The stars above Larethia pulsed with quiet indifference, their cold glow casting long shadows across the floating city of Rhymestrand. It was a night like any other in a world that had long forgotten its first breath—where even the lowliest child could whisper to fire, bend stone, or summon rain with a flick of the wrist. Magic was no gift here; it was breath, birthright, and burden.
In a cramped chamber carved into the city's underbelly, a boy sat with his hands clasped and eyes shut, not in prayer, but in silence.
His name was David.
He was sixteen—though the world had stopped counting for him. Or perhaps he had stopped counting for it. Either way, no one marked his passing days. He was one of the Unmarked, born without sigil or crest, without the shimmering glow in his veins that declared a child blessed by the Aether. He was nothing, and in a world where everyone had something, that made him less.
Still, he sat. Not in despair, but in waiting.
"Boy!" a voice cracked like glass on stone. The iron door swung open with a squeal of rust. "Get to the plinths. Dawn's a breath away and the elders want the conduits lit."
David stood wordlessly. He knew better than to protest. In Rhymestrand, orphans like him had three roles: servant, sacrifice, or spark. And if you failed to serve, you'd fuel the city's floating engines yourself.
Outside, the early mists swirled with a light shimmer—traces of magic thick in the air like morning dew. Citizens passed him, robed in embroidered glyphs, their fingers trailing sparks and sigils as casually as one might whistle. Some turned to him with disdain. Some didn't see him at all.
It didn't matter.
None of them saw it—the truth buried behind his silence. David felt it.
He had no sigil. No chant. No scroll. Yet when the wind brushed against his skin, he understood it. When someone cast flame, he knew where it burned false. And when he touched the old stone plinths to clean them, he heard them whisper back.
Tonight… they would sing.