On my fifth birthday, they tested me.
In most places, birthdays were a cause for celebration. Candles, feasts, laughter. Even in my first life, long ago, there had been cake and music and the warmth of family gathered close.
Here, there was no celebration. Only judgment.
The ritual was held in the village square—a wide circle of stone worn smooth by centuries of feet. At its center lay an obsidian slab, black as midnight and veined with faint, glowing lines. Around it, runes had been carved into the ground: spirals, jagged shapes, flowing curves that seemed to drink the light. They pulsed faintly, as if something deep below the earth stirred in response to our presence.
The entire village gathered to watch. Mothers with crossed arms, their faces hard. Fathers silent and expectant. Older children with their wooden training swords, watching with cruel curiosity. And above all, the elders—seven of them—sat in a ring of stone seats, their eyes like knives. They were sharp-faced and severe, wrapped in gray cloaks, their skin marked by age and power. They were the arbiters of fate.
That day, the children of the village stood in a line, small bodies trembling with anticipation or fear. We were five years old, each of us about to be measured, weighed, and sorted—not by strength of body or cleverness of mind, but by the pulse of Aetherka within our blood.
I waited, my breath shallow, as one by one they stepped forward.
The first child, a boy with hair like straw, placed his hand upon the obsidian. Light flared instantly, brilliant gold, filling the runes with radiance. The slab thrummed as though alive. Gasps rose from the crowd, some in awe, some in envy.
"A Bearer," the elder intoned, his voice carrying across the square. The boy was pulled away, pride swelling in his chest as his family embraced him.
The next child, a girl with bright eyes, pressed her palm to the stone. A different glow—blue, fluid and cold—flowed outward, filling the circle with ripples like water under moonlight.
"A Weaver," another elder declared, her lips curving faintly upward. The girl laughed, relieved, and skipped back to her parents, who pulled her close with reverence.
One by one, the children went forward. Some sparked fire. Others drew wind. Some felt their bones swell with strength, their skin humming with hidden power. Each time, the slab spoke. Each time, the crowd reacted—clapping, murmuring, sometimes even cheering.
And then it was my turn.
The elder's eyes fixed on me. "Place your hand," he said. His voice was not unkind, but neither was it warm. It was the tone of a man accustomed to judgment, to sorting stones by weight and grain.
I obeyed.
My palm pressed against the obsidian. The stone was warm, almost too warm, and then searing. A heat that dug into me, searching, prying, as if invisible fingers slid through my veins. It pulsed beneath my skin like a living thing, alive with ancient awareness. I felt it probe me, searching for something—channels, resonance, the threads of Aetherka that others possessed.
For a heartbeat, hope bloomed. I felt something stir, faint as a breath in the dark. Perhaps—
Then—nothing.
The warmth vanished. The slab went still, dead, as though it had never been alive at all. The faint glow that had flickered beneath my palm faded into silence.
The elder's brow furrowed. His lips tightened. He did not announce a gift.
Behind him, whispers rose.
"Unmarked."
"Empty."
"Another Hollow."
The word rang in my ears like a curse. Hollow. A vessel without substance. A shell without a soul. A child without worth.
I stepped back, my palm tingling with the ghost of pain. My body was intact, my bones unbroken. But in that moment, I had never felt so broken.
The crowd shifted, a ripple of disappointment and disdain. Some shook their heads. Others turned away. A few spat on the ground, as though my failure tainted the air.
Children who had been my playmates only yesterday edged away from me, their eyes wide, their mouths tight. The boy who had sparked golden light smirked with pride. The girl who had rippled water would no longer meet my gaze. I was marked, not by power, but by the absence of it.
From that day, I was no longer one of them.
The other children avoided me. No more sparring games in the dirt, wooden sticks clacking together in mock battle. No more shared meals of bread and stew, laughter echoing across the square. I became a shadow at the edges of their world—tolerated only when silent, useful only when obedient.
The elders did not speak of me again. To them, I no longer existed as potential. I was a mistake, a statistic to be endured.
But within me, something stirred. Not power, not Aetherka. Something quieter, sharper.
I remembered who I had been.
Not a child. Not an unwanted mouth to feed.
A father. A husband. A man who had once lived almost thirty years of life, surrounded by love. I remembered warm hands entwined with mine, laughter shared over firelight, children's voices filling a home. I remembered the peace of knowing I had mattered to someone, once.
Now, I was unloved. Unwanted. A hollow shell in a world that worshipped fullness.
And yet… I did not shatter.
Something inside me began to harden, like iron placed in flame.
If they would call me Hollow, so be it.
If they would cast me aside, let them.
I had been broken before, in another life. I had been mortal, fragile, fleeting. And still, I had endured.
So I would endure again.
Not with their strength. Not with their blessings. But with something else. Something they did not understand.
The test had not ended me. It had only lit the first spark.