"The world doesn't teach boys like him. So he teaches himself… even if it breaks him."
The rooftops of Caelumaris glittered under a quiet moon. Towers rose like spears of glass and magic, their elegant lines stained in starlight. But high above the marble walkways and floating plazas, atop the crumbling stone of a forgotten building, a boy crouched in silence.
Artha.
Fifteen. Barefoot. Ragged robes. Eyes sharp like broken glass.
Below him, the noble-born trained. Elite students of Aetherion Academy filled the courtyard like a ballet of magic and steel. Wands twirled. Swords danced. Sparks floated like fireflies.
He watched them.
He watched everything.
He couldn't afford tutors. He couldn't afford food. But he could afford to watch.
Every movement was a lesson. Footwork. Breathing. Posture. Spell timings. How one flicked a wrist to stabilize levitation. How a parry transitioned into flamecasting. Artha's eyes followed it all, absorbing the rhythm of battle like ink into worn parchment.
One boy—a noble, smug and perfect—lifted a giant boulder with a single thought. His hand barely twitched. The stone floated like a feather.
Artha didn't blink.
He traced the gesture slowly in the air, memorizing its shape like a prayer.
The alley was silent. Stone walls cracked and wept damp moss. Moonlight cast everything in shades of blue.
Artha stood alone, barefoot in the dust. A broken stick in his hands.
He mimicked the noble's motion.
Too fast. The stick wobbled. He slipped, landing hard on his side. Pain exploded in his ribs.
It didn't work. It never worked. But still… he tried.
He sat up slowly, wrapping bruised hands in torn cloth. His breath came sharp, his shoulders tense. Sweat dripped down his back. His eyes—fierce, tired, unwilling to quit.
And then—A memory.
A laugh, bright as summer wind.
His older brother, running barefoot through a field of glowing blue flowers, tugging him by the wrist.
"C'mon, Artha! You can't always be so serious!"
He remembered smiling. Faint, but real.
"I have to be," he'd said. "You break everything."
The memory faded. So did the smile.
He swung the stick again. This time, smoother. A roll. A dodge. His body landed hard, but didn't collapse.
The body remembers what the world tries to erase.
A sudden laugh echoed above him.
"Trying to be a spellblade with a broomstick, trash boy?"
Artha didn't look up.
But he knew the voice—Taron. Noble-blooded, arrogant, always surrounded by snickering parasites.
Taron stood on a nearby balcony, flanked by two well-dressed cronies. His hair was perfect. His sneer, sharper than any sword.
"No magic. No parents. No place," Taron jeered. "You should be sweeping the courtyard, not imitating knights."
Artha said nothing.
He simply picked up the stick again.
"Oh, look at him! Thinks he's some lost chosen one," Taron laughed. "Maybe he's deaf too."
The laughter didn't stop. But Artha turned. Slowly.
His face was calm. Blank, even. But in his eyes… something burned.
"You mock me now," he said quietly, "but you won't later."
Taron froze. Then laughed louder. "Oooh, scary words. Come back when your stick glows, dirt-boy."
That night, Artha sat beneath an old aqueduct. His bruises bloomed purple under the moonlight. He wrapped his hands in tighter cloth, each movement stinging.
Then he stood.
And tried again.
Every move was pain.Every breath, a fight.But pain was a better teacher than pride.
Roll. Swing. Dodge. Fall. Rise.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Until—
The air shimmered faintly.
Just for a moment. A blur behind the stick's arc, like heat bending light.
Artha froze.
Had he imagined it?
He stood still, breath ragged, hands shaking.
No applause. No audience. No recognition.
But something had changed.
High above, a figure watched from a nearby rooftop. Cloaked in shadow. Eyes glowing faint violet.
A whisper drifted from the stranger's lips, unheard by anyone.
"He's moving... closer to the first door."
Later, by flickering candlelight, Artha sat on a torn mattress in his tiny stone room. The candle wavered, its flame dancing between gold and violet.
In his hand, a worn sketch. His brother's face, childishly drawn but still full of life.
"I'll find you," Artha whispered. "No matter what it costs."
The candle's flame flared—just slightly.
A hint of magic that didn't come from a wand.
Before gods and questions... there was only a boy.And his promise.