My eighteenth birthday brought with it the crushing weight of expectation. I stood in the family workshop, a small room smelling of aged parchment and beeswax, surrounded by the ghosts of my ancestors' achievements. My father, a respected scribe, stood beside me, his kind face etched with the familiar worry he tried so hard to hide. Across the table, my older brother Dian effortlessly carved a swirling rune into a piece of oak, the wood crackling with a soft, steady heat. He was the perfect scribe, and I was… not.
This was the day of my first rune, the rite of passage for every male in Oakhaven. The air in the workshop hummed with expectation. I dipped the stylus into the inkpot, its dark contents swirling like a galaxy. I knew the symbol by heart: a simple sigil for light, taught to every young scribe. My hand trembled, not with excitement, but with fear. I pressed the tip to the parchment and began to draw, the line wavering like a dying heartbeat. The rune was finished—a crooked, pathetic imitation of Dian's elegant work. Nothing happened. The parchment remained a dull, lifeless beige. The hum of magic in the room died, replaced by a painful silence.
My father's sigh was a quiet admission of defeat. Dian, with a smirk, waved a hand over my rune. He spoke a single, sharp word, and a flash of vibrant light erupted from his perfectly carved sigil, illuminating the entire room. "Some are born for greatness," he said, his eyes on mine, "and some are born to watch."