, buried under the layers of glamor, smoke, and sky-sailed banners, sprawled the Ash Ring—the lowest district, where the sun never shone directly.
And there, among broken stones and scattered coal dust, a boy lay curled under a broken vendor's cart, chewing on raw barley as if it were meat.
His name was Elric Dorne Vale. A name no one used. Most called him Crestless.
Because in the Empire of Solvaris, to be born without a magical crest—an emblem passed through bloodlines—meant you were less than vermin. You could not register for school, buy land, hold a profession, or even enter certain gates. The Arcane Order dictated the law: Power belongs to the crested.
Elric spat out the bitter husk and rubbed his ribs. Thin. Bruised. Hollow. Another day without real food.
A bell chimed overhead—five strikes. The city's daily duel hour.
He crawled from beneath the cart and made his way toward the square, navigating the steam vents and waste chutes that funneled from the richer sectors above. The closer he got, the louder the noise—cheering, jeering, and the deep hum of spellglass amplifiers.
The duel had already begun.
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The Crimson Plaza was carved from blackstone and circled with marble statues of past champions—mages who'd won the Empire's favor with spectacular bloodsport. Every day, nobles sponsored duels as entertainment and training. It was theater, yes, but deadly.
Today, the crowd cheered for Lord Vainor Damaris, a young noble of House Damaris—his crest shimmered across his chest like golden wildfire: a lion wrapped in runes.
His opponent? A pale boy in borrowed armor, trembling with a chipped staff. Likely a lesser merchant's son. The kind offered up for training duels where the result was never in doubt.
"Look at him shake!" laughed a noblewoman in a pearl mask.
Vainor cracked his knuckles and conjured a fire sigil that hovered like a halo behind him. "Prepare yourself, peasant. I will burn you so gently your mother will still recognize the corpse."
The crowd laughed.
Elric watched from behind a cracked pillar, fury simmering in his gut. He didn't know the boy, but he knew the script. The strong grind down the weak to keep the gears turning.
The match began with a violent flash—fire vs. barrier. The lesser boy tried to raise a standard mage shield, but Vainor's flames shattered it instantly. The noble twisted his wrist, and the fire curled into the shape of a roaring serpent.
"Solar Crest Art: Flame Wyrm Spiral!"
The spell struck with brutal precision, flinging the opponent backward into the dueling wall. The boy didn't get up.
"Pathetic," Vainor muttered, dusting off his cloak. The crowd applauded—not for the magic, but for the domination.
Elric's fists clenched. It wasn't just cruelty—it was the system. Every duel reminded the commoners to stay where they belonged.
Suddenly, a guard shouted, "Hey! You! Street rat!"
Elric turned to run—too late. A brutish soldier grabbed him by the collar and slammed him to the dirt. "You got a permit to loiter at the dueling grounds?"
"I—I didn't do anything!"
"You're Crestless. That's reason enough."
Another guard kicked him in the ribs. "Check him for mage relics. These slum kids steal."
They flipped his coat and tore open the lining, finding nothing but lint and barley grains. Still, the older guard drew a club.
Just as the blow descended, a voice cut through the noise.
"Enough."
Lord Vainor stood at the edge of the arena, eyes narrowed in lazy amusement.
"Let the rat go. We've already entertained ourselves today."
The guards bowed. "Yes, my lord."
Elric coughed and rolled to his side. Vainor knelt beside him, smiling like a wolf admiring an ant.
"Stay in the mud, little beast. It's where you belong."
Then he stood and walked away.
---
Later, back in the ruined tenement he squatted in, Elric nursed his bruises. Rain dripped from holes in the ceiling. Rats chittered nearby, avoiding him only because he stank worse.
He touched the spot on his collarbone where a crest should have appeared by age six. Nothing.
Not even a flicker of mana.
Some people—very few—awakened late. But in Velden, if you had no crest by age twelve, you were branded as Nullborn. He was sixteen now.
Hopeless.
He lay back, staring at the rotting beams overhead, listening to thunder crackle beyond the smoke-choked sky.
Somewhere out there, people were eating meals made by enchanted ovens, sleeping on levitating beds, writing letters that flew themselves across cities. All because they had been born to the right womb.
He had nothing.
Nothing but rage.
And something else—an itch.
Not physical, not from wounds or hunger. A pulling in the air. Like the world itself was... noticing him.
He closed his eyes. In his mind, he saw the duel again. The flames. The laughter. The noble crest blazing on Vainor's chest.
How could a symbol hold that much power?
Why did his world bow to a mark?
The rain intensified, now a rhythmic beating on the stone like war drums.
"I swear," he whispered. "If I ever get power…"
He gritted his teeth, remembering the guard's club, the noble's smirk, the stench of his own helplessness.
"…I'll burn this city down."
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